Blogger helps me help you

It's a well-established fact that your hostess here in the Ninth Circle ain't the brightest globe on the chandelier. Thus, it took me until yesterday to notice that Blogger has incorporated a new font changer tool thingy into the posting template. It's kinda neato. Looky:

balls

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Balls

The great thing about stupidity is the ease of amusement that naturally accompanies it.

Enjoy your weekend, kids. Clearly I'll have no problem doing so myself.

Fat, gay, or nerdy?

I am considering purchasing a Wii. I hate video games, but have concluded that this may be the only way I will ever get any exercise of any kind ever, ever again.

Check that. It's one of two ways I will ever get any exercise of any kind ever, ever again. The other would be to marry Jackie Warner, and subsequently spend every possible moment of the rest of my life letting her, uh, you know...work me out. Yeah.

Helloooooooo nurse.

Note: Continuing my current program of laying around in my desperately stretched-out underwear, eating pizza and drinking red wine, is an option that is still under careful consideration.

Helen Damnation, Future CEO

There's a woman in my office we'll call Miss Thang. She's quite funny, a bit older than me, and has a reputation for tellin' it like it is. Occasionally, Miss Thang sends out little "brain teaser" emails to a few of us, to help pass the time we're already wasting miserably in our pathetic corporate jobs.

The last one, sent a few weeks ago, was "what's the longest word that can be typed using only one line on a keyboard?" My answer was, of course, "aaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh."

Her reply was concise and direct: "You, miss, are a complete retard."

Today, Miss Thang sent another one. I pondered it for awhile, and proceeded to send a thoughtful, potentially correct response, along with a critical query:

"Miss Thang...am I still a complete retard?"

It took her longer than I expected to respond. Clearly she was giving this question some serious thought. After an hour or so, I received her reply:

"Well, honey...the jury's still out on whether you're a complete retard. But you're a pretty retard, nonetheless."

My response, in contrast to Miss Thang's, was almost immediate:

"I like ponies!"

Porn wins! Yay for porn!

Dear Ridiculous, Stupid, Self-Entitled Citizens,

Police the activities of your own goddamn kids. It ain't right to ask us to do it.

Love,

The Gub'ment

Helen Helperton

Last night my long-term houseguest/short-term roommate, Nick, came home with new pants he'd purchased for an upcoming job interview. Gracious hostess that I am, I was more than happy to assist him with the necessary hemming.

"Packing tape works way better than Scotch tape," I said from the deep Helen-shaped bed divot where I lay in my dollar store sweat pants, cable remote in hand. "There's some in that drawer right there." I even pointed at the drawer. I like to give.

Clearly I am sharing this information in hopes that it will find its way to Martha Stewart, who will then pursue me tirelessly until I accept a six-figure consultatory position with her organization.

As for Nick...that job is as good as his. They're gonna take one look at those pants and make him an offer. I just know it.

Helen Damnation, Spreader of Sunshine

If I had any real sense of social responsibility, I'd probably use this space to open up a discussion about the significance of this day. It is, after all, the fourth anniversary of the start of Bush's ridiculous, disastrous war on Iraq. It's also the twenty-fifth anniversary of the tragic plane crash that took the life of my all-time guitar hero, Randy Rhoads.

But you know what? I find both of those items entirely too depressing to delve into. There's plenty of gloom, doom, political commentary, and nostalgia in the tardosphere without me chiming in.

Instead, I'd like to share with you that this morning on the subway, I saw a woman with a bleached-orange, five-inch-tall high-top fade (also known as the Eraserhead), a-la Kid of Kid 'n Play.

It was totally awesome.

Happy March 19th.

The ladies will understand...

Ever purchase an unnecessary article of clothing you couldn't really afford, solely because you were shocked and overjoyed that your fat ass squeezed into it?

Yeah.

The good news is, now I can't afford groceries, so hopefully I'll lose enough weight to allow me to breathe in my absurd new jeans.

Sigh.

Damned second X-chromosome.

Judge not, lest ye be stupid

Last night I mustered my gumption and made my way up the block to wash clothes at the 24-hour laundromat. It was mercifully, surprisingly uncrowded; the only other patrons were a moderately obese woman and a desperately thin woman, who were doing their laundry together and speaking animatedly in a language I could not identify.

The larger woman left briefly, and when she returned, she was carrying a large plastic bag and a jumbo-sized Breyer's Ice Cream tub.

"Jesus christ," I thought. "She's gonna sit here in this filthy laundromat and eat that whole gallon of ice cream. That is SO gross. No wonder she's huge! Jesus christ! And damn...now I want some ice cream too. Son of a..."

She set the plastic bag on the floor, placed the tub on top of a washer, and opened the lid.

It was, of course, full of powdered laundry soap.

God I'm an asshole.

Helen's friends = cooler than yours

I'm more excited about this year's Rock and Roll Hall of Fame induction ceremony than ever before, despite the douchetarded controversy surrounding the choice of inductees. It's not just because two of my favorite ever bands made it in, either (get well soon, Eddie!) No, I'm beside myself because I'm a total starfucker, and this year, one of my friends is being inducted.

Kevin "LaVon" (his middle name) Dukes is, in addition to being a sweet, smart guy and an adorably great dad, a former member of Grandmaster Flash and the Furious Five. (I probably shouldn't say that he's sweet...the dude's one of the founding fathers of hip hop. He's got an image to protect. But I can't help it. He really is just...well, sweet. Sorry Kev.)

When I asked him what he was going to wear tonight (because above all other things, that is what's important), he said, "I was thinking some silver suspenders and a tutu. Maybe rollerskates."

"In that case, you'll need silver hotpants, to match the suspenders," I replied. He agreed.

So when you're watching the ceremony on TV, now you know who to look for.

(Actually, he's the guy on the right in the photo. And no, he doesn't wear those pants anymore. Believe me, I asked.)

All told, though...how awesome is all of that, exactly?
I'm thinking pretty damned.

It finally happened

It was unavoidable.

My pussy is on the interwebs.

The only surprise is that it took this long.

Sigh...

Brad Delp was found dead in his home today at the age of 55.

Say what you will about Boston as a band (although I will admit to being quite the fan back in the day**), but Brad's voice was pure and honeysweet and indisputably gorgeous. As a kid, I spent hours and hours howling along to Boston records in wholly unsuccessful efforts to emulate him. Karaoke warriors will struggle with his high notes for as long as there's karaoke.

Boston's website has been replaced with this simple, sad message.

Peace out, Brad.

** Yes, kids, I recognize that this means I'm old as crap. Whatever.

Oh well...

He had freakishly tiny balls anyway.
Literally and figuratively.
It was creepy.

I am your father, Luke. And your mother.

Last night I got completely shithammered on red wine while watching Episode III: Revenge of the Sith. I hadn't bothered to watch it previously because I was pretty sure it would suck something fierce. It totally did. How sober people over the age of nine sat through that overblown piece of crap, I will never understand. (Note: It was still better than Episode II.)

I did, however, draw a stupid and inherently valueless, yet arguably interesting conclusion during the screening:

Hayden Christensen...

and Uma Thurman....

...are most certainly the same person.

Same lips, same nose, same bra size, same lustrous hair, same colorless, wooden acting...I'm not sure if Uma's FTM or Hayden's MTF, but I am absolutely positive that this is true. I'm also uncertain as to exactly what this fact says about Uma's ex-husband Ethan Hawke, but I have my theories. (cough) BOTTOM (cough)

Peronally, I think this is wonderful news or the LGBT community. I wish Hayden/Uma would come out on her/his own, but hey, no judgement here. A Jedi's gotta do what a Jedi's gotta do.

I just really wanna know if s/he's got...well, you know...a lightsaber, or a Saarlac pit.

I'm gonna use the Force and meditate on that one, Yoda style. I will, of course, follow up as soon as I know for sure.

The death of cool

I was clearing out old files on my computer today, and came across something I wrote last year about a boy I know:

His eyes are a startlingly vibrant shade of blue, similar to that of the Hawaiian waters I often fantasize about but have yet to see with my own. A smile does not so much appear on his face as it does overtake it, happily electrifying every plane, each affiliated feature. Said planes have a familiar rawboned quality that seems to me to be common amongst Caucasian men of his remarkable stature. (Those, at any rate, who have not yet gone to fat, as nearly inevitably happens.) The overall impression is one of sweet and unassuming beauty, in that slightly goofy, effortless way that only certain open-featured, Midwestern boys can be beautiful.

We will never be anything more than two oppositely-gendered people who know one another in an obligatory, passing sort of sense. A sad formality colors our interactions; my deeply ingrained sense of propriety stifles giggles, squelches potentially audacious feminine gestures of affection.

It is, nonetheless, rather lovely to be reminded of one’s own primal proclivities; to feel, simply stated, like a woman, solely due to the presence of a man who would be shocked to learn of his own casually hypnotic wiles.

Then, coincidentally (if such things exist), I saw him today, for the first time in quite awhile. He smiled that unbelievable, mind-altering smile, and asked how I'd been.

I responded with something witty like, "urm, faaarghle...gaaah."

How poetic.

Disco Justice

Of late, I have refrained from commenting on current events. The idea of people landing here when searching for information about certain recently deceased Playmates or Ann fucking Coulter really eeked me out.

But today, that changes. Kinda, anyway. Go visit Joe and see why.

Keep talkin', Annie baby. Keeeeeeep talkin'.

I believe that my tags for this post pretty well summarize my assessment of this here sitcheeation. Ayep.

Giving a fuck is highly overrated

It really is.

Bless me, Father Tony...

...for I have sinned.

My run-of-the-mill Blarg Hop recap is my cross to bear, now that I've read yours.

Spill it gurl, spill it

I realize that everyone is probably over it and has moved on already...but me personally, I have finally recovered sufficiently and am now prepared to rehash Blarg Hop '07 in all the greasy detail it deserves. Well, kinda. I'm mostly gonna cheat and use a bunch of pictures, punctuated with some high and lowlights. Ready? Okay...

First things first...thanks be to Joe for hatching this harebrained scheme. Again. I only hope he quits smoking before the next Blarg Hop, to ensure that he may live to see a million more.

Joe My God? No...Joe YER God!

The masses of asses met up at Nowhere, which has long been and still remains one of my favorite bastions of East Village gayness. We had an impressive crowd, and thus there were many introductions, re-introductions, random gropes, coquettish glances, etcetera and so forth. We lamented the absence of our beloved Aaron, who was in France, and David, who was in Boston, and made French & Bostonian jokes to console ourselves. I was deeply pleased to finally meet one R.J. Keefe, who lent the evening it's only modicum of class and/or taste. Clearly, the rest of us are just drunken hookers. Thanks for tolerating us, R.J. Seriously.

Speaking of drunken hookers, here's a random booty shot, just to keep you interested...

Honest to Joe, I have no idea where this came from. It appeared on O's camera like dirty magic.

Lookit! All three of my future baby daddies in one picture! And you just know that two of them are plotting to get the third in the sack...mmmm hmmmm.

Once the ice was sufficiently broken and we had annoyed Nowhere's bartender quite enough, Joe rounded us up, and we shuffled toward The Phoenix. I prayed desperately along the way for the appearance of a gay basher or two...or ten, even. Our gigantic, burly queer posse woulda mopped up First Avenue with 'em. Alas, we were not accosted. Maybe next year.

The Phoenix was...well, The Phoenix. Best jukebox in Manhattan, hands down. Midway through our stay, it was clear that the booze was beginning to work its magic; our laughter got louder, our behavior slightly obnoxious, and the looks our group got from the other patrons started getting curious. It was there that this lovely gentleman...

...busted out his finest Scottish accent, in honor of Curly's Paddy parentage. It was hot.

Next was Dick's Bar. Hoo boy. Kids, I have spent time in some filthy, crappy dive bars in my time, which I'm sure is a surprise to no one. But I have to say that Dick's Bar is the grossest, saddest, most depressing gin joint I've ever set foot inside. No joke. Yikes. The dull grunginess and stench of desperation were perfectly (and horribly) offset by the hideously drunken, lurching presence of an aged former teen movie star whose name I shall not mention here. (You would shit if I told you who, seriously.) Thankfully, Senator Whispers provided comfort in the form of a bisexual back massage that almost made me pass out. Also, Curly and I both opted to pee in the stall in the boys room, rather than wait for the ladies terlit to open up. It was, like, totally subversive or something. Yeah.

Travis, Bobby, and The O make even Dick's Bar look good. Well....better, at least.

Bobby: I have the best boobies

Helen: No I have the best boobies!

Travis: She totally has the best boobies.

Helen: Neener neener, Travis loves me and my boobies better!

After the tragedy of Dick's, Tom, Curly and I opted for a well-advised pizza break. When we rejoined the party at Big Lug, thangs was gettin' crazy. The DJ was awesome, and we had all been, you know, drinking for awhile now, and there was some dancin', and...yeah. That place pretty well rules. Yay!

No, not Helen Reddy...Helen and Eddie. Duh!

Helen: Eric...dood... is that guy your boyfriend?

Eric the non-bear: No

Helen: Why the fuck not? I mean, have you seen him? Dang!

Chris and Jeff brought sexy back. Nice work, boys.

I think I may be mildly obsessed with Foxy. O found about 38 photos of him in his camera when I got done with it. Whoops?

From Big Lug, it was on to the Boiler Room, which was quite full, quite loud, and way fun. It was there that what is sure to be a long and beautiful romance began to bloom between two gay non-bloggers who shall remain nameless (but both of whom appear in these here photos somewhere...hmmmmm...) It was also there that the heinous stench in the bathroom almost broke my resolution not to puke on my coat. Sheezus. Spunk + urinal cakes = eeeeeew

I must note that during the walk between bars...I forget which ones...I absolutely accosted the lovely and talented Michael Hartney, for which I am not the least bit sorry, because he is a superstar and better get used to that shit. (We are Friendsters now, which is SO kick ass.) After the incident, Michael's self-appointed PR rep, Turtle, smoothed things over by feeding me from a tequila bottle he'd conveniently tucked into his pocket in case of just such an event. Turtle, you are my hero, wherever you are.

The only person with a bigger forehead than mine is the one who shaves his head. Awesome.

Anyway, Curly and I left the Boiler Room behind the boys, who had headed to The Cock before we'd finished our beers. (Yeah, pun intended there. Sorry, can't help myself.)

All I'm gonna say about The Cock is that it was a terrible waste of $10 apiece for my co-vadge and me. Literally wall-to-wall boys, most of whom were busy doing dirty stuff to one another. Good for them, not so much for us. We cut out of there post-haste and ducked into Urge, where we enjoyed some drinks and semi-quiet bonding time with Ivan and Bo. At some point, a dazed and bewildered O stumbled in the door, mumbling about dirty blogger action and fiddling with his zipper. That's my boy!

Finally, the boys departed, and Curly and I wandered over to Odessa to enjoy some girl talk and vast quantities of cheese. My digestive tract has yet to recover, but my heart is still warm from the experience.

And so it was that the two vaginas and their band of happy gays made it aaaaaaall the way through Blarg Hop II with vomit-free jackets. In its wake, there are many links to be added, and certainly many future drinks to be hastily slurped. Shouts out to Superdaddy and Tim, GGWoo, Habitat 67, Crash And Byrne, Manhattan Offender, New Gays Of Our Lives, Blabbeando, Chris Tuttle, and everyone else that I somehow failed to link in prior to now. Fabulous bitches, every one of you. Please comment or email me your link if I missed it.

We should do this every six months so as to include bars with outdoor patios, dontcha think? My liver should be fine by early September...Joe?