Madame Helen, fortune teller

I'm going out this evening. Yes, yes I am. There will be drinking, stimulating conversation, and much merriment. And I know for certain that no matter where I go, I will be surrounded by stunningly attractive, intelligent, well-mannered, single heterosexual men.

How do I know this, you ask? Is Helen clairvoyant, perhaps?

Well, in a manner of speaking, yes. Yes I am.

You see, today, I developed a Third Eye. And by "Third Eye," I mean "horrible zit, so enormous that I couldn't hide it if I constructed a fucking billboard in front of my face."

My Third Eye tells me the future.

"Helen," it says, "you look like crap on a saltine. So tonight, when you go out with your little friends, there will be hotties everywhere. And they won't be looking at you, honey. Except to snicker about your zit, of course. Have a nice time, bitch!"

Can't hardly wait.

Boob-limia?

The nice man at the bagel cart I stop at every morning has referred to me as "skinny" twice this week.

Tonight I'm going shopping with my dear friend PT, a blonde-haired, blue-eyed ballerina who, despite the fact that she is nine inches taller, wears the same size I do.

No wonder my body image is so fucked up.

Thank goodness I have such a great rack.

Year One

I was all ready to write some cute bit about this being the one-year anniversary of my descent upon the blogosphere, when it dawned on me that this is the anniversary of another, substantially more significant event in my life.

Though it wasn't a conscious decision at the time, it doesn't surprise me much that I started my blog exactly fifteen years from the day my cousin Michael died. Michael, whom I've discussed in this forum before, was the inspiration for any and all creative outlets I've pursued in my life. Most successes I've achieved, creative and otherwise, have come from my lifelong desire to emulate him. (Alas, I was blessed with about 1/53rd of his natural talent, but I know he'd be proud of me for trying.)

I could get all "wah" about it, and talk about that day sixteen years ago that we lost him, and how it changed all of our lives, and how much I miss him. But that would be hard, and sad, and thoroughly depressing. It would also take the point out of damn near everything he taught me. Michael was about love, and fun, and living, not boo-hooing about the hand he'd been dealt. He was also about sex and drugs and music and art and friends and good food and learning and laughing as much as possible so that at the end, he didn't wish he'd done anything different. He imparted upon me a love for Jarlsberg cheese and The Pretenders and dirty jokes. He's the reason I learned to play guitar, the reason I went to college, the reason don't hate broccoli anymore, the reason I'm a writer. He schooled me well, just by virtue of who he was. I'm lucky to have known him at all...I'm not about to spoil that by crying about the fact that he's gone. I'm sure Michael'd much rather see me celebrate a year of consistent creative effort than lament his passing today.

So I'll just keep writing, and doing my thing, and appreciating my life. If...when...I get a book deal out of it and become a huge star, all the better that I'll have my cousin to thank.

I had the opportunity to speak at Michael's funeral all those years ago. I was 16 and heartbroken and couldn't find words of my own, so I used those of someone I knew Michael admired. Unlike most things that made sense to me at 16, they still hold up.

The Endless quest a vigil
of watchtowers and fortresses
against the sea and time.
Have they won? Perhaps.
They still stand and in
their silent rooms still wander
the souls of the dead,
who keep their watch on the living.
Soon enough we shall join them.
Soon enough we shall walk
the walls of time. We shall
miss nothing
except each other.

-Jim Morrison

Happy One-Year Bloggiversary to Me.

I Wonder Monday, Volume Six

There's a lot on my mind today (hard as that is to believe), so let's get right to it:

• I wonder why the Six Feet Under finale bugged me so much. (And by "bugged," I mean "caused me to sob for 45 minutes resulting in gross squinty Renee Zellweger eyes.") I think it had something to do with Claire speeding toward what seemed to be an uncertain future New York, much as I did three years ago, when in reality she was just doing what we're all doing every second of every day: hurtling toward our deaths. Hey, the future really is certain after all. Woo hoo.
• I wonder if finishing Harry Potter and watching the SFU finale in the same day was maybe a bad idea. Depressing and depressing-er. Although I'm not sure what was more of a drag about the latest HP: the wicked-sad death at the end, or the fact that not a godddamn thing happened in the 600+ pages before that.
• I wonder what I'm gonna do with myself on Sunday nights now that Six Feet Under is no longer an option. Oh yeah...I can watch Rome instead. (jesus, HBO should be paying my ass, what with all the press I give them and their damn addictive-as-crack TV shows. bastards!)
• I wonder, based on the fact that I've continuted to show up for this godawful HR-nightmare of a temp job, exactly what I'm capable of doing for money. Seriously. If the cash weren't obscene, I would have fattened some deserving jerkoff's lip and trucked on outta this joint on the second day or so. But the cash is obscene. And here I am. Disturbing.
• I wonder how the Living Colour show at CB's was on Friday. Sold out before I had the money for a ticket. Kindly provide details if you attended. [UPDATE, 8/23: I thought, prior to reading this (via Brooklyn Vegan), that my depression over missing this show had reached its apex. I could not have been more incorrect. Fuck fuck fuck fuck FUCK!]
• I wonder how the Giraffes fared on the CBS Early Show on Saturday, pre-Amsterjam. Yes, someone was actually dumb enough to put the Giraffes on live TV. I hope at least one of them said "balls." (And yes, of course I'll post the clip if it becomes available.)
• I wonder how my parents are doing. Since, you know, I've been totally ostracized. Again.
• I wonder why I care at all about people who have treated me like one form of shit or another my entire life. Damn these genetic obligations.
• I wonder how I survived before I had satellite TV, Netflix, and Fresh Direct. I think of all those times I had to, like, LEAVE my APARTMENT...it just makes me shudder.
• I wonder what happened to my mojo. Whether lost or stolen, it is most definitely missing.
• I wonder why/how it took so long for Whoretney to do what we all knew she would. She was clean for what, 20, 30 minutes? Call in the Vatican, it's a fucking miracle. (Actually, the fact that Frances is turning out so well truly is miraculous. Poor kid.)
• I wonder what HST would say about all this madness.
• I wonder where this asshole's been. Not that it matters...I'm just glad he's back.

Okay...work. Right.

Fargging bastiges!

Gahddamn spammers filled up my blog with their stupid solicitation comments yesterday. Everywhere I looked...spam! And I'm a vegetarian, even. Oh, the irony.

I re-opened my comments section to non-bloggers for the time being, but if I get smacked up again, I'll have to restrict them for good. If that happens, you Movable Typers and Luddites should feel free to email your gushing adulation to me directly.

Newsflasher

I love (and I mean LOVE) slow newsdays. That's the only time the drooling masses (that would be us) hear about what's REALLY going on in this wondrous, festering meth-sore of a world.

For example, today I learned that Kayne West is well on his way out of the closet. Either that or Puffy (oh, I'm sorry, I mean DIDDY) is, and Kayne is just softening us up. Either way, it won't be long before I have a new gay friend, and this one will be FAMOUS! Hott!

In another fascinating report, I was shocked to find out how sensitive people can be. When my cell phone bill arrived addressed to Helen the Filthy Little Slut Damnation, I just figured someone at Sprint had a crush on me. Go figger.

On a more serious note (okay, not really), I'll never get the entourage job I applied for with Carlos Santana. I'm afraid my chi's just been way too fucked up lately. Tragic.

If you had any questions left about who should replace Jennings, I'm sure they've now been answered.

I Wonder Monday, Abridged Fifth Edition

This is for JS, who admitted to actually liking this bit. (He probably needs a hobby.) It'll be brief today, though, because at the moment, I'm just not wondering about too much. I get up at 5:15 in the G.D. morning. Limit your expectations, people.

With hollow apologies to Van Halen and Hendrix fans alike (myself included)...

I wonder if anyone ever really did Top Jimi?

This has been "I Wonder Monday" with your hostess, Helen Damnation...until next time.

I have a dream

Even though I don't particularly like raisins, I think I'm gonna try to refrain from ingesting any fluids for as long as possible to see if this fucking miserable weather will suck all the moisture from my body and turn me into one.

Now, we all know that raisins are dried out grapes. So that means I needa come up with a name for a dessicated (but still tasty!) human, so I'll know what to call myself once I achieve this...um...aspiration of mine. Hmmmm...how about "dri-ped"? That's the best I've got. Suggestions encouraged.

And don't worry...I have no intention of dancing and singing like those goddamned California Raisins. Little bastards...

Back in the high life again

Okay.

Terlit = fixed (by me, thankyouverymuch.)
New fridge = delivered (by craigslist samaritan Jose, who totally rules.)
Bank account = dry as ancient bones in the Sahara.
This guy = formerly mental, now just dead.
Frank Black = still the cat's goddamn pajamas.
Stereogum = obsessed, and thank god for it.
Drag Citizen = playing at Trash on Friday.
Me = really effing tired, off to watch The Wire until the coma kicks in.

That's what I get for bitching

See, because then, the toilet broke...and then, the refrigerator broke, spoiling a couple hundred bucks worth of groceries...and THEN, because of this infernally swampy weather we're having, I was attacked by a horde of vengeful mosquitoes at 3 AM and have been wiiiiiiiiiiide awake since then. The upside is, the bite to my lower lip caused it to swell quite nicely. I can now see the appeal of collagen injections. Fa.Bu.Lous.

I get it. Sometimes I need a reminder that things could always be worse. The universe done fucked with me again. At least this time I deserved it.

Crappy ass crapola

This edition of I Wonder Monday pre-empted in deference to more important (and sad) news. Some crappy, crappy things have happened over the past few days, and I'm in no mood to make light of them.

Ibrahim Ferrer, the inimitable voice of the Buena Vista Social Club, passed away on Saturday at the age of 78. Several of the Social Club's greats are gone now...to be expected, certainly, based on the advanced ages these guys had reached by the time they hit it big in the U.S. Big losses, nonetheless. "Dos Gardenias" may be the most gorgeous recording in son history. Ibrahim will be missed.

So will Peter Jennings. That was kinda unexpected, huh?

In other crappy news...there was a gay bashing in Chelsea on Saturday. And a black man was a victim of a hate crime right here in Brooklyn on Sunday. Further evidence to support my argument that 90% of the population should be sterilized at birth. I can only hope that some stupid bastard attempts to put the hurt on me & my posse of queers on 8th Avenue. Be the last thing he does, I ga-ron-tee.

But hey, Shari Kurzrok got a liver. That's something. Makes me feel a tad less guilty about having a nice little weekend during which I clearly didn't watch the news at all. Oy.

Maybe I'm just tired because I have to be at my new job at 7:30 in the G.D. morning. Or maybe I'm bummed that Queer as Folk is over and Nate Fisher is deader than dogpoop. Might be PMS, even. But all I want to do is sit around with a pissy look on my face, eating grossly fattening food and not returning phone calls. Grrrr.

A day in the life of a Lady of Leisure

4:30 AM: Stumble in the front door, reeking of scotch, beer, and cigarettes, fresh from the best Drag Citizen show ever. (They are now a three-piece. It's like magic.)

4:34 AM: Wake up roommates with loud swearing resulting from toe stubbed on...something, fuck knows what.

4:35 AM: Pour huge glass of water, spilling a surprisingly small amount. Ingest 4 preemptive Advil. Eat one slice whole-wheat bread in a feeble attempt to soak up aforementioned scotch.

4:47 AM: Pass out, one foot planted firmly on floor to avert inevitable bedspins.

9:53 AM: Wake up, groan loudly, ponder possibility of vomiting, wish for temporary death, roll over, resume fitful, sweaty sleep.

11:09 AM: Awaken, disrobe entirely due to inclement heat, shuffle to roommate's computer, check email, wish again for temporary death, play brainless computer game for 45 minutes.

12:13 PM: Take obligatory post-bender purse inventory. Find three phone numbers, fourteen flyers for bands never heard before, and $6 US currency. Calculate evening's spending based on funds remaining. Ponder punching self, Fight Club style. Decide against it. Sigh heavily.

12:17 PM: Cook eggs naked, while drinking organic lemonade. Eat egg sandwich while checking Friendster messages. Lament utter uselessness of existence in general.

1:02 PM - 10:18 PM: Watch 7 consecutive episodes of Oz on DVD while continuously consuming dry cereal, muffins, veggie salami sandwiches, and aforementioned organic lemonade. Worry idly how to pay bills sans income. Nap briefly. Awaken, worry even more about the fact that season 6 of Oz not yet out on DVD, and season 5 now halfway over. Attempt to consider activities other than Oz on DVD; none come to mind. Mild panic ensues.

10:18 PM: Speak with Coco. Lament hangover, recap past night's activities and embarrassments, giggle like a girlscout.

10:27 PM: Urinate for the first time all day. Make mental note not to promote/allow such devastating dehydration going forward.

10:36 PM: Sleep.

You want to be me, and you know this.

Do the right thing

If you have plans tonight, start making the calls to cancel them now. Either that or just drag Grandma along with you to CBGB for the second show of the Save CBGB concert series. Chances are she shagged a Ramone or two in CB's crapper at some point anyway, so I'm sure she won't mind.

Those of you who live elsewhere or listen to Hot 97 may not know that CBGB, the legendary Bowery shithole that launched the careers of said Ramones, Blondie, the New York Dolls, Television, and countless other rock and punk innovators, is in grave danger of losing its lease. A massive effort to raise enough money to keep the doors open is underway, and tonight, my friends Drag Citizen will be amongst the bands singing for CB's supper. Joining them are Joker Five Speed, the X's (featuring John "I make panties moist" Law of Banana Fish Zero fame), and several others I can't for the life of me name right now. All told, an excellent lineup for a worthy cause.

So show up, kick down some cash, and do your part to help prevent New York City from turning into a strip mall. I'll even let you buy me a drink. Yeah, bitchez.