Alas, there was no trace of the stolen money either, but a letter came about that too. Not surprisingly, it said they’d looked around and couldn’t seem to find it. "The investigation involved a search of Mr. Musto’s room, closet, and surrounding areas," said the notice. Yeah, that’s how they stole it in the first place!

Note to self: Get hit by a truck on 70th birthday. Make sure it’s a clean hit.

Montgomery Clift was the original Lindsay Lohan—he was the first uninsurable actor in Hollywood! On top of that, Marilyn Monroe said he was the only person more screwed up than she was, and that was extremely screwed up, folks. He, of course, was the brooding, beautiful star of films like From Here to Eternity and A Place in the Sun who was deeply tortured and who suffered for his craft (not to mention from a car accident). So there's no doubt that Monty's life would make for a riveting drama. And sure enough, here comes the play: The Rarest of Birds, coming to the Wings Theatre starting June 1.

Says the release: “He spoke six languages. Elizabeth Taylor begged him to marry her. He was friends with Picasso, Matisse and Gertrude Stein... HE was Montgomery Clift, the subject of an upcoming play penned by playwright and actor John Lisbon Wood and starring Omar Prince...The show is a must see for students of cinema, the Golden Era of Hollywood, movie buffs and historians, archivists of gay life and all theater aficionados.” And even some straight people!

I ran into the legendary Harvey Fierstein on the street in the theater district and told him I was looking for a place to eat. "Go to Ciro," he recommended. "Ask for Massimo," he added, smirking. "Give him a blow job and you'll get dessert.". . .

Instead, I ended up at a Drama Desk event where I met the woman who plays Miranda's maid on Sex and the City. (She's Lynn Cohen, according to a comenter below. Thanks for the info that google didn't provide!) Cohen told me she's preparing to do a stage revival of Uncle Vanya with Peter Dinklage. "He's an old friend," she related. "Eventually, all friends get together. There's only 10 of us, you know..."

Meanwhile, my old friend Gina Gershon bravely includes Showgirls in her bio for Broadway's Boeing Boeing. As well she should—she rocked as Crystal! And now, back to Massimo.

No, wait, before dessert, we have to deal with the entree that everyone sent back. It was Glory Days, which closed on opening night, and while no one's rejoicing about it, it IS kind of fun to have an old-style flop, the kind they don't have anymore now that shows are so expensive they're carefully tested and marketed before they hit Broadway. What were they thinking with this one? It was written by and starred 20-somethings and was billed as young-young-younger-than- springtime, but the script's treatment of the "gay problem" was so stale and cobwebby it might have been written by 90-year-olds. And NOW back to Massimo.

(To be continued tomorrow. . .)

Once the gays stopped going to South Beach, it became necessary for tropical-shirted homos to schlepp all the way to Fort Lauderdale for an occasional gathering of fruitcakes. So why not celebrate Gay Pride there? Can you bear to miss New York's Pride parade with its gogo boys, faded dance stars, and showboating politicians, not to mention the moment of silence for AIDS (which my friend always talks through)? No, you can't—but you weren't going to go anyway. So head to Lauderdale, hon. It's warm and festive and very inviting. In fact, they want you there so badly they've even sent me a press release BEGGING you to come. (So much for pride.)

Click below for the release.

It was inevitable, folks. Someone has spoofed my spoof of Lindsay Lohan's spoof of Marilyn Monroe. And it's brilliant! Feast your eyes on Glace Chase as Michael Musto as Lindsay Lohan as Marilyn. I have no idea who Glace Chase is, but he certainly has balls, and he wisely doesn't bother to hide them. And now the field is wide open for all you daredevil copycats out there. Come on, all freaks and fetishists. Do YOU have the cojones to serve the world You as Glace as Me as Lindsay as Marilyn? As if!

CLICK
Glace Chase as Michael Musto as Lindsay Lohan as Marilyn

Emergency 24-hour aid, paid for by charity, was sent—for my folks, not for me—and I was thrilled. But they stopped coming after three days because my parents weren’t eligible for Medicaid! (Sidebar: To qualify for that, you have to either piss away all your assets or hide them away and act poor. You must be either a sad old loser or a tricky old codger—and there are lawyers instructing you on exactly how to do so. They’ll even help you along on that goal by taking very large fees!)

The social worker’s organization promptly sent over someone with a handy list of their approved home-care agencies that charge big bucks to keep you company. Desperate, I called one of the agencies, but they informed me, “We’re not licensed to do any lifting. He would have to get up and walk by himself.” But he can barely move! That’s why we need help! Another firm said their workers will not under any circumstance perform hygiene-related tasks. I guess they could talk you through it, though. (“Go on, wipe your heinie. Come on, move your ass to the bathroom and grab some paper...”) I finally found a place with helpers who supposedly did lifting, cleaning, and everything else—for your entire life’s fortune. I started keeping my coat on at nightclubs to save a few dollars a night.

(To be continued tomorrow. . .)

Britney Spears' life would surely make for a fabulous Greek tragedy—even though HER idea of one is a Greek salad with too much feta cheese—but can the pop tart's bizarre plight constitute a tragiCOMEDY? Maybe, if the facts are altered a little bit for a more dramatically pleasing arc and a professional actress plays the role.

That's what's apparently happened with Steven Levenson's Girls Day, or Britney and Tara Stare Into the Void and the Void Stares Back, the play with the unwieldy title, coming to Ace of Clubs (9 Great Jones Street) starting May 11.

The plot? Well, in case you haven't picked up a tabloid in the last year and taken drugs and used your imagination, here goes: "Dateline: L.A. March 21, 2007. Britney Spears checks out of Promises Treatment Center after a one-month stint. So what's next for the derailed pop princess? GIRLS DAY, natch! Britney calls up gal pal Tara Reid to join her for one special, unforgettable day. An American tragedy, with special guest appearances by Jayden James, Sean Preston, a publicist, a social worker and, of course, K-Fed."

They had me until that last part. While I suspect off-Broadway is just where Britney belongs (and actually started, in a musical called Ruthless), I fear it's way too good for Mr. FedEx!

I doubt I'll get crucified by publicists for this because it's sort of a non-spoiler about something that DOESN'T happen. But remember all that gossip buzz about how in the Sex and the City movie a major character rolls over and dies (but in designer clothes, of course)? That sent everyone into obsessive gum flapping about how surely it was Samantha who'd croak, especially since Kim Cattrall supposedly held up the whole project (though others were certain it was Mr. Big who'd become Mr. Bye Bye). Well, people who've seen the movie reveal who the corpse really is—NO ONE! You heard me, no one dies! Thank God! Black shrouds wouldn't really go with Carrie's collection of pastel-colored handbags.

Update: Since I wrote the preceding item, I found this has been reported elsewhere, but heck, non-information THIS unimportant certainly bears repeating.

By now, I had no idea when he’d ever get out of this ridiculous hole. Talk about a restraint. The social worker had promised a meeting where we'd discuss his situation with the staff, but suddenly no one was saying another word about it. I sensed that they all wanted to keep dad there as long as the insurance would pay for it, and too bad if he wasn’t eating, kept falling, and had to shell over that copay.

Miraculously, my mom did get out—exactly when her full coverage expired, interestingly enough. Her at-home help was covered for a while too, but basically you get what you pay for. On the first day, the assigned woman was three hours late and on the second day she didn’t show up at all. The third day she came late and made herself lunch. And on the fourth day she rested.

Between hissy fits, I called dad’s social worker to beg for his own exit plan. “But he might fall in the house,” she said, pleadingly. “Well, he fell twice in the hospital,” I screeched. “How much worse can it get?” These people are geniuses at mumbo jumbo designed to distract you until the insurance runs out. Under pressure, she instructed me to call the head of rehab for more info about dad’s release. I did so, only to have the head of rehab cheerily say I should call the social worker! This was turning into a “Who’s on first?” routine, but without railings.

(To be continued tomorrow. . .)

PART ONE

Like a bar beamed in from another city—anywhere, USA—Pieces (8 Christopher Street) is my favorite, most reliably unreliable hangout in the world. With its cutely homespun decor (large crepe butterflies are currently stapled to the stage for spring) and utterly casual feel, the place is comfortably free of pretensions or aspirations, yet it has a slight edge that suggests something might happen, even when only five people are there and the bartender is joking that "We're filled to capacity!" Eric Einstein, the manager, is a cute Elijah Wood's daddy type, presiding over the battery of weird events with a bemused half-smile. And the events? On the third Monday of every month, fabulously sexy drag stars Vodka Stinger and Tallulah De Bayous put on an informal show called Too Ugly For TV, which last time around climaxed with them making Black Russians for the crowd (and, naturally, for themselves). On other nights, you'll find Broadway know-it-all Vodka playing diehard theater-queen videos (the favorites are the ones with scarily talented Linda Eder and Julia Murney and of course the last number from Star!--the one that makes the last three turgid hours worthwhile). And on Thursdays you sticker a number to your chest and deflect notes written to you from all the other numbers. (Last time, my friend and I were targeted by a very weird man with a roving hand and a face I seem to remember from a post office poster. Still, we considered it.)

Is it Studio 54? No, but it's a place where you can stir up some fun if you've got the energy—and even the karaoke nights aren't that repellent, star quality radiating from every skinny boy and fat fag hag. And they even still have a pay phone! Some of the old regulars are gone—Delano seems to be hanging more at the Gym Bar these days—but you'll still run into the house geezer ("Cryptie") and the local dork ("Ed Grimley"), among other pieces of stray human furniture. Do I go to Pieces too much? Hey, that's between me and my therapist.

Let me explain my bitterness. A while ago, my old father fell in the house and my almost-as-ancient mother tried to catch him and tumbled too. Hilarious! They ended up in a hospital—let's call it Lutheran—where mom stayed for rehab, while dad was moved to a rest home across the street (part of the same complex) for his own rehabilitation. But I was assigned the most demanding workout of all. Right away, the home's admission staff urged me to sign a mountainous stack of papers, mostly forms assuring that they'd get paid by any means necessary. (I nobly signed some of them.) They also made me autograph something saying the insurance provider just added a lovely $125 a day copay after a six-day stay! I reluctantly did so while thinking that Michael Moore was right to think the most harrowing movie you could make is about people who DO have insurance.

Oh, well, I thought. At least dad will be privy to all the medical services he needs. After all, this is a hospital complex and everything will be readily available, right? Think again, honey. When my father had to get the monthly injection required for his prostate condition, we had to pick up the drug at a freakin' Rite Aide, arrange for an ambulette (which you pay for in cash), get dad to his regular doctor's office to get the injection, then wait for the ambulette to come back and return him to the home. By the end of that ordeal, he looked like he'd fallen five more times.

(To be continued tomorrow. . .)

Well, I simply adore this writeup, but let me make a tiny clarification: While I am indeed crazy, if I'm drunk, it's only from the caffeine in Diet Coke!

Also, "At least they have a hobby"? Honey, it's my job!!!

And as for a full update: We actually hit 12 bars and clubs that night! We graced Mansion, the Eagle, Hudson Bar & Books, Chi-Chiz, Gym Bar, G Lounge, XES, Barracuda, Splash, Pieces, Marie's Crisis, and Pop Rocks. If I was on anything other than soda, would I be able to remember all that? Now on to lucky 13!