You say vageena, I say vagina

My friends are my friends for very specific reasons. They each contribute something unique and amazing to my world.

Charles, for example, is not just witty, gorgeous, and enviably talented. Oh no. He's also a wonderfully perverted bastard who knows how to make momma happy when she's stuck at home, sick in bed on a holiday, mourning the death of Mr. Miyagi.

Here's the proof.

Afro clam: It's what's for dinner.

At last...

Yesterday, the thing I was most thankful for was Alka Seltzer Plus Cold Medicine. Charles and I are both sick enough that we canceled Thanksgiving, even. Ack.

Spending all that time in bed made me realize something important: There's just no reason for me to be alone anymore. It would be nice to have someone there to comfort me in times of illness, to keep me warm on these cold winter days. It's really time I really get back out there and make the effort to find someone.

And wouldn't you know it...as soon as I made up my mind, the resolution to my loneliness was right there in front of me. The wonders of the universe are truly numerous. Ask and ye shall receive.

Ladies and gentlemen, meet my new mail-order husband...


You'll forgive me if my posts are somewhat sporadic for a time...my love holds 7,500 songs, and I intend to listen to them all.

You'll see more of me once the honeymoon's over. If that ever happens, of course. There's enough love here to last a lifetime...let's pray his battery holds out that long.

Wasabi peas before noon

Bad idea. BAD. Oof.

This public service announcement brought to you by Helen Damnation's digestive tract.

Painting by mentalsewage

Yet another bulleted list

Surprisingly Awesome Things I've Experienced in the Last Week:

• New Professionals, who played with Drag Citizen last week. This Karen Curious person is really something. Coco summed it up best, referring to her as "the female Bruce Springsteen." Great songs, with a solid classic-rock sound and amazing vocal harmonies. They're cute, too. During their set, I overheard someone say "Damn, I pretty much wanna have sex with everyone in that band." Of course, that's no reason to like them...but it sure don't hurt nothin.' (Note: Drag Citizen and Everyothers both had excellent sets that night as well, and Scenic is a very cool little venue. Special mention goes to Danny Fever, who played the last song wearing a welders' mask, for some reason unbeknownst to...well, anyone but him. Rock on, or something.)



• Harry Potter, Part IV. The part where the giant ugly chick ate something she found in Hagrid's beard almost made me piss myself. I'm still a little hung over, on account of dumping a bag of peanut butter M&M's into the mondo popcorn and washing it all down with about a gallon and a half of Diet Coke, but it was worth it.



• Completely unexpected early-AM conversations with a couple of Denver monkeys I love tremendously and don't get to speak with nearly enough. A little surreal, maybe, but awesome nonetheless.



• Showering on a Saturday. It was lovely. I might even do it again sometime.

Other updates: My cat fucking hates me, cool roomie Jenn is *NOT* moving away (woo!) and the novel is on temporary hold. I'm officially a NaNoWriMo dropout. Go me.

The "No" List

People I cannot date for reasons I will not explain:

*Stoners
*Lawyers
*Musicians
*Sagittarians
*Golfers
*Thugs
*Twelve Steppers
*Closet Cases
*Christians
*Law Enforcement Officers
*Hippies
*Hipsters
*Dads
*Clean Freaks
*The Facially Pierced
*The Remarkably Tall
*Hardcore Metrosexuals
*Financial Advisors
*Gross Eaters
*The Divorced
*Bush Supporters
*Guys Named Larry

Clearly, I'll be the single girl at the Drag Citizen show tonight. Feel free to say hello. Or, you know, just slap me.

Come get some (but not off me)

Okay, now that we're done with the uncharacteristically sincere personal droning, it's time to get back to what I do best: Drinking and bullshitting! [Note: I realize that I'm just as good at getting sweet on the wrong guy, not getting laid, slacking at work, embarrassing myself, procrastinating, and making enemies on the subway, but we're focusing on the positive here, mmmmkay? Yeah, thanks.]

Anyway...back to the drinking and bullshitting...here's a great chance for you to do both:

Tomorrow night (that being Thursday, 11/17), heirs to New York City's glam throne Drag Citizen will host the release party for their latest CD, which you can take a listen to here. Join us at Scenic at 9 PM for much rawk and retarded behavior. Also appearing are the Everyothers (who are awesome) the New Professionals (who do not seem to have a website), and the sexy bitches you see below.

Photograph courtesy of Drag Citizen Fan Numero Uno

The evening of unparalleled entertainment continues at my place after the show, when I attempt to give my cat a pill after consuming Dewar's and soda all night. Bring your friends, and your cameras.

If I don't see you...well, it best be because you live far, far away.

Pretty when I cry

Very sincere thanks to y'all for the kind words and thoughts for my poor kitty. Honestly, I was kinda overwhelmed by the comments and emails received from friends and blogospheric strangers alike. So yeah, thank you.

Unfortunately, the news the doctor had for me yesterday was not so good. Cancer, and a bunch more of it than she thought. She's doing everything she can, and we'll deal with whatever happens as it comes. At this point, though, the options are fairly limited.

Like I said before...there are far worse things going on in the world. Tsunamis, hurricanes, all kinds of crazy, horrible shit. People have their hearts broken every day of the year, in ways that I can't possibly fathom. I'm incredibly lucky for what time I've had with Storm so far, and every minute we have left.

That said...I'm a tad bit of a wreck. Thank god my mother is a veritable pharmaceutical goldmine and doesn't mind sharing.

You'll be pleased to know that I won't be going on about this. You don't visit the Ninth Circle to get a daily fill of depressing personal crises, any more than I write here for the purpose of doling them out.

Please tune back in tomorrow, so I can tell you where and when to meet me on Thursday to check out some rock and get mind-numbingly drunk.

Tramps Like Us

Reading this made me feel tons better about the fact that there's no fucking way the novel's getting done this month. If Bruce can take six months on one song, I can take more than thirty days to write my book, dammit.

Now, back to fretting about both my sick cat and my own stupidity. (Cute boys...pssssh.)

I am SO never having kids

Yeah, so the kitty doctor says it's probaby cancer. She said we caught it very early, and that Stormy's in amazing health other than the lump, and that whatever it is doesn't seem to have spread anywhere. She could have a relatively normal life if that's the case.

Surgery Monday, home Tuesday night.
She's never spent a night away from home before. In ten years.

Things could always be worse. I know this. And if I forget, I have Xanax. (Thanks DGO. Mama loves you.)

Awright, I have a nap to take, and a novel to write, in that order.

[Update, 10:12 PM: Xanax + Chapelle's show = mad hysteria. It was the one with the girls' choir singing the diarrhea song...oh god...]

Helen Meets the Film Actors' Guild (F.A.G.)

I'm not a big fan of understatements. Thus, I won't say that last night "got a little crazy." Utterly surreal, more like it. I was gonna go into it in excruciating detail, but instead, I'm gonna go with a bulleted list of the highlights, so I have room for something much more hysterical (and stupid, of course.) So, last night...here goes:

• Watched an extremely nervous, slightly awkward, and startlingly tall Tim Robbins rip through a set of Neil Young-esque left-wing political rock with his band, Gob Roberts. Their finale was a song in which the chorus was "Fuck the FCC/Fuck the CIA/Fuck the FBI, Livin' in the motherfuckin' USA!" (Remember that...you'll need it later. ) All told, it was pretty awesome.


• Became that annoying asshole that says something loud during a quiet moment in a band's set (but hey, it made Tim laugh, so whatever.)


• Met Tim's lovely wife, Susan Sarandon (!) and gushed like a dipshit. She's absolutely gorgeous, by the way. No makeup, wearing a wifebeater, sweats, and a newsboy hat, and stunning. Wow.


• Met Tim & Susan's good friend, MIKE MYERS (schwing!), semi-gushed, and finished our exchange off with "I care for Apple Jacks a great deal." Anyone wanna kill me? I'll pay you. Seriously.


• Was forced to admit that, at 32, I still go retard when attempting to speak to cute boys. The cuter, the tarder. Last night I was George Bush. He's that cute. Woof.


• Sat through a couple of crappy bands to get to the good stuff, and was not disappointed. Jessie Diamond and the Thousand were kick ayse, as usual.


• Unintentionally got kinda shithammered, on account of forgetting to eat dinner. (Which explains the embarrassing star-stalking incidents, at least in part.)

What's more entertaining than any of that, though, is the IM conversation Coco and I had about the whole thing today:

Coco: death by girl scout cookies
Helen: oooooooooh
C: did you know tagalongs are now called "peanut butter patties"? ghey!
H: gross! "pattie" is just a gross effing word. I hate when girls are named Patty
C: it sounds like shit patty
H: hahahaha PATTY
C: cow pie
H: PATTY
C: meat patty
H: I'm gonna start calling myself Patty when we go out
C: oh god
H: what's your name? PATTY
C: patty what
H: and I'll say it like that...PAAAAHTTY! Patty Humperdinck!
C: I'm at a loss
H: hahahahaha I'm hung over
C: me too!
H: I booted last night!
C: this is what happens when you party with Tim Robbins
H: evidently!
C: oh dear
H: he's all hardcore an' shit
C: I had a mcmuffin this morning
H: ooooooooh
C: Tim would have been aghast
H: utterly
C: maybe he would write a song about how bad McDonalds is
to the tune of "keep on rockin in the free world."
H: EATING AT MOTHERFUCKING MAC-DON-ALDS
C: WILL MAKE EVERYONE DIE
FUCK THE ADD
FUCK TOM CRUISE AND KATIE
H: FUCK THE HAMBURGLAR
FUCK GRIMACE TOO
C: FUCK THEM IN THE PATTY
H: glurk!

Well, we were amused, anyway.

Cameraphone photos, courtesy of Miss Kit Lee:

I think this was when he was singing his soon-to-be classic ballad entitled "I Get to Have Sex with Susan Sarandon and You Don't, Bitches!"

Almost Famous

So we all know that I'm currently writing the next Great American Novel, and that I'll be absurdly rich and famous within the next, say, three months or so. Fine.

What I bet you don't know is that I'm already a famous writer. Kinda.

In 2002, something I wrote was immortalized in a way I had never previously imagined. It has met with wide audience, and received universally stellar reviews. Since I need to focus on the book (in order to ensure that I can attend tonight's JDAT show without slacker remorse), yet still have the burning drive to keep you entertained, today's the day I share this masterpiece with you, my adoring fan(s?).

Ladies and gentlemen, I give you my contribution to the Best of Craigslist.

Please direct all requests for pubic appearances, signed photographs, pre-worn panties, etc. to my agent. Thank you.

Excuse me, Mr. Bloomberg?

Blow me.

Note: If you don't live in New York City, this posting will probably not interest you much. Feel free to carry on with your bad self. Be sure to check back tomorrow, though, coz that one's gonna be a doozy.

That said...

I voted for the Green Party guy...whatever his name is...because obviously Bloomberg's a douchebag and Ferrer is...well, a douchebag. Knowing that Doomberg will win has me a tad bummed out.

So how will I console myself, you ask? Well, with a little bit of starfucking and a whole lot of rock, or course...

Tomorrow night, November 9th, at Sin-e (on the LES), please join Coco, Charles, myself, and a host of others for a night of imbibement, Republican-bashing, and gawking at sexy musicians. Stars of the show are Jessie Diamond and the Thousand, who play at 10:00. Get there early enough, though, and you might see a) me, sober (!), and b) Tim Robbins, whose band Gob Roberts goes on at 7:30. Fer reals.

And then, if we're not feeling any better about the sorry state of our city's affairs, we can just pass out under a table at Sin-e and stay for Thursday's show... the Negatones (9 PM), Beat the Devil (featuring Mishka Shubaly, 10 PM), and the Giraffes (11 PM).

I have every intention of drying out enough to get back to work on the novel by Friday. No, really.

[6,336 words down, a fucking ridiculous shitload to go. And now my girl Kasey Bomber has joined in, too. Guarantee she'll be done a full week before I am. God I hate her. And by 'hate' I mean 'adore'.]

Four more years...sigh...

Procrastination is an art

Things I Did This Weekend Instead of Writing My Novel:

1. Dyed my roots.
2. Sorted the recycling.
3. Added a Frappr map to my blog, thanks to The Uffish Princess (and of course, add yourselves immediately...helloooooo...)
4. Finally met some of my favorite bloggers and proceeded to get thoroughly hammered with/near them. (Thanks for showing up, kids! Can't wait until the next one...)
5. Purposely farted on some bigoted snatches who desperately deserved it. (No, really. Call one of my friends a faggot and see what I do to you. Go ahead. They got off easy.)
6. Obsessed about my cat's potentially cancerous tumor (there's an 80% chance that it's malignant. Fak.)
7. Played computer games geared toward third graders, because they're the only ones I'm any good at.
8. Repeatedly checked the NaNoWriMo word count of someone I can't fucking stand, and then obsessed because he's about 40% done with his goddamn book already.

Conclusions, based on the above:

1. Neurotic much, Helen?
2. At least I still got it. The procrastination skillz, dat is.
3. If I still do my best work under pressure, I should be able to sell this novel (which will undoubtedly be written in the last week of the contest) for a bazillion dollars and retire to Mexico with some young tart of a man.

Fuck.Ing.Sweet.

Now, I believe I'll go re-organize my closet. You know, in preparation for all of the brilliant writing I'm going to do this evening.

Warning: Potential meltdown ahead

Yesterday I found a large, irregular, lumpy growth on my little cat's belly.

While this isn't necessarily a horrible thing, there's really no way for it to be, you know, good. And it might very well be horrible.

She goes to the doctor on the 12th.

It's a damn good thing I have this novel writing thing to distract me. I might be inclined to freak out a little, otherwise. (3028 words down, 46972 to go.)

That said...tonight, we drink. Email me if you'd like to join us.

The Reverse Crying Game

This morning on the bus, I came very close to asking Forrest Whitaker for his autograph.

After a ten minutes of surreptitious glances and excited shuffling of my feet, an important question occurred to me:

What the fuck is Forrest Whitaker doing on a bus in downtown Brooklyn at 8:15 on a Thursday morning?

And then, another thought:

He should either get a stylist, or fire the one he has. Damn.

Good thing those particular thoughts entered my mind before I resolved to bother Mr. Whitaker.

Because, of course, the person seated across the aisle was not, in fact, Forrest Whitaker.

Furthermore, the person seated across the aisle was, in fact, a woman.

Yet again, I'm startled and impressed by my own brilliance. Woot!

[Novel update: 1, 819 words down...48,181 to go. Aaron has joined the cult...er, quest. Sweet.]

What have I done...

Well, thanks to both my brilliant niece and my favorite midwesterner, I'm, um, sorta writing a book this month.

This should be interesting. Or something.

If my babbling makes even less sense than usual over the next few weeks, at least you'll know why.