Manhattan Offender

Followup: Ballsy

Please let this serve as due notice:  it is not a good idea to make me cry.

R.I.P. Ballsy the Mouse 2005 - 2005

Transit Strike: Hitchin' & trammin' & bussin' & hitchin'

After a long day of "well, we're trying our best, but the strike is affecting our ability to meet that deadline" the challenge of getting home required craft and charm.  The first plan was to hitch a ride with one of my company's delivery services, but this fell through as the delivery service fell behind in making regular client runs in time.

Before leaving the office, an 8 1/2" x 22" sign with cardboard backing was crafted, reading "ASTORIA".  To start to turn tricks hitchhike, I immediately walked over to Third Avenue as the traffic was flowing uptown at what seemed to be a decent pace.  Although many snickered at my ploy as I walked up the street, within four blocks I was sitting in a Lexus as my detractors continued their trudge up the street.  The owners of the car, Mikael and Anna, were a mid-fifties Russian couple.  They offered not only to drive me uptown, but all the way home.  As we listened to 1010WINS and discussed the strike, traffic flowed apace up until 50th Street, at which point traffic came to a full stop.  After watching the traffic lights cycle a few times, I thanked the couple and headed to my next destination:  the Roosevelt Island tram.

The tram is one of gems of the city about which most people know, although few actually experience.  After a quick swipe of the MetroCard, the tram came, filled and we departed.  No lines, no wait, no drama.  As the panorama of the east side swept by and eventually became the more pastoral setting of Roosevelt Island, the crowd inside was a mix of island and Astoria residents.  As we departed the tram, a shuttle bus awaited, whisking us to a location near the bridge that connects the island to Astoria.

Determined still to not walk across a bridge, out again came the ASTORIA sign.  Again it was met with smirks which were turned into raised eyebrows as the fifth car passing stopped, let me in, and had me home within seven minutes.

Perfunctory transit strike post.

If you don't know that the Transit Workers Union is on strike by this point, you really need to find a better news outlet than this space. There has been an interesting breakdown amongst our friends as to who is at fault.  Most of our 'wealthy' friends are on the side of the MTA.  Mister Offender and I join our friends from more humble backgrounds in support of the TWU.  Frankly, if the MTA had not flaunted the ill-conceived 'holiday fare discount', it is very likely that most of us would have been on a bus or train this morning.  The flaunting of wealth or abundance to a workforce that has seen its income stagnate is likely to bring more strikes not only here, but to the entire nation.

But that's such a total downer. 

Everyone has their little story about getting to work, if they indeed did so.  Why I am at the office has me confounded, but it doesn't take a strike to get me wondering why it would be such a problem if what I do was just phoned in.

The trek from Astoria to Flatiron was completely unplanned.  My solution was to dress warmly, stick a sock in my crotch, walk to a main street,  and wait for some gay magic to happen.  My "tricking for a ride" solution wasn't put into effect because, as I was locking the deadbolt, my neighbor came out the door. "How are you getting to work?" she asked.  I shrugged my shoulders and stuck out my thumb.  "Go back inside and wait for me," she insisted, adding that Mister Offender would also be able to join us.  In our minivan, five Brazilian beuties, Mister and I crossed the bridge concluding that if holiday bonus checks were already in our hands, none of us would be making the trip.

If the strike persists, we've decided to play our fancy card, reserving a Cadillac at the local Enterprise starting tomorrow morning.  Sure, there were smaller cars available, but it's the holidays.  If the MTA wants to serve us lemons, we will simply have to add vodka and tonic.

A creature is stirring, it's Ballsy, the mouse

The send button has just been hit and a request for a 'Manhattan Offender' interview has been sent to a favorite comedian/actor when a flash of gray catches my eye.  A very ballsy mouse visited last week, running across the living room floor, so glue traps were purchased and put everywhere possible.  A weekend tree-trimming brunch resulted in removal of many of the traps as furniture was rearranged, buffet tables put out, an eight-foot tree prominently placed by the window and, despite cleaning efforts, a buffet of spilled shrimp, salmon, ham, risotto, and Ritz crackers splayed in mouse-bite size abundance covering the beautiful amber sisal.  Ballsy the mouse is an opportunist.  He has returned to feast.

The first reaction is a natural:  I scream like a little bitch and throw the remote.  Ballsy dashes behind two Martha Stewart Living under-bed storage units with wheels filled with gift wrap and other holiday accouterments stacked next to the tree.  He can only escape to the left or right.  I attempt to awaken Mister Offender from his drunken stupor to no avail.  This is all on me.  And I am a pussy.

Weapons are needed.  Into the kitchen I run to locate glue traps, picking up eight steak knives along the way.  I want to put the traps on either side of the box but am truly terrified that the mouse will bite me and that rabies will quickly coarse through my veins, necessitating a multi-week retinue of hypodermic injections.  So I start to throw the steak knives at the boxes thinking back to my friend Anunu's experience of decapitating a mouse by throwing a CD at it. 

Tears are welling up in my eyes as the fear is being replaced by feelings of ineffectuality.  Curses stream from from my mouth to the finally awakening Mister.  Mister opens one eye and asks, "What?"  I explain the situation and Mister swings into action - by getting off the couch and going to bed.  Our dog, my beautiful obedient daughter, is oddly disinterested in my hysterics and follows him. 

I'm actually crying as I edge the glue traps into place.  With the exit routes secured, I throw Augusten Burroughs Sellevision at the boxes.  Ballsy makes a run and shrieks as he is affixed to the trap.  Now it dawns on me that Ballsy has to die and that I have to be his executioner.  I consider trapping him in a shoe-box and then immediately throwing the box out the window, but the box would obviously be mine (as no one else in this crap building is wearing size 12 Marc Jacobs) and I don't need my neighbors to know that I just really don't have it in me to kill an animal, even a mouse.

Finally, I decide to trap Ballsy in a shoe-box and then throw the box into the compactor.  Shoe-box in hand, I approach the trap.  Which is now empty.  Which causes me to scream like a little bitch.  Again.

So now I sit, watching the baseboards, not wanting to walk shoeless toward the kitchen to turn off the lights, as I think Ballsy may be in there, planning his attack.  I don't want to join Mister in the bed because I am upset with myself for not having the cojones to 'take care' of the situation, yet deflecting that emotion to him for not having rescued me.

Which leaves me, sitting next to a beautifully decorated, shimmering Canadian fir, typing away.

Hunting hunks?

Many thanks to Hunkhunter for selecting MO as a selected "haunt".  As fate would have it, most of the recent posts (of which there have not been enough as the holidays require actual work at the 'paying' job) haven't been bountiful on the beefcake.  But keep your gun in hand, you hunters of hunks.  There are plenty to find in the archives.  And the OffenderCam never fails to find some flesh, especially on Fire Island.  And if you look around you'll find some naughty bits of the (recently voted as a hottie) Offender himself.

So welcome you hunters of hunks.  And once you've unloaded your gun, stick around and read a little, too!

Me, a hottie? Aw, you guys ...

After a week of analysis of my wardrobe, the "Am I a label whore?" series has concluded.

The results make me want to take off all of these analyzed clothes and give everyone a big hug. It turns out that a poll response that was put in as a joke was the winning result. Which either means that you either get my sense of humor or that you like me, you really like me.

Thanks to all that voted in the first MO-Poll. Perhaps a less insipid poll will come in the future!

Down, down, down

For the entire day of Friday, Typepad, the host of Manhattan Offender, was down. Way down. In fact many photo files are still down. MO wasn't the only affected; some of my regular visits also are hosted by Typepad and were similarly stuck. But it seems that things are getting back to normal.

Am I label whore. Final day.

At last the final day in this exploration as to whether or not I am a label whore. Vote today to measure into the result coming tomorrow. 

A sinus infection has been draining my energy since Tuesday (which would explain the lackluster posts, but excuses are not in me repertoire). It is with this addled brain that somehow the house was left sans glittens and hat. Where had it been reported that the temperature was rising? Perhaps in a dream? So the Paul Smith overcoat and a navy/royal/seafoam striped chinatown scarf, the cold was confronted. As the house became subway car and the subway car became office, one thought resonated in my mucus-coated mind: Am I a label whore?

• 2xist athletic shirt, no-show briefs, and socks. (Wonder if they are publicly held ... ) 
• XMI blue white biased pin-stripe (but not in that last-year gay/this-year guido style, more subtle and classic).
• Black Dolce & Gabbana pin-stripe suit. If you've been reading this series, then it should be apparent that anything nice in the wardrobe is a gift; this piece is no exception. Years ago, a transsexual friend (we'll call her Trixia) was making her living via a number of gentleman callers, many of whom had peculiar peccadilloes. Some were into basic whips and cuffs or the generic bondage items. Others were more specific. One liked to wear a wig which Trixia would brush while the gentleman masturbated and hoovered copious amounts of blow. One would pay her more $100 more per girl that would join them, paying the additional girl $300, prompting Trixia to call friends over and rotate their wigs and outfits. A favorite of mine would have her pick out a suit from his closet, come to his bedroom, and dominate him while wearing the suit. As it turned out, this investment banker, didn't want the suits (which were never harmed during the proceedings) and would give them to her. The fact that he just about my size was a further bonus. Most of the suits from those days are gone now from age, but this one persists.
• After that the Marc Jacobs cap-toe oxfords are a little anti-climatic, no?

Quotations of Lady Mary Wortley Montagu

"I despise the pleasure of pleasing people that I despise."

Am I a label whore? Day six.

So continues the (almost complete)exploration as to whether or not I am a label whore with the conclusion coming Friday. 

On the slowly-moving, very packed subway this morning a tear came to my eye as it seemed that one of my prized glittens was missing. These short-sun days make me emotional and dim-witted; in combination with some other factors, a complete break-down was coming until the missing mutant mitten was located in my Tumi bag. Along with the regular coat and hat, the glittens were replaced to my hands to face the cold. But still the question remained: am I a label whore?

Daytime, head to toe: 

• 2xist athletic shirt, white cotton. (By now you know that these are a wardrobe staple.) 
• Lorenzini cotton/lycra dress shirt, charcoal solid.
• Heather-charcoal no-show 2xist briefs. (Another staple.)
• Paul la Fontaine wool patterned suit. I know nothing about this designer, but the suit fits so nicely.
• To Boot dress oxfords, again.    Unmatched patterned 2xist socks - laundry still not done.

And no belt. Belts are a hated item for me. Perhaps that is too strong; the purpose of a belt eludes me.