The other night, I was heading into a Village club when a young woman, accompanied by friends, started screeching:
“OH MY GOD! MICHAEL MUSTO! I WORSHIP YOU! I ABSOLUTELY ADORE YOU! I’M A WRITER TOO AND I THINK YOU’RE THE ABSOLUTE BEST! I READ LA DOLCE MUSTO ON THE PLANE! I LOVE YOU!”
I shyly but sincerely thanked her twice, pleased by the flattery while fully knowing that you can’t always take these spontaneous outburts too seriously.
I mean, it was a purely chance encounter!
Well, sure enough, the next day she tweeted someone:
“Met Michael Musto at Monster (lol) last night with his 18-year-old side piece. He was exactly what you’d expect.”
Gee, that didn’t sound too enthusiastic. The “lol” after Monster was clearly a comment on my personality and the “exactly what you’d expect” tended to imply I was a bitch, though the truth is I’d been grateful if a bit reserved, considering the suddenness of her explosion. Plus my 18-year-old side piece was actually a 32 year-old friend.
And this is from a huge fan? And a writer?
She then tweeted:
“Unfortunately, since I’m not a drag queen or rent boy, I was of very little interest to Michael.”
Huh? I was walking into a club and graciously paused to smile and say “Thank you.” You mean if it was a drag queen or a rent boy, I would have dragged them home for a month or two?
“Weren’t you the one who was screeching how much you admired me?” I tweeted her. “Hmm.”
Being cornered instantly drove her back into gushy fan mode:
“I’m deeply honored by even scorn, you’ve delivered it to so many so deliciously over the years.”