Village Voice gossip columnist Michael Musto is just another frustrated freelancer when it comes to New York magazine, he complains. That's exactly how his blog should be used, by the way—for bitching!

The eternally youthful Village Voice gossip columnist Michael Musto turns 53 today. Happy birthday, Michael. Julianne Moore is celebrating, too: She's 48. Actor Brendan Fraser is turning 40. Daryl Hannah is turning 48. Legendary French filmmaker Jean-Luc Godard is 78. Last but not least, the Prince of Darkness, Ozzy Osbourne, is 60 today.

♦ Alexander Wang was the big winner at Monday night's fifth-annual CFDA/Vogue Fashion Fund awards at Skylight Studios. Wang and fellow nominees like Richard Chai, Jason Wu, Lisa Mayock and Sophie Buhai, Irene Neuwirth, Alejandro Ingelmo, Juan Carlos Obando, Albertus Swanepoel, Swaim and Christina Hutson, and John Patrick were feted by John Galliano (left, with Charlize Theron), Anna Wintour, Diane von Furstenberg, Sally Singer, Andrew Rosen, Reed Krakoff, Jeffrey Kalinsky, Julie Gilhart, Julie Macklowe, Daphne Guinness, Sasha Heinz, Tory Burch and Lyor Cohen, Andre Leon Talley, Narciso Rodriguez, Maria Sharapova, Penn Badgley, Zac Posen, Vera Wang, Chanel Iman, Juliette Lewis, Harvey Weinstein and Georgina Chapman, Tommy Hilfiger and Dee Ocleppo, Lauren Santo Domingo, Peter Som, Piper Perabo, Phillip Lim, Lazaro Hernandez, Maggie Betts, Calvin Klein, Damon Dash and Rachel Roy, and James Franco. [PMc, NYO, Style.com, The Daily]

"I thought she should leave it on and start a whole new fashion phenom, but she dutifully reversed it." [Michael Musto]

A replacement has been named for Lydia Hearst, who stepped down as a Page Six magazine columnist last week after slamming her family's media empire (and then improbably accusing the mag's editors of fabricating the column). It's professional socializer Liam McMullan, the son of nightlife photog Patrick McMullan and Michael Musto's godson. [VV via Gawker]

That would be comedienne Rosie O'Donnell, wig-wearer Donald Trump, crazy actress Julianne Moore, crazy actor Alec Baldwin, New York thoroughbred Sarah Jessica Parker, and celebrated thespian Patricia Clarkson. And they're all nice! Or so says Village Voice darling and all around geigh dude Michael Musto, based on his experiences with how they treat the press. Ahh, they're nice to the press huh? They always remember names and stuff? Well that's easy enough to fake. They just have their assistants look up whatever journalist they're meeting with that day, print out a picture, and make a little flashcard. Simple as that! Of course these people are friendly to the press. They're at work. Though I'm sure myriad waiters and Starbucks baristas and parking valets and hotel concierges would agree with the choices, right? Right?

The Village Voice gossip columnist says the Internet and Manhunt is RUINING the gay bar pickup scene. [La Dolce Musto]

Looking to "own, fondle, and stick your face in a place where Heath's heinie rested for many hours"? The director's chair that departed Aussie actor Heath Ledger sat on while making Brokeback Mountain is coming up for auction. It's officially expected to fetch between $1,000 and $1,500, but as Michael Musto points out, "you can bet your ass it'll go for more." [VV]

Janice Dickinson, leonine First Supermodel and television personality, pulled a minor "gay gaffe" at Hiro Ballroom last night. Upon running into Village Voice gossipeuse Michael Musto in the can, she accidentally called him Bob Colacello. Though, I can understand the crazy woman's confusion. Even though Musto is nearly ten years younger, both he and Colacello, the Vanity Fair writer and former Warhol companion, are chroniclers of pop culture, both come from Brooklyn, both wear silly glasses, both are gay (well, Colacello is "presumably" so), and both went to Columbia at some point. Actually, I think they are the same person. Much like Dickinson is also Catra from She-Ra.

So HX magazine has a column called "Homo Dish" and in it is this item about Village Voice gossip Michael Musto: "We hit up Pieces Thursday night, where we ran into gal pals Michael Musto and Chuck Attix, who we'd just kiki-ed with at 'cuda the night before. They told us they'd been trying to beat their personal record of nine bars in one night, and Pieces had put them over the top with 10. Congrats, you crazy drunks! Chuck later slurred that their real dream was to hit 10, and that they were determined to do so this summer. Don't judge. At least they have a hobby." But Musto begs to differ!

This week Village Voice columnist and flip-flop with socks wearer Michael Musto recreated Lindsay Lohan's recreation of Marilyn Monroe's last photo shoot because nothing says "Pultizer" like drag (Does it count as drag if you're naked? -ed). A small point that might have gotten overlooked as you held in your vomit: Musto's ass has "Fire Crotch" airbrushed in. Hey, Musto, you owe Brandon Davis a nickel. [La Daily Musto]

As the great Karl Marx said, history repeats itself, first as tragedy, second as farce. It's a saying that applies quite perfectly to the recreation, by the sad old Village Voice, of a cover of New York magazine which was itself a recreation of a famous set of photos of the actress, Marilyn Monroe. New York's notorious cover featured a naked Lindsay Lohan, a troubled actress who's modeled herself on Marilyn Monroe, and was taken by the same photographer who captured the drug-addled mid-century star so shortly before her death. Village Voice's model? The faded weekly's 52-year-old gay gossip columnist, the owl-like* Michael Musto, whose natural shyness is only overcome by the sheer force of his desire for exposure. After the jump, an original image of Marilyn Monroe, framed by New York's cover, and this week's Voice.

Hell hath no fury like a "power lesbian" publicist mistaken for her Oscar-nominated client's mother/love interest. At least that's what Michael Musto learned when his prurient interest in Ellen Page (and our interest in his interest) precipitated an angry call Thursday from ID-PR power flack Kelly Bush:

Michael Musto tells us how to be a "nightclub star" in his latest Village Voice blog! His advice is quite thrifty: "Track down the person with the free drink tickets and tell them you love their outfit," and "wear your absolutely shittiest coat. This way you can just drape it on a banquette rather than check it (thereby saving three bucks). Better yet, flirt with the DJ—no doubt named John—and he'll let you leave it in his booth. " Or do what I do: wear a cheap, ridiculous wig, and surround yourself with crazies. [La Daily Musto]

Village Voice gossip Michael Musto tossed out something like 10,000 of his classic blind items yesterday. So why not go nuts trying to figure out who they refer to? Here's one we feel like we should get: "Which CBS personality sits in his car telling passersby that he's doing so to watch Katie Couric on the news, but it's actually to stall until 7 p.m., when his parking there can become legal?" Bob Schieffer? A couple more entertaining ones, after the jump.

The HuffPo features Michael Musto in My Favorite Mistake, the column in which they ask luminaries about the big mistakes they learned from. The Village Voice gossip/nightlife columnist reveals that he "purposely sabotage[s] opportunities to get bigger" and is comfortable with being "the alternative weekly guy in the corner." However, he's really torn up about the massive ad campaign he could've been in—if only he hadn't sent the them that one pic of him in a hoop-skirted dress. The year was 1987. The ad campaign? Amaretto di Saronno liqueur.

The campy columnist for the Village Voice has been making friends and enemies with his "La Dolce Musto" column for nearly 25 years now.

53-year-old Village Voice gossip columnist, Michael Musto, is a faintly ridiculous figure: his trademark oversized glasses lending a frog-like air to his face, awkwardly schmoozing the flighty fashion fags at Beige on Tuesdays, all in the service of a gossip column for a newspaper that few read, about downtown figures even they haven't heard of. Whatever. La Dolce Musto, his column for the New York altweekly, is at least more lively than pretty much any other feature in that storied but now moribund publication. Musto has transcended any mockery to become something of a downtown icon. There's no point in saying he's ridiculous. That's an integral element of the persona, as Musto shows in this terrible gay pop video, in which he attempts to portray a razor-wielding lunatic, quickly charmed by a naked boy in a shower. (Click here for the screenshots.) Musto may be a relic of an era when the downtown gay scene had wider cultural significance. But he understands the first rule of modern fame: a willingness to make a fool of one's self, before that vast internet public. Which means that we have high hopes for his new blog, La Daily Musto. (Sample post: a roundup of trashy gay reactions to the death of Heath Ledger.) SCREENGRABS >>

The Village Voice's Michael Musto very nearly got his ass kicked by an overzealous bouncer last week at Amanda Lepore's birthday party at Lotus. Worse yet, he almost didn't get in. "The security guy at the door—one of those power-mad, not-loved-enough-as-a-child types—actually gave me a hard time because I don't have a driver's license or walk around with my passport taped to my forehead," writes Musto. Or possibly the door dude was made suspicious by a grown man showing up to a nightclub via rickety bicycle? [VV]

"I hate Samantha Ronson, that fucking dyke!" Perez Hilton said on stage last night. He was hosting Paper magazine's third annual Nightlife Awards. Someone (either Paper's Mickey Boardman or Village Voice gossip Michael Musto) had asked him what was going on with all his lawsuits; Samantha is suing him for defamation. It's good to know that his level of wit, sophistication and creativity is sort of lacking all across the board, and not just in his writing or Microsoft Paint drawings. To his credit, he's probably the only person in the world who actually looks thinner on T.V. than in real life! Nominee for "Best Nightlife Photographer" Nikola Tamindzic was there to capture all the bitchy gaiety of the evening.