Time Out Ninth Circle

Time Out New York can officially fuck right off. Too many categories, too much information...I'm busy, and I'm tired. I want it brief, and I want it now. So, with a big holiday weekend coming up and no decent info source in sight, I had to do it myself. But it's not just for me, people...everything I do, I do it for you. (Except masturbate. That's just for me. And that's another thing I do because no one else gets it right, but that's a whole 'nother story.)

Anyway, here are some things you should and/or shouldn't do this Memorial Day weekend. (Please note that nearly all items were attempted/experienced and reviewed by me personally within the last week or so, and I know what the fuck I'm talking about.)

BAD / NOT FUN / DON'T DO / NO:

• Pass kidney stone(s) in emergency room(s)
• Move
• Unpack box after box of shit you can't believe you even have
• Spill soy sauce on brand new duvet
• Think too much about the fact that you've been out of high school for 15 g.d. years
• Believe Janet's lies. Movie role...sure, honey.
• Giggle uncontrollably when speaking to your new urologist, even if his name really is Dr. Weiner (No, really.)

GOOD / FUN / DO / YES:

• If you must move, hire Winkel Moves
• Tell 911 operator how long it's been since you last got laid, so she'll believe you're not pregnant. Follow that with "I'm just sick, I'm not fucking retarded! Jesus Christ lady!"
• X3, bitches!
• Strip down to underwear, eat Chinese food in front of TV
• See New Professionals at Redd's Tavern and/or the Delancey on Saturday night
• Buy missed episodes of Lost on iTunes, get caught up now that season is over (sigh)
• Hump a sailor
• Visit a museum
• Casually say hello to a famous person, as if you're old friends
• Slap a tourist (more than once, if you can)

Enjoy! (Or don't. Whatever.)

Helen's Myopic Third Eye

Seemingly at random, I woke up this morning thinking about Evel Knievel. (No, nothing dirty, you filthmongers.) I was remembering his TV appearances in the 70's, and wondering how he's doing now. I even wore my (incredibly awesome) Evel Knievel shirt to work today. Then, a few minutes ago, I came across this. Coincidence? I think not.

This raises a pertinent question: Why do my psychic flashes always relate to the random or inconsequential? Just once, could I wake up with a set of winning lotto numbers on my mind? Or, like, Adrien Brody's phone number? Is that so much to ask?

Sigh.

I still love you, Evel. Get some rest, man. You look like hell.

No Love Chump Sucker

The good news is, I work in an office cool and laid-back enough that one of the higher-ups is presently blasting the new Red Hot Chili Peppers album in his office, loud enough for everyone to hear.

The bad news is, the new Red Hot Chili Peppers album sucks ten tons of mummified donkey cock. Jesus christ, what HAPPENED to these guys? Freakey Styley, Uplift Mofo Party Plan...perverted, funkified genius. Mother's Milk, Blood Sugar Sex Magik...two of the best records of the 90's. I can even stand OHM and Californication. But this...this sounds like the music they play over the loudspeaker at JC Penney's. Total soccer mom rock. I'll be surprised if Anthony Kiedis isn't tapped to fill Star Jones' spot on The View.

Yet another sign of the Apocalypse, kiddies. Mark my words.

Helen does Home Improvement

While demolishing walls in my old loft (again) this weekend, I made an important discovery. Pay attention, ladies.

A balconette bra, such as this one...

...is completely and totally unsuitable for manual labor that involves any amount of bending and/or heavy lifting. Hoo boy. There were just boobs all over the damn place. But, you know, not in a good way.

In spite of my hyperactive titties, though, I managed to move a few hundred pounds of sheetrock out of the loft without hurting myself (much), and only broke one nail in the process. I am woman, bitches.

I so can't wait for this move to be over.

To the guy on the subway this morning with the raging case of pinkeye, who made his way across the car and squeezed himself in right next to me...

Thanks, man. That was just...wow, great. Made my day. Seriously.

Two feet, one mouth

Upon learning that I had spent the day demolishing an 8 foot high, 15 foot long wall in my apartment, my neighbor kindly said, "You know, we have tools if you need them."

Aside from the fact that this would have been a nearly impossible task had I not been in possession of tools of my own, it was a nice gesture. And yet, per usual, the urge to respond with some degree of snark was too powerful for me to overcome.

"Nah, I'm all set, thanks. Got my own. And I'm not even a lesbian! Crazy, huh?"

I was hoping for...even expecting, a laugh. A smile at least. I mean, come on.

No dice. I was met with a slightly raised eyebrow and a hasty retreat.

I had no idea he was a lesbian. Whoops.

I'm gonna make it after all

Hoo boy. Your little friend has been mighty busy in the last week or so...between looking for (and finding!) an apartment, packing, hanging out with surprise visitors, rocking out with my...um...vagina (not) out, trying to find a guy who can maintain an erection after three beers, partying with the Post Show kids and their posse of hott hotties, pretending to work, snarfing jalapeno poppers, meeting cool newbies, being utterly disgusted by everything Tom Cruise is and represents, panicking over the sad state of my finances, and mollycoddling my sad, lonely cat...a bitch is tired. Dang.

Tired, but happy. And, like, cognizant, or something. The unbelievably spectacular weather here in New York today undoubtedly has something to do with that, as does the fact that I'll soon be living on my own, in an apartment WITH A BATHTUB, for the first time in four years. (If you live in NY, you understand how fucking YOOGE that is. If not...trust me. YOOOOOOOGE.)

I think this book has something to do with it, too. Read it. I'm too atarded right now to explain why. You'll see.

Okay, nappy nappy time...Cross yer fingers that I don't sleepfart here in the office.