Manhattan Offender

Question of the day

Does watching/listening two pigeons fucking make me a pervert?

I have a name.

On the roof of the Eagle on a crowded early Sunday evening, I'm squeezing past an acquaintance (of whom I'm genuinely fond).  He speaks to the person behind him and points to me.  "That's Manhattan Offender."

But it wasn't.  Manhattan Offender is a website.  A blog.  It doesn't carrouse at bars, and it doesn't enjoy a cheeseburger fresh off the grill with chipolte mayo.  Manhattan Offender doesn't decide after it starts to rain a little that it doesn't want to get wet and then head out to Mr. Black until 5:00 in the morning. 

Manhattan Offender is something I do, but it isn't all of me.  It's reminiscent of the Karen Walker objectification of her household staff.  "Driver".  "Chef".  "Nanny".  And if I'm going to be objectified then let it be some flattering adjective:  sexy, horsehung, and beautiful will all do.

So my name is Rod.  Use it.

Thanks, giving

If you are a houseguest this Thanksgiving, don't arrive to the table empty-handed.  Your host needs a present, a present that is both appropriate to both you and him.  Perhaps a sausage basket?

Great American Smokeout, I

Today is the Great American Smokeout.  Just a few notes:

If you are a smoker and you are going to quit smoking today:

• Shut up about it.  No one likes a drama queen and by announcing your cessation you are really just saying, "Look at me!  Look at me!  I'm not sticking a stick of aged and chemically treated tobacco in my mouth today!"
• No, really, close your yap.  The key to creating change in your life is not announcing it, but actually doing it.  By encouraging conversation about an activity that you are planning to stop, what you are actually doing is keeping that activity at the top of your mind.
• For the last time, quit your bitching.  Do not complain about the BlowPops, Tootsie Rolls, or Baby Carrots that you are now shovelling down your throat in a vain attempt to quell your oral fixation.
• If someone does ask you if you've quit, just shrug your shoulders.  The person asking you is probably just wanting to catch you in failing at a later date.  Cross this person off your "Festive Winter Equinox" card list and make a note to point out their next zit.
• While some will offer the advice of having a drink of water, or breathing deeply, or doing pushups when you crave a cigarette, try something different and better.  Masturbate when you want a butt.  And if you can have sex with someone when you're having a craving, by all means do so.  Focus that frustration.
• Accept the fact that you are just a cranky bastard.  Don't blame it on nicotine.  Blame it on you.  Cranky is a choice.

If you don't smoke:

• Keep your mouth shut about it to those who do.  Not one smoker is going to hear, "Hey, did you know it's the Great American Smokeout today?"  Instead they will hear, "Hey, did you know it's Be All Judgey and Butty-insky Day today."
• Do not ask your smoker friends if they have quit as you're just reminding them of what they are missing.  It's like asking a pedophile if they've seen the new playground that opened at Metropolitan and Marcy.  You're just frustrating them and encouraging their likelihood of lighting up.
• Do not make presents of NicoDerm, NicoGum, or NicoSnatch.  Or an eight-ball.  Especially not an eight-ball.
• Offer the new non-smoker some sex.  They are likely to be frustrated and in need of a release.  You're probably in for a treat.
• Accept the fact that your smoking friend is just a cranky bastard.  Don't blame it on nicotine.  Blame it on you.  You choose flawed humans as friends.

Soup. It's so confusing.

On an almost daily basis, especially now that the weather has turned, a soup of some sort is on my daily lunch menu.  Having two or three different venues near the office provides a nice and varied selection of soups from which to choose.  Invariably though there will be a woman ahead of me in line, and, also invariably, the woman will need to sample at least one of the soups, if not many.

Several questions come to mind while waiting that, were I not regularly self-medicated, I would ask:

• Have you never had soup before?
• Are the names and overall process confusing to you?  Are you asking yourself questions like these:
  • Turkey Chili?  I've had turkey and I've had chili, but together?
  • Will I be full just by having this one sample?  Maybe two will do the trick?
  • Which soup will best compliment this bag?
  • Is this overpriced deli's chicken noodle as good as the overpriced deli's next door's?
  • Corn Chowder?  Why would corn chow on her?  And who is she anyway?
• Have you had, like, some soup catastrophe in the past?  Did soup betray you in someway that you can no longer trust it?
• Are you going to get the recipe so you can make it at home?
• After terrorizing your office with your control freak nature all morning, can't you give it a rest for just a bit during your lunch and not terrorize everyone here?  I mean relly; don't you just once want to kick your heels back, throw caution to the wind, and put the just remotest little bit of trust in your fellow man to make a decent bowl of fucking soup?

Granted, if the sampleton were asked any of the above she'd just further scrunch up that tightened Revlon maze she calls a face and give me the dirty eyeball.  So I won't ask.  But I'll be thinking it.

Phone-cam quickie: Keeping appearances

There is a certain irony that someone cares so much about their personal appearance that they will go to the extreme of doing a complete personal makeover on the subway.  Between my entrance to the 6 train at 59th and my exit at 28th, the following occurred:

• The subject gave herself a vigorous facial massage, pulling and tugging her skin in an effort to perhaps invigorate the skin cells.
• Foundation and concealer were applied.  (She missed a spot on her forehead by the way.)
• Lip color was applied during a time when someone stood between us.  The lips went from pale to vivid while at Grand Central.
• The final part of the routine involved pointing an eye pencil directly at each eye on the lurching train.  This is perhaps as logical as trimming one's nose hairs with scissors on a train.  Or trimming one's pubic hair with a machete on a train.
• Throughout the transformation process her face contorted in a myriad of expressions to ensure that the applied cosmetics were appropriate from ecstatic happiness to coquettish shyness to serious businesswomanliness.

So in order to keep an impressive impression throughout the day, she abandoned all propriety in public.  Can someone explain the logic?

Non-squitor:
A school bus song from many moons ago:

Stick your finger in your eye, in your eye!
Stick your finger in your eye, in your eye!
Stick your finger in your eye,
And prove that you are blind,
Stick your finger in your eye, in your eye!

Anatomy of a birthday party, part II: shopping list hangman

1. _ O D _ A
2. R O _ _  I _ _   _ A _ E R S
3. R U _
4. _ O _ D O _ S
5. _ O _ D I _ _   _ _ A I R S
6. _ _ O _
7. _ I _ E R S
8. S _ I _ _ E R   R E _ I _ _ S
9. _ A _ E R   _ _ A T E S
10. I _ E
11. _ _ A S T I _   _ U _ S
12. A S _ I R I N

Anatomy of a birthday party, part I: the invite

Miss Manners would agree that the key to a successful invitation is that it adequately convey the spirit of the event.  With a birthday on a Monday, the key inspiration for still getting friends together is less to celebrate 'me' than to let them know that they are a special part of my life.

The guest list includes old friends and new, all of whom are sort of awesome to me.  The theme for year 39 is to overcome anxieties and to "put it all out there" both literally and figuratively.  Although the apartment isn't "done", a shot will be taken.  Hopefully it will an exercise in exorcism of my manic demons. 

Oh, and fun.  Hopefully it will be a blast.  Duh.

Manic expressive

The day that mania and obsessive compulsion first expressed itself is unknown, but apparently it's not much of a secret anymore.  On a casual Saturday night, arriving at a friend of a friend's before heading out to birthday thing, mania was in high gear.  Maybe it was getting lost on the way there.  Maybe it was that, although known friends were there, these friends were unknown.  Maybe it was the fact that my pre-planning of the evening had been disrupted by the changes in plans of others.  Or maybe there's a prescription in my future.

The night was to consist of two birthday parties.  One was to be sort of artsy high-brow with "people-that-name-droppers-like-to-mention" attendees like John Cameron Mitchell and Nick Denton.  The other was artsy low-brow with lots of hotties.  Whereas the friends of the host wouldn't be arriving to the high-brow party until one, a choice had to be made.  Letting the neural centers below the belt make the choice, the party with hotties was chosen.

On the way there, a call is place to a friend that is being met.  He proceeds to give concise directions which I interrupt with a "I know where I'm going".  Little do I know that the destination has changed and the route I take out of the Classon Avenue G starts me on a path to an area that is, to say the least, sketchy or to say the truth, scary.  Self-preservation outwaying self-confidence, I call for directions.  Three different times.  The problem is that I'm looking for a residence that is not my true destination and looking for visual clues that are not there.

Eventually I arrive and look at unfamiliar names on the buzzer.  Buzzed in, the mania creeps up as I climb the stairs.  "Where am I?  Who are these people?  What if I'm in the wrong building and was buzzed in by people expecting a delivery of Thai food?"  The door opens and familiar faces greet me and the mania mellows, but just slightly.

Over the next hour the following thoughts pop in and out of my head:

• "It's hot in here.  Everyone is wearing shoes.  I want to take off my shoes.  I want no attention that I'm removing my shoes.  That feels better, but what if my feet smell.  Will anyone notice if I lift my foot to my nose?  Good, no one saw.  Wait.  Why is no one looking at me?"
• "I can't hold this empty beer forever.  This is Brooklyn, and they are recycle-nazis in Brooklyn.  Why wouldn't the recyclables be next to the trash bin?  If I'm going to get a fresh beer, I'm going to have to ask."
• "Would it be weird if I started cleaning up?  We're not ready to go yet, but this mess is distracting.  Oh, wait, I see the same look in his eye.  Maybe if I mention cleaning up, he'll join me."
• "Is there a reason for Beyond the Valley of the Dolls to just be laying on the floor?  I don't see any other DVDs.  Surely it has a home.  I'll just prop it up against the wall."
• "That lampshade seam is pointing right out at the room.  Just a quarter turn and it would be unnoticeable.  No one will see me if I just quickly go over there and turn it.  There that's better.  Oh.  Everybody totally saw me do that."

Indeed, everyone had.  The cute one that helped me clean saw, but seemed to have a look of understanding.  Obviously, he ended up being the person with whom I spoke for the majority of the night.  Leaving the apartment and heading out to Alligator Lounge the manic thoughts continued.

• "The doorman is checking i.d.s, but mine has not been replaced since the wallet was lost.  Just last week I was turned away from the Rawhide (of all places) due to lack of credentials.  He's letting me in without identification.  I look that old?"
• "This is a good turnout.  There are hot guys here.  Especially that one and that one.  Huh?  Why is this one talking to me.  I'll excuse myself to the bathroom."
• "This bathroom stall door does not lock.  This is not good.  I have plans for this stall and lack the coordination to hold the door shut while within.  Oh.  Gilly was buying me a Jack and Ginger.  And I'm in a bathroom stall.  Gilly is going to be mad.  I'm ruining everything."
• "Look at this great turnout.  My birthday is in two weeks.  Will I have a great turnout?  Should I just invite all of these people?  Who is friends with whom here?  I don't even have a location planned.  This is going to be the worst birthday ever."
• "It smells like ass in here.  Or is that parmesan.  Why does parmesan smell so much like ass?  Or is it vice versa?  Or is that visa versa?  Why can't I ever remember these type things?"
• "Which conversation should I join?  They look serious.  Them too.  Okay, they're laughing, but it looks like one of those stories where everyone was there and I don't think I was.  Oh no, this one again.  He wants to sleep with me, but I resent him for cockblocking that time at Metropolitan.  How can I get out of this?"

At which point, thirty minutes into the gathering, I ... left.  Up and left.  Made an excuse that I was reacting poorly to the parmesan odor and left.  As it was only two, my direction was, at first, the high-brow party, but upon further consideration, I went home.  Where I made the bed.  And swiffered.  And organized the t-shirt drawers (by frequency of wearing).  And swiffered.  And swiffered some more. 

And eventually went to sleep.

At 7:30 a.m.

ManHunt? Nah, dude you need MaidHunt

Upon the encouragement of, well, everyone, the typical personals sites now have MO as a member.  Granted, these sites have resulted in only one meeting (actually a reintroduction to someone from  fourteen years ago
- the best friend of the second person I ever dated).

Additionally there have been the occasional, "Hey, I know your blog" which is annoying as this is a website, not a blog.  Heh.

But I digress.  As someone that tries to be helpful, it behooves me to issue a little piece of advice:  If you're going to send someone a picture of yourself, at least try to clean up the vicinity in which your photo is being taken.  Even if you are amazingly hot, the mess surrounding you could be a deal-breaker.