Helen's New Year's Resolutions

Riiiiiiiiiight.
Who do you think you're dealing with, here?
Psssh.

All I'm really resolved to do is figure out how the hell to walk in these ridiculous four-inch heels by tonight. Wish me luck.

Happy New Year, kids.

They're way taller than these. I am sooooo screwed. Photos of bruises and contusions sure to follow. But it's cool...I've got health insurance.

Bienvenudo...

I like it when other people do stuff I can talk about. Takes the pressure off me to be functional and/or productive.

That said, my favorite Masshole (pictured below*) went and got hisself a blog. Please welcome him warmly to our ever-expanding universe of retarded brilliance.

Clearly he'll fit right in.

*Okay, that's not really him. Well, it's his face, but the rest is some other poor bastard. I'm sure Dan's weiner is much, much bigger than that. He wouldn't have a cute girlfriend, otherwise. Dan, that is. Not this guy.

Potatoes suck, fat guys rule

I have nothing interesting to say. Since that rarely stops me, I'll tell you that I'm never drinking vodka again (no, really), and I love Jack Black forever.

I believe...

Crappy Holidays, everyone!

Helen's Holiday Handbook

No matter what holidays you do (or don't) celebrate in December, this time of year is invariably one huge pain the babymaker. Ridiculous pushy crowds, criminally unreasonable transit unions, the inescapable horror that is Christmas music...It's enough to drive the Pope to violence, and we all know what a nice guy he is. (cough...Hitler Youth...cough)

Anyway, helpful soul that I am, I thought I'd offer some pointers on getting through this holiday season in one reasonably sane piece. My methods aren't for everyone, but I recommend you at least try them before you make that decision for yourself. Also, I must mention that these are strictly GROWNUP holiday coping strategies. You kids, you go play with your XBox 360 or something. Go on, get the hell outta here.

Okay, now the little bastards are gone, here we go...

Surviving the Holidays, Ninth Circle Style

1. Booze it up, big time. Not only is excessive drinking more acceptable during the holidays, it's required. Company parties wouldn't offer free drinks, otherwise. I know I certainly haven't let my firm down...you shouldn't either.



2. Get your hands on some pills, pronto. My mother can't be bothered to pick up the phone on my December birthday, but the pharmaceutical care packages she sends my way make it so, SO forgivable. Xanax makes everything fuzzy and amusing, whilst decreasing the odds of choking the crap out of your family, friends, retail staff, and striking transit workers by 77%. And I tell you whut...I'm not sure what the yellow capsule was, but KA-BLAMMO! I already had myself a merry little Christmas. Thanks Mom!



3. Have you some sex. This, of course, is one of those "do as I say, not as I do" directives. I'm in a dry spell that makes the Sahara look like Splash fucking Mountain, but I strongly encourage you to relieve the mounting holiday tension by gettin' out and gettin' slippery. And then, if you have time, call me while he/she's in the shower. (Hey, I'd do it for you.)



4. Conveniently "lose" your cell phone. Unless you're a drug dealer or a call girl, is there anyone you really need to speak with between December 24th and January 1? Absolutely not. Your family will only make you crazy. Your friends will annoy you with all their bitching about shopping and the cold and the transit strike. Drop that fucker in the toilet at your favorite bar, so you won't be tempted to retrieve it. You can get a new phone for free after the first of the year by calling your provider and claiming you got mugged outside a department store on Christmas Eve. Trust me.



5. Remember that the internet is all you really need. Aside from the booze and pills, that is. Why deal with the nightmarish retail blitz the holidays create when you can simply order your dad a foot massager from Target.com? They'll ship it right to his house, and you never have to leave yours. No muss, no fuss, no haggard, cunty salesgirls. And in between your internet shopping trips...porn! Everybody wins!

So relax...it's all gonna be okay.

Now, if you'll excuse me, there's a yellow capsule calling my name. Cheers!

Danke Schon and Fuck You

Many, many thanks to everyone who braved freezing weather and the onset of the transit strike to celebrate (read: get hammered) with me last night. There were BFFs, bloggers, co-workers, co-conspirators, gays, straights, sportos, motorheads, geeks, sluts, bloods, waistoids, dweebies, dickheads...and as far as I could tell, a good time was had by all. The emails, cards, gifts, and phone calls I received warmed me to the depths of my crispy, blackened little heart. Amazing. So that's the danke schon part.

I'm going to refrain from expressing a detailed opinion on the unconscionable act of economic terrorism that the Transit Workers Union is currently perpetrating against New York City. Clearly, however, that's the big fuck you part. Happy holidays, you bastard fucktards.

I must say, though, that telecommuting in my jammies is just about the best thing ever. Best of luck to those of you here in the city who don't have that option. What a nightmare.

Helen at 33

I suppose one's birthday is as good a time as any to reflect and think deeply about the state of one's life, plans for the future, all that kinda crap.

But personally, I'd rather just keep on eating these delicious cupcakes that Kit made for me, drink too much with my friends tonight, and be a waste of space at work tomorrow.

Sometimes it's best to stick with what you know.

Intermission

I really hate it when work interferes with my ability to entertain/annoy people.

But stay tuned! Coming soon:

• Helen Survives the Holidays!
• Helen's Thoughts on Her Birthday!
• The Story of Helen's Expulsion From Catholic School!
• Helen stops talking about herself in the third person, already!

Meanwhile, spend some time with Central Park's Skating Grandma...

Photo courtesy of Coco F.

That's right, we bad!

1940-2005

He may have been the best standup of all time. The guy burned off his own face while freebasing, and lived not just to tell about it, but to tell jokes about it. From him, I learned the words "motherfucker" and "honky," for which I'll always be grateful. It's impossible to be sad when remembering Richard Pryor. He'd been in pain and barely able to function for years, and while I'm sorry he's gone, I'm happy that he's free.

He was also committed to animal rights and environmental causes. Click here to make a donation to Pryor's Planet, the foundation Richard created to support animal shelters and rescues worldwide.

Stealing second...or not

Hey...does getting fully felt up by an intoxicated gay co-worker at my firm's holiday party count as, you know, action?

Didn't think so.

Sigh...

Maybe next year.

Where were you?

My grandparents remembered vividly where they were on December 7, 1941, when they heard of the attack on Pearl Harbor. For my parents, it was November 22, 1963, the day JFK was shot. My mother, who takes enough medication that she can't even remember what medication she's taken, can even recall exactly what she was wearing that day.

For much of my generation, December 8, 1980, is the terrible day we remember so clearly. It marked the first time in my almost eight years of life that I was allowed to stay up late on a school night to watch the news.

My dad was watching football when Howard Cosell made the announcement that John Lennon had been shot. He hollered upstairs for my mother, and we all joined him in the family room.

My cousin Michael introduced me to the Beatles, especially Lennon, almost from birth. If Mike said John Lennon was the man, that was enough for me. I felt like I'd lost a friend. As my family stared at the TV in shock, I crawled up into my dad's chair, terrified and sobbing inconsolably. The worst conceivable thing for little kids is the death of a parent. I remember thinking of Sean Lennon, and not being able to hold onto my dad tightly enough. I've found the holiday season depressing ever since.

It remains as incomprehensible now as it was 25 years ago. It's hard to imagine what John Lennon would be like today, in a world filled with unnecessary wars and iPods and rap stars and artificial sweeteners and so much madness.

I won't join the throngs of fans at the Dakota and Strawberry Fields tonight. Somehow, I feel like John Lennon would think we were idiots for standing around in the freezing cold, mourning someone who's been dead for so long. But I'm grateful to him, and I miss him, and I'll admit to being a little sad today.

How do you remember the day John Lennon died?

Nature Really IS a Whore

Everyone on this big dumb planet has his or her own ideas about who and what is sexy, and why. Right? Of course. There's nothing strange or difficult to understand about that. It's nature hard at work, trying to trick us into reproducing. Fine.

It's not always so easy, however, to discern the specifics of what makes a person attractive. In fact, the tenets of sexiness can reach beyond the intangible, and drop straight into the inexplicable. I've dated a variety of men...tall, short, fat, thin, ugly, cute, gorgeous, tattooed, clean-cut...all of them were sexy to me, in their own ways. (For at least 20 minutes, at any rate.) Oftentimes, I'm confident that those I'm attracted to bear certain empirically appealing traits. But sometimes, my own tastes concern and unsettle me. Take these celebrity examples...

Exhibit A: Dave Grohl
Remarkably talented. Undeniably adorable. Relentlessly ambitious. Cheeky, to the point of total goofiness. Tattooed. In shape. Stylish, in an urban-hipsteresque kind of way. A fucking rockstar who deserves to be one. My ideal boyfriend.

Dave is sexy. No two ways about it.





Exhibit B: George Clooney
Smoother than warm molasses. Accomplished. Experienced. Slightly mysterious. Strong and sophisticated, with an ever-present glint of humor in fathomless dark eyes. The closest thing to James Bond America has to offer, AND he loves South Park. He'd punch out your ex-boyfriend without so much as wrinkling his custom-made Armani.

George's sexiness can be seen from space. Undeniable.



Exhibit C: Dave Navarro
Dark. Serious. Out-of-the ordinary. More than a little androgynous. Body carved out of rock. Uniquely stylish. Has hot wife, which hurts nothing in my book. And you know he's just...dirty. Not everyone's cup of carrot juice, to be sure, but there's a certain element of universal appeal present here.

Dave Navarro is fucking sexy. Not hard to understand why I think so.

But see, here's where it gets flat-out disturbing. This weekend, I watched Season One of the Sopranos on DVD. It was then that I discovered an attraction that it pains me to admit...

Exhibit D: Tony Soprano
Fat. Be-manboobed. Balding. Sociopathic. Murderous. Insatiable womanizer. Horrible dresser. Crude. A guido in the truest, most embarrassing sense of the word (which I, as an eye-talian, am allowed to use, thankyouverymuch.)

And yet...the panties, they get moist.

WHY GOD, WHY?

If anyone's got an explanation, I'd like to hear it.

And don't worry, I have no intention of reproducing.

Help me help you

Put yerselfs on my map, bitches!

How can I stalk you if I don't know where you live?

It ain't easy

Things It's Really, Really Hard to Do Now That I Have a Boyfriend...I mean, iPod:

*NOT bust into spazmo dance moves on the bus with Junior Senior.
*NOT sing harmonies (so, SO badly) in public with New Professionals.
*NOT mosh assholes on the subway, inspired by the Giraffes.
*NOT bust along with Chuck D. (I know how white I am, believe me.)
*NOT walk like Axl Rose during Paradise City.
*Wipe the retarded smile off my face.
*Put the goddamn thing down, even for a second.
*Stop running up my credit card bill buying song upon song.
*Hide the fact that I love Kelly Clarkson. There, I said it. Fuck you.

Some days...

December 1, 1955: Rosa Parks refused to give up her seat.

December 1, 1978: Cool Roomie Jenn was born. Woo!
Happy birthday sister!

December 1, 1982: Michael Jackson released Thriller.
You know, before he started humping kids. As far as we know.

December 1, 2004: An amazing and wonderful woman left us.
We miss you, Linda.

December 1, 2005: World AIDS Day.
Mr. Pinky, the Ninth Circle's Colorado correspondent, contributed this cool link, which makes it easy for you to do your part in the fight against this global pandemic.

I'll go back to swearing like Richard Pryor and whatnot tomorrow, promise.