Manhattan Offender

"Uh, hi, my sister is the world's sexiest woman."

Scarlett Johansson is at the top of FHM's list of sexiest women in the world, which might improve her brother's pick-up lines.  This past weekend, Fang, a.k.a. Mister Offender - my man, was hit upon by Johansson at Astoria lesbian dive-bar, Albatross. 

His introductory statement didn't exactly set Fang to swooning:  "Hi, I'm Scarlett Johansson's brother."  (To which I would have replied, "Hot.  I'm Lindsay Lohan's dog-groomer," but I wasn't there.)  Fang spent some time with Hunter, frère de Scarlett, also meeting some of his friends and another brother.  As he is well satisfied at home and not really impressed by slow-witted star siblings, there was no worry on my behalf.

It's Fang's birthday

He keeps telling people that he is 30, so let us all smile and nod our heads together now and give Fang the nod of "It's your birthday?  30?  No way, you can't be a day over 28."  For Fang's birthday, there is of course a birthday present.  He's been talking non-stop about Tom Ford eyewear, which can be assumed is a hint.  Then again he talks non-stop about Lindsay Lohan too, but the likelihood of getting Lindsay for his birthday is slim to none.

My Law & Order moment

The orange cones lining our street last night had us curious, as did the guy sleeping in the Jeep Wagoneer with a pylon on the top.  When the cones and the Jeep were still outside this morning or fears were confirmed.  There was some horrible road-work coming our way. 

Later a phone call came to my office from Fang, who was taking the day off before heading out to Vermont this afternoon.  A new Law & Order series was shooting outside of our building something that seems a requirement at some point in New York living.  The new series, Conviction, is described at imdb:

ADA Alexandra Cabot from "Law & Order: Special Victims Unit" returns as the bureau chief for the group of young ADAs. According to Dick Wolf, "'Conviction' will be a 'charactercedural,' we will be dealing extensively with characters' back stories and personal lives."

Which can mean only one thing:  that my building will be the setting of either a crime or as the home of some horrible criminal.  Since the extras on the set are huh-ideous, only the worst can be assumed.  If my home must be a crime scene it can't just be some random crack-house.  It must be something truly prodigious.  Maybe it houses a prostitution ring of illegal immigrant Brazilian rent-boys who smuggle ecstacy tablets from Afghanistan in their bums?  Anything less is unacceptable.

MO Music: Goldfrapp Supernature

MO MUSIC

New on Manhattan Offender, by Robert, the music correspondent!

Sofia Lamar might have declared electro over when "luxx was sold on eBay," but the heteros refused to let it go. What are they to do?  They invested all their money on expensive condos in Williamsburg. But seriously, put down the Rauhofer for a minute, take a break from the bitch tracks, and listen to Goldfrapp’s Supernature. If you’ve been shaking your ass on any decent dance floor chances are you already heard Strict Machine remixed by Victor Calderone, a blessing by the high priest of New York dance music. How can you go wrong?

Another plus: it hits stores the same day as Madonna's Sorry remixes, so you’ll be in the store anyway. (It’ll be like a gay holiday!!!)

After the jump a description of the tracks on Supernature (put down the Cheetos!) and the videos for Ooh La La and Ride a White Horse, too!

Show me one gay republican hottie

This one simple little post by Joe.My.God brings me to confess two things. 

First, MO is really good with, like, math.  The guidance counselors et al always wanted me to be an engineer or mathematician (whatever that is).  Whatever.

Second, once upon a time, MO was a registered republican.  The appeal was that of laissez faire government, which, in retrospect is so utterly clueless and, with the desperate marriage of religious right to corporate interests, not really what the republican party is about anymore.  As a more realistic world view came into play, my party affiliation changed.

Genuinely, though, anyone that in this day and time that calls themselves a republican, gay or not, just seems to be a bit off, right?  Last summer, while effectively intoxicated at the Eagle, a guy, lets call her Ellephant, with not one, but three Bush/Cheney buttons bumped into me.  Turning around and eying the buttons, my immediate thought was that it was meant to be ironic, and not started laughing, but also tapped Fang's shoulder and pointed out Elle's buttons, attracting much attention.

Apparently Elle's buttons weren't meant to be ironic.  Oops.

Which brings me to the reason that republicans, especially gay ones, are not hot.  They lack humor, sparkle, wit, glamor, joie de vivre.  But they can change.  I did.

(Via Queerty.)

Why I don't have a show on the Food Network

It's a Sunday morning with snow on the ground.  The dog has been walked and some staples purchased for nesting through the day.  Fang is nowhere to be found, which isn't necessarily a bad thing.  The priority then is to create a nice breakfast for one while chatting on the phone with friends.  With a menu chosen of scrambled eggs and bacon with iced coffee, and a box of PopTarts purchased as backup in case the first option goes horribly, horribly wrong, it is to the rarely used kitchen we go.   

First step is bacon.  Bacon seems easy enough to make.  In theory, the bacon is thrown into a pan and then it cooks in its own fat.  There is probably some optimal flame that should be set or timing that accompanies the flipping of the bacon, but those facts are unknown to me.  Thus my bacon gets shrivel-y, for which over time I've actually developed a taste.

With the pan still glistenig from the bacon, the next step is to get the eggs to cook up in that yummy bacon fat.  The selected eggs are designer, each with a little label with the name "born free" and the expiration date.  Although the name means nothing to me, apparently the parents of these little embryos were allowed to run around which means that these eggs will, um, help me do cardio.  What is actually cool about these eggs are the expiration dates; as a total food-phobic that is terrified of food poisoning, the little feature truly sings to me.  As the egg choice today is scrambled (the only way known here) the first step is to put together the ingredients of egg, milk and pepper, thoroughly whisking.  Whisking is one of my favorite activities in the kitchen.  It may be (probably is) the similarity of the wrist movement involved in whisking to that of masturbation, but we probably shouldn't overthink the subject. 

Once the combination is thoroughly mixed, we pour it over the coating of bacon grease that remains in the pan, where it suddenly and violently becomes a bubbly gurgley mass.  Folding the hardening egg matter into and over itself ensures evenness of cooking.  Eventually as the eggs come together, lower the heat and allow the eggs to brown slightly, as these are "scrambled dry"; runny eggs are disgusting.

As the portion sizes are a bit large (purposely so in the rare case that Fang came  home), coffee is needed to help push the food through the system.  This may work more for me than others.  The emergency room is where my allergy to caffeine was first noted during college finals week, my junior year.  Two large cups can actually make my vision blur.  It's kind of hot.   Today is actually the first time the coffee machine has ever been used by me, so there is a bit of fear at play as well.  The contingency plan is to load it up with Splenda just in case it is horrid.  Another point is that hot beverages do not register with me unless there is illness or snowboarding involved, so this will be an iced coffee.   First sip says that everything was turned out well and that, wait, hold up, where is the Kahlua?  Can no liquor be kept in this house without Fang emptying it?

Now we've completed our meal.  (It was Vanna White's diet book that recommended putting meals on salad plates to give the appearance of a larger meal.)  Everything turned out fine, actually quite well considering the self-doubt that went into it.  And for the math whizzes out there, yes the bacon did go from four strips to one during the course of exposition.  Where the bacon went should be no shock.  A boy has to eat.  Now on the second iced coffee the original plan to nest is abandoned as the nerves are firing like electrical wire in a trailer park during a tornado.  To the gym we now go to work off the meal, which is exactly how my cooking show on the Food Network would end.

Mister Offender no more

Mister Offender will no longer be referred to as such. He shall from here on be referred to as Fang.

He has brought this upon himself.

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.

Wigstock: bring the kids?

Dear Lady Bunny,

I want to bring my niece and nephew to Wigstock.  Mister Offender says no.  I say they'll love the fun atmosphere, music, and colorful ensembles.  Mister says that their parents are on the conservative side and may have to answer 'uncomfortable' questions from the kids.  I say it's just another day in New York.  Mr. Offender says I'm a troublemaker.

Bunny, to be honest with you, I just want to dress as Angelina Jolie, put the nephew in a faux-hawk and the niece in black face, carry a Saks bag in my hand and a vial of Jennifer Aniston's blood around my neck.  I think the kids will love it.  What do you think, gurl?

At Wigs' End