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We don't claim to know little more 'round here than where to get a cheap drink or a quick lay. That's why we hold people like Michael Musto in such high regard — not only has been around the media scene for, like, 40 years or something, but he's become an indispensible gossip source, knows his ass from his elbow, and rides his bike everywhere. Flamingly awesome, Musto tells fills us in on a few burning issues that we can't quite figure out.

[Photo from NY Social Diary]

1. August is a rotten month for gossip — either everyone (and by "everyone" I mean Sean Combs) is in Ibiza, the publicists are in rehab, or perhaps no one cares about where Tara Reid vomited last night. How do you cope with the August slow-down and still put out gossip every day or week?

When the dog days of August hit, you either (1) take a vacation (2) pull out the blind items or high concepts (3) enthusiastically write about people you never would have dreamed would ever make your column (Fabien whatshisname, Cremora Lee whatever), or (4) thread some jokes and observations about McGreevey-gate into a cover story when madman Vincent Gallo mercifully pulls out, as it were. I did all the above, and I'm damned proud. But for me, the scary thing is when the fall season finally hits and my phone's still not ringing! That's when I do stuff like a 15-part series on the 101 biggest nightmares in New York. Then the dog days of winter hit and I do blind items again.

2. Since everyone else is on vacation, shouldn't you be? Where do gossip folk like you sneak off to in August, and whatever do you do there?

I actually did take a vacation week and just sat at my desk, blissful that no copy was forthcoming. Why go anywhere? Why would you schlepp to the Hamptons and see all the same people you'd be running from by going away? And why take a cab, a train, a van, and a ferry to go to Fire Island to hear the same Grace Jones songs they were playing during Vietnam? And shockingly, I didn't get invited to Ibiza or St. Tropez, and I hear they're not good anymore anyway. So I spent my vacation on Cooper Square, and I'd highly recommend it to trendy jet-setters.

3. Exactly how many days do you predict the marriage of Nicky Hilton will last? And who will leave whom? Doesn't this mean that Paris is going to get married in a fit of pique before Christmas?

The second they got married, I was standing outside with a stopwatch, waiting to see if it would surpass that Britney weekend jag. It did, but then I got an unasked-for press release from the Hilton parents saying how much they approve of whatshisname because he's a family friend and went to Harvard, blah blah, so now I feel it's even more doomed. Nicky's obviously overreaching with an Ivy Leaguer, but at least he doesn't beat her. Still, I think when it's revealed in a few weeks that he may have dated Golan Cipel, the union will dissolve and Paris will marry either Marc Anthony or Kevin Federline. (Yes, they'll be available by then too.)