The Ninth Circle of Helen

Hasta la Helen...or, Thanks for the Mammaries

2008-05-27T12:02:00.003-04:00

I always had a vague idea in my mind that when I finally shut this thing down, I'd do it on some significant anniversary, or with some sort of fanfare.

That's not to be the case.

Thing is, I'm just done. I don't have anything left that I wish to express in this forum. It's that simple. Party called due to a pressing lack of interest.

I've met some wonderful, amazing people in the freakshow that is the blogosphere, whom I'm deeply thankful to know. The good ones far outnumber the creepy, self-important douchebags I've come across. I'd say that makes the whole thing worthwhile.

I may return at some point with a photoblog. I doubt it. Thus, if you wish to keep in touch, email a bitch.

Peace out, kids. All the best.

Love,
Helen

Helen Damnation in a handbasket

2008-04-16T12:54:00.000-04:00

Interesting realization: The more "sins" I commit in a given day, the happier I seem to be. I did at least three things before 8:00 this morning that, by all rights, should condemn me to eternal hellfire and torment. And yet the smile, it leaveth not my face.

Even if the Xtians are right about all that crap, you can bet they're still envious.

Envy is a sin, bitches.

If only everyone were so lucky...

2008-03-19T15:25:00.005-04:00

All I have to say on the fifth anniversary of Bush's war against everything good and decent is that I'm overjoyed that my boy Richie managed not to get killed in it, and that we had a chance to celebrate that fact.

Yeah, that's all I'm gonna say. Because calling Bush a warmongering fucktard is, like, so 2006.

That's Richie there on the right. We'll let those other two drunken yayhoos maintain their anonymity for now. Ahem.

I'm not really back, but...

2008-03-14T09:07:00.000-04:00

I thought I was utterly over blogs and anything to do with them.

Then I saw this.

Thanks Paul. One more reason to love you.

Helen Damnation, Event Producer

2008-02-20T10:47:00.004-05:00

This is what you New York peeps are doing on March 1, just so's you know...

Graphics by the Motherbrain, Jeremy Wolfe Kivett.

This is your chance to meet the boy, see. And your chance to welcome my friend Richie home after the two-plus years he spent in Iraq. And, most importantly, your chance to maybe give a little back to all those kids who are still getting shot at in the desert on account of the fact that our Un-President is a giant sweaty bag of douche.

See, I told you we've been doing stuff. What'd you think I meant?

Fuckin' pervos, every last one of you.

Anyways, check out the bands...Actualities, Bowery Boys, Sousalves (ahem...boy), and Nova Clutch, and our awesome videographer Richard Van Le, and repost this shit everywhere and anywhere. And show up, damn you. You know you want it.

Obligatory holiday posting...

2008-02-14T16:06:00.001-05:00

Happy Hallmark Day, chitlins.

I guess Valentine's Day is a good day on which to admit to y'all that a big portion of the reason I'm not around here much anymore is that I have...uh...a Valentine. A fully awesome one, too. And you know, we're often busy doing...um...stuff. Stuff other than, you know, blogging. Yeah. So cut a bitch some slack. I'm happy.

I wish the same for all y'all. Less blogging, more living. Consider it.

Out of the blue and into the black

2008-02-08T16:35:00.000-05:00

I'm having one of those days where saying fuckall and getting on a one-way train to some unfamiliar, faraway place seems like the best possible option.

Neil Young usually helps on days like this. Today, not so much.

Good excuse to get wicked drunk, I guess. Thanks Neil.

Stupid Tuesday

2008-02-05T11:11:00.000-05:00

Good idea, New York City. Throw a gigantic parade for a bunch of overpaid no-necks who can do little besides throw and catch a ball, on the same day as one of the most important Presidential primaries in American electoral history.

Because, you know, football is way more important than, like, voting.

America, fuck yeah.

Sunday Sunday Sunday

2008-01-19T08:30:00.000-05:00

I'm going because I heard that the dudes in the band are wicked hot.

So I'm a groupie.

Sue me.

Better yet...join me.

You know you want to.

Helen has an actual thought

2008-01-13T19:02:00.000-05:00

It's absolutely unbelievable, the things that happen when you really, truly, finally let go of shit that no longer matters. Un.fucking.believable.

Look into it.

You know you had a good birthday when...

2007-12-20T18:09:00.000-05:00

...you roll in the door at 4:30 PM the day after your party.

I look like wet death, but I don't think you could pry the smile off my face with a crowbar.

It would seem that all of your kind birthday wishes for me were granted. Thanks, kids.

Life is good.

Shiny Happy Helen

2007-12-17T17:39:00.000-05:00

Today was the brightest, bluest, sparkliest, most gorgeous New York City winter day that I've ever, ever experienced. Wow.

And no, I'm not high or getting laid or anything like that. It just was. Fuck off.

No jokes today, people

2007-11-29T14:20:00.000-05:00

If you've been here before, you well know that I pretty much hate everyone. And if you haven't, well...now you know.

There are, however, exceptions to my general disdain for the human race. One of them is my friend DeeDee, who somehow always manages to be as kind, compassionate, and funny as she is gorgeous.

Sadly, I learned today that DeeDee's father lost his battle with lung cancer on November 18.

Her pop was a dashingly handsome, charming, hardworking man who raised wonderful kids and treated his wife like gold. The rarity of men like him makes his an even greater loss.

Because she is her dad's girl, DeeDee is thinking of others during her own most difficult days, and has chosen to do something productive with her pain. Instead of curling up in a heartbroken ball like most of us would, she's decided to raise money for Memorial Sloan Kettering Cancer Center as a way to show her appreciation for the care they provided for her father over the last three years.

My girl DeeDee, she doesn't screw around. She's set a fundraising goal of $25,000 for herself in the next year. If she succeeds, a wall at the hospital will be dedicated in memory of her dad.

There's not much I can do to help or comfort Dee and her family right now. What I can do is ask you to help her meet her goal, and help save lives by funding lung cancer research. It is presently the least-funded of all forms of cancer research, due in part to the perception that only smokers get it. Not so. DeeDee's dad hadn't smoked in over 40 years, and according to Sloan Kettering, 20% of their lung cancer patients have never smoked at all.

I know it's a tough time of year, and most of us don't have much money to spare. But if you can, please click here to make a donation in memory of Peter Hatzis. If not now, no worries...you can be sure that I'll give you several reminders throughout the coming year. Either way, thank you, very sincerely.

As for you, Mr. H...you will be as lovingly remembered as you are terribly missed by everyone who knew you. Rest well.

Black Friday is for douchebags

2007-11-23T15:59:00.000-05:00

Screw holiday shopping, and those who engage in it today.

The only places I'm going are the dollar store and the liquor store. In that order.

Ho ho fuckin' ho.

Further Adventures in Irony...or, And Then He Punched Me in the Face

2007-11-18T11:29:00.000-05:00

11:00 PM. Helen and David O stand around looking prettily disaffacted, slurping beer from cans and checking out boys in the crowd at the (incredible) Beat the Devil show at Cakeshop. (Photos here.)

Helen: Ooooh...look at that one. Dang!

David O: Mmmmmmm...

H: That salt and pepper hair absolutely ruins me.

DO: Absolutely.

H: I think I'm gonna walk by and slip my underwear into his pocket.

DO (raising a single eyebrow): Gerl!

H: What? I can get my panties off without removing my jeans.

DO (looking shocked and incredulous): Huh? No! How?

H: A lady never tells.

And then I punched her in the face

2007-11-15T14:22:00.000-05:00

6:30 PM. Two teenaged girls get on the downtown 5 train at Union Square. One is shoveling horrible-smelling, ketchup-drenched french fries into her consistently open mouth with a fork.

Fry-eater (loudly, mouth full): You know Rayquonda?

Friend of fry-eater: Who?

FE (spraying bits of chewed potato on friend): RAYQUONDA!

FOFE: Oh yeah. What about her?

FE (smacking lips, slurping fries mid-sentence:) She is so RUDE!

The Big Snip

2007-11-08T13:14:00.000-05:00

Grady was neutered last Friday. He's six months old now, and it was time to get it done before he started spraying my apartment with godawful this-is-my-territory piss.

He's fine, and was back to indiscriminate destruction and nearly intolerable cuteness by Sunday afternoon.

But his empty, shaven little ballsack...it looks like a baby gerbil.

Not pretty.

An interlude to the indifference

2007-11-01T11:24:00.000-04:00

Though I truly have lost interest in this forum for a variety of reasons that may or may not influence me indefinitely, I felt it vital that I share some desperately important and shocking news with you, my special, special people. Because I care. Yes.

First...you will likely be completely astonished to discover that mullet-headed, white-trash Middle-American dirtbags are sometimes racists too. Hard to grasp, I know, but try. For me.

The second revelation is, perhaps, somewhat more surprising.

I don't know when or how it happened, kids...but J.K. Rowling is officially a MILF.

Hubba hubba!
I guess a few billion well-earned ducats don't hurt nothin' when it comes to glam. Git it gurl.

All right then. Back to being too good for all of this.

Uh oh

2007-10-22T14:55:00.000-04:00

I think I may have lost interest.

Please stand by.

Happy Genocide Day!

2007-10-08T17:13:00.000-04:00

Photo stolen from here.

I think this "holiday" should be called "Be Slightly Ashamed of Your Italian Heritage Day," or maybe "Fuck Indigenous People in The Fuckin' Ear Day."

It's not breaking news that Columbus didn't discover shit, except maybe a more efficient way of killing people off en masse. Italians created the best thing in the world...pizza...and Italian-Americans (or at least a large contingent of them, to which I clearly do not belong) choose to celebrate a genocide rather than that? We can claim Michaelangelo and Leonardo Da Vinci, and you choose Columbus as your hero? That's fucking great, kids. Thanks a ton.

It's interesting to me that under international law, as established after the Yalta Conference in 1945, it is illegal to venerate or celebrate genocide and/or perpetrators of genocide. (Look it up, if you don't believe me. G'head.) And yet, here we are, in 2007, still waving flags for Christopher fucking Columbus. Do you think that someday there will be an Adolph Hitler Day, that includes a parade in New York City where the mayor marches along waving a Nazi flag?

I'd like to say I'm sure that won't happen, but we live in a world where Dubya got elected. Twice.

Hey, but you know what's awesome?? KITTENS!!! WOOOO!!!

Catblogging is for douchebags

2007-10-04T17:20:00.000-04:00

Which explains why I've become so fond of it.

Whatever. I've been asked for Grady updates, and today is World Animal Day, so there.

This is Grady at seven weeks old, shortly after he came home...

And this is Grady at four-and-a-half months old...

He's gained about a pound in the three weeks or so since the second photo was taken. He's totally yooge.

Not quite yooge enough, however. The other night, my little boy suddenly decided it was time to become a man, and rushed the big kitty with the clear intent of mounting her. He jumped on her back, grabbed ahold of her scruff with his teeth...and realized too late that his legs weren't quite long enough to reach the floor from atop her. He clung on for a few desperate moments, legs dangling in the air, weiner nowhere near the magic, until the big kitty rolled her eyes and shrugged him off onto the floor with a tiny, effortless twitch of her shoulder.

He looked kinda like this afterwards...

It was, like, a precious family moment, or something.

Thank jeebus yet again that I don't have human kids.

Open letter to a fellow straphanger

2007-10-01T10:25:00.000-04:00

Dear Not-Otherwise-Unattractive Middle-Aged Woman on the 5 Train,

When dressing for work, you may want to consider wearing tops that actually cover your relatively sizable boobs. This is especially true in your case, considering the startling amount of hair you've got growing on those things.

I mean, I certainly think it's okay to exude a certain amount of sex appeal in the office...but when your mostly-bare jugs look like the fuzzy tops of baby heads, I'm guessing you probably shouldn't hold your breath waiting for that promotion.

Sincerely,

Helen Damnation

p.s. I'm telling you this, dear lady, because I care. No, really. -HD

Ayep

2007-09-28T14:45:00.000-04:00

Me too, junior. Meeeee tooooo.

It's getting to the point...

2007-09-26T12:19:00.000-04:00

Where I'm no fun anymore.
I am sorry.

To make up for it, here is some information you might find very useful. This is a lesson I learned shortly after my surgery this summer, when I was sick to the point that I could no longer ingest necessary medications orally:

Suppositories go up your butt!

Yeah.

I learned this by examining the instruction label on a package of suppositories very, very carefully. Even though I can't actually read, the illustrations are so helpful that I was able to figure it out and use the medication properly...

And that, my friends, is the very definition of awesome.

Then, just when you thought it couldn't get one bit better...

I'd like to state for the record that, since breaking up with my last ex, I actually only have one rectum, and thus found it necessary to use just one suppository at a time. But hey, that's just me. No matter how many rectums you personally have, you're still okay.

I hope you find these marvellously detailed directions as helpful as I did. I am nothing if not a helper.

Ninth Circle Morality Quiz

2007-09-17T09:27:00.000-04:00

What would your reaction be if, while browsing through random public photos on Flickr, you came across a closeup of a baby's genitals that someone had posted along with numerous other fully-clothed photos of the child?

Is this appropriate? Inappropriate? Illegal? Freak-out worthy? Reportable? Artistic?

Tell me your thoughts, and then I'll explain.

UPDATE, 9/25/07:
Well, clearly and unfortunately, this wasn't a made-up scenario. I posted about it because, based on my fucked up background, I have a tendency to be overly sensitive about such things, and I wanted to gauge whether I was doing so in this case. Thing is, though, that this was unquestionably a close-up shot of a baby's undiapered lower half, and it was at very least inappropriate. I don't want to think too much about what it was at worst. I was also struck by the fact that the child in question was Asian and all the adults in the photos were Caucasian; it appears as if someone adopted this kid and is now posting exploitative photos of him. That's just fucking great.

Problem is, now flickr won't respond to my inquiries to let me know that they've followed up on it. I'm pissed enough about that to consider dumping my flickr account. If anyone has suggestions on how to contact the flickr folks more directly than via their totally unhelpful help system, let me know. I tried calling Yahoo's customer care, but it's an endless network of pointless pre-recorded bullshit. Not surprising, but irritating nonetheless.

If, by chance, anyone from flickr or Yahoo happens along this...email me, you assholes.

Sigh.

Please Remain Awesome

2007-09-13T16:59:00.000-04:00

Tim and I went to see Cloud Cult at the Bowery Ballroom this past Saturday night.

They either remembered us from last time or just faked it really well...regardless, they greeted and spoke to us like friends, which was indescribably awesome. They sincerely have no idea that they're rock stars. When I showed Craig the tattoo, he went totally wide-eyed and said...and I quote..."Holy goodness!" He was quite enthralled, and we talked about that and other things for some time. They went on to play another fantastic show, of course. Craig's unique observations on the show and New York can be found here (scroll down to the 9/8 entry). Tim and I are in the picture, if you drink a six pack and squint.

This marked my first real effort at photographing a live show. Evidently it went pretty well, because I was approached today by a radio station in Seattle who wants to use some of my photos to promote and document Cloud Cult's tour. Sweet.

The live shots came out okay, but this one is my favorite by far:
How can you not love a band that A) makes brilliant music, B) is completely committed to environmental causes, and C) includes the cutest couple on the fucking planet? I defy you to try. It's unpossible.

Go see this band, people. You'll thank me later. (Not like that time I convinced you to shave "down there" using bubble bath instead of shave gel. Not at all like that. Wait, was that you? Uh...yeah, okay, nevermind. Just go see Cloud Cult! Shit!)

Six years out

2007-09-11T15:13:00.000-04:00

I won't go on about the obvious topic of the day. New York as a whole is perhaps a touch less sad today than it was on this day last year, but the city is and probably always will be tangibly haunted by the ghosts of those towers and their occupants. My best thoughts and deepest condolences are with the families of those who were lost.

Shout out to Trent, who has taken to using his insanely popular and decadently irreverent forum to honor 9/11's dead every year.

I would also be remiss if I failed to send a big FUCK YOU out to George W. Bush and his regime, who have not only failed miserably in their so-called "campaign" to bring the culprits of this arguably preventable attack to justice, but rather have bolstered the already virulent anti-American spirit amongst extremists worldwide, thereby exposing the American people to a greater degree of mortal danger than ever before. If there is a hell, Mr. Un-President, may your special place in it be in close proximity to Osama's. And your little Dick, too.

Always something there to remind me

2007-08-26T22:10:00.000-04:00

For the last year and a half, I'd been planning to get a tattoo on Thursday. Somehow, permanently embossing a reminder of Michael on my body seemed like the right thing to do, and that was the right day to do it.

I'd been uncertain of exactly what I wanted to get, or exactly where on my body to put it. Up to the last minute, I was torn between two ideas. I finally decided on a small, stylized version of the number 8, inspired by the autograph I received from Cloud Cult's Craig Minowa back in April. (I'm not a groupie, I swear. Not that much of a groupie, anyway. Wikipedia has a pretty good entry detailing the significance of the number 8. Read it. Learn yerself something.)

Special thanks to the lovely and talented (and married, bitches) Steven Huie of Brooklyn's legendary Flyrite Tattoo for doing such a girly little piece, and for letting me pick on him for an hour without crying. Good times.

My boss...on the conservative side, he is... is gonna shit when he sees it. (I'll post photos of that, too.)

Today in Ninth Circle history

2007-08-23T15:08:00.000-04:00

Eighteen years ago today, my cousin Michael died of AIDS-related complications at the age of 34.

While the memories of that day and the horrors of his illness are obviously difficult to think about, all of my other recollections of him are full of joy and hilarity and music and wonderful ridiculousness. He was and is my favorite person ever. It's strange to think that my life has already lasted a month longer than his did.

Three years ago today, I started this blog. These two events are not unrelated; were it not for Mike's influence, I doubt I'd be writing at all. He did everything he could to encourage my creativity, and continues to inspire most of it.

So thank you, Michael, for everything you were and are. And thank you, all you swell folks who keep showing up here and being so damned nice to me and whatnot. I've met some seriously incredible people, both virtually and in person, as a result of this forum's creation, and each one has given me one more reason to be happy that Michael lived rather than sad that he died.

Block #01361 of The Quilt.

Nerd Alert

2007-08-20T00:51:00.000-04:00

It's not the buying of the Marvel Comics stamps that makes me a dork princess. No, not at all.

The buying of a second sheet, framing it, and hanging it on my wall, though...yeah, that pretty well does it.

Or maybe it was the X-Men tattoo that branded me Dorkz 4 Life all those years ago. Crap.

Whatever. I can still get laid.

The easy way out

2007-08-17T11:14:00.000-04:00

The thing that sucks the most about coming back to work is having to, you know, work.

Good thing I have a kitten to fall back on for easy blog fodder, huh?

I might have to get a dog soon, just to keep you people happy. Christ.

More substantive content pending. Please stand by.

Pussy vs. Pussy

2007-08-10T15:00:00.000-04:00

So many of you have asked how I'm doing. Very kind of you. Rather than expound on the topic, I'll tell you a little story that ought to sum it up fairly well:

Wednesday was to have been my first day back at work, effectively concluding my stint on not-so-short-term disability. I rose early that morning, got gussied up in a new dress and kitten-heeled sandals, strapped on my painfully heavy backpack, and set out, anticipating a reasonably triumphant return to the workforce.

Exactly five hours later I stumbled back into my apartment, completely dishevelled, new dress soaked through with sweat, feet blistered and screaming, having succeeded in travelling no more than three miles from home. The profound and riduculous failure of New York City's mass transit system left me stranded in Brooklyn with no chance of getting to the office.

Bedraggled and disgusted, I stripped off my smelly clothes to let the blessedly conditioned air dry my dripping skin. Five hours of carrying a 15-pound backpack all over hell had left my newly repaired neck extremely sore and uncomfortable. And so it was that, in deference to my condition, I squatted down to pick up a letter I'd dropped on the floor, rather than simply bending from the waist to retrieve it.

Grady immediately barrelled toward me, crossing the room in a stripey orange flash. I was charmed, thinking that he was just happy I was home. How adorable!

In fact, he was attacking my unfortunately exposed tampon string. Rather viciously, too.

We struggled over it for a few moments, Grady clawing and biting with all the joyful force a four-pound kitten can muster, me pulling and clenching and swearing and trying desperately to protect my genitalia.

You may or may not be pleased to know that I emerged victorious, thanks to Kegel exercises and Grady's limited tampon-wrangling experience.

I only wish I were starting school this fall. I'm fairly certain that my "What I Did on My Summer Vacation" essay would win some sort of fucking prize.

Get in line, bitches...

2007-07-31T15:46:00.000-04:00

Coz everybody wants a broad with a big ol' Frankensteiny gash across her throat.

There's a titanium plate and six screws in there, too. Hott.

I fly home on Thursday. I hope the hardware sets off the airport metal detectors.

A brief hiatus from the hiatus

2007-07-08T17:36:00.000-04:00

Today is the seventh anniversary of my mother's successful lung transplant.

Here in sunny southern Utah, we celebrated with cake and ice cream. Then I whupped her ass at Scrabble a couple times.

It's difficult now, remembering the time that led up to the transplant. She was sick and suffered for many years, and had maybe three months to live when she got the lung. Another family's painful loss was the miracle we'd been waiting for. I've never been able to sufficiently describe the conflicting swirl of emotions that stirred up. I won't try again now.

Even more difficult is imagining what life would have been like these past seven years without her. She's almost 70. She's raised her kids, done her duty, and more than earned her retirement. She lives with aches and pains and medication regimens that would leave the average person crying in a corner. In spite of all that, she's spent the last couple of weeks caring for me day and night, feeding me, bathing me, holding my hand when I was scared and in pain, worrying about me, and making it all better. She's still my mom, and would not have it any other way.

Over the past seven years, we've managed to work out our issues, stop fighting, and become friends. When I'm at home, we talk on the phone every day. We make each other laugh, and we finally trust each other. I tell her nearly everything. Had you borne witness to our relationship ten years ago, you'd know that this is a whole 'nother miracle, in and of itself.

It is truly mystifying, the things that time can do. Whether these years have been borrowed or bought or stolen, I don't know. All I know is that we've been extraordinarily fortunate to have them, and that I am immeasurably thankful. Helen loves her mom, y'all.

Okay, hiatus on.

PS...I'm doing okay, slowly getting better. Photos of my gnarly scar pending.

I appreciate all of your kind wishes and emails and phone calls and dirty jokes and whatnot. That sort of stuff is remarkably helpful when one feels like crap. Thanks kids.

Bloggers are forever

2007-06-26T20:31:00.000-04:00

I've always liked the word "hiatus." I'm pretty sure it's because it's another one of those words that kinds sounds dirty somehow, even though it isn't.

That said, the Ninth Circle is officially on hiatus as of today. On Thursday, I fly to Utah for spinal surgery. Woot? Unless the (hopefully awesome) drugs I get afterwards inspire me to regale you with my typically fantastic insights, I doubt I'll be doing much except sleeping, drooling, and torturing my parents for awhile.

Until I return, please enjoy these unspeakably adorable photos of The Gradyface, because he'll look totally different by the time you or I see him again.

Take care kids! Seeya when I seeya...

Spawn of Helen

2007-06-23T16:41:00.000-04:00

Ladies, gentlemen, etc...please welcome Mr. Grady Damnation:

DOB: 5/1/07
Star Sign: Taurus
Height: 6.5 inches
Weight: 1.75 pounds

Any doubt that he was destined to be mine was quashed the moment he burped aloud and then sat looking proud of himself.

Clearly, the answer to all of the world's problems = kittens.
Or all of my problems, anyway. There's no way to be pissy when a seven-week old kitten is lying on his back purring while you rub his belly. No fucking way.

Very special thanks to Ms. R. Franklin, who rescued Grady's beautiful momma from the street right before she gave birth to him, and who took the above photo. Ms. Franklin is working diligently to find homes for the momma and two more kittens...please email me if you're interested in adopting and think you can pass the rigorous screening process.

Many, many more photos and annoying crazy cat lady stories to come. Lucky you.

Written in the stars, my ass

2007-06-22T19:06:00.000-04:00

Dear Helen,
Here is your horoscope for Thursday, June 21:

The most difficult situations or people are often the best teachers. Can you push aside your ego and pay attention to the lesson the universe is trying to give you? Once you learn it, you'll be in on the joke.

-----------

Dear Universe,
This shit is no longer funny. Kindly enlighten me on this little joke of yours, before I punch you in the nuts. Assuming that you have nuts, that is.

But seriously...enough already. My back is fucking killing me, my apartment's a mess, my cat hates me, my hair is frizzing, my credit rating is all shot to shit, and I look like a scarecrow with tits. Ego, schmego. Hook a bitch up.

Love only slightly marred by bitter, deep-seated resentment,

Helen

Rules of engagement?

2007-06-14T20:04:00.000-04:00

Is it morally and/or legally wrong to hump one's physical therapist in the same way that it's wrong to hump one's doctor? Anybody?

Not that it'll stop me if it is, mind you. I just want to have a leg up...pun so totally intended...on the potential consequences.

Given the fact that he's a physical therapist of the smolderingly sexy Latin variety, I personally think it'd be a far greater wrong not to. But that's just me. (Or maybe it's not. I know most of you are dirty too. Which explains why you're here.)

And yes, the fact that I'm thinking about hosing my physical therapist senseless does mean that I'm feeling a bit better. Thank you sincerely for asking.

Cinco de Helen

2007-06-09T16:48:00.000-04:00

Today marks the fifth anniversary of my arrival in an unsuspecting New York City. I am astonished and more than a little disturbed at the speed with which five years of my life drained into the past.

My neck and back are still waaaay too fucked up for me to sit here and type for long, so I'll briefly sum up the last five years quite aptly by telling you this: Due to the appetite suppresant qualities of physical discomfort, I've dropped down to the weight of a healthy fifth grader. I know I'm a New Yorker, because I'm secretly thrilled that I live one of two cities on Earth (the other being L.A.) where this is considered a great personal achievement rather than a serious health concern.

It's sick and difficult and smelly and insane and wondrous and amazing, and I hate it as much as I adore it. I don't know how much longer I'll stay, but I'm fairly certain that I'll never regret the time I've spent here.

The bitch's back

2007-05-29T16:22:00.000-04:00

Stupid spinal column. All effed up again. Made me miss the big gay blogger picnic. And GayProf was there, even. Pffft. [Update: The Evil Ganome was there too. Double pffft. Which I guess is like pfffffft.]

Back soon. In the meantime, more Cloud Cult! Yaaaaay!
I love them more than pizza. For serious.

Pictures worth 1,000 turds

2007-05-21T15:23:00.000-04:00

After a delicious and entertaining Sunday brunch at Bubby's of Brooklyn with Mrs. and Mrs. Nator, Da Nator and I went traipsing around DUMBO and Brooklyn Heights taking photos, because we are, like, deeply artistic an' shit. (And because I have no idea how to use my camera, so Nator was kind enough to instruct me. But mostly...ART! Yeah.)

These are just a few. Some of the others that don't suck entirely will soon be available on my newly minted, Brooklyn-themed photoblog. Self-serving, egocentric bitch that I am, of course I'll let you know when I officially launch that sucka.

No one has ever photographed the Brooklyn Bridge before...special.

I call this one "Cute Guy with Dog Butt".

Heh heh...they said shaft. Heh heh. Shaft.

"Get that g.d. flashy thing outta my face before I shit in your shoe."

Helen DARES to keep kids off drugs

2007-05-17T16:20:00.000-04:00

What would you do if you randomly found a small but not unsubstantial quantity of high-grade marijuana...I'm talking stinky, sticky, bright green, red-hair-laden hydroponic chronic...lying unattended in the vestibule of your apartment building?

I'd like to think that my fair readers...a conscientious, morally unflappable group, by any standards...would do just as I did, and appropriately dispose of the offending specimen, post haste. FOR THE CHILDREN, people...for the children.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I must dispatch to locate some antiacid medication. It seems that the three bags of Cheetos, half a large pizza, and two Snickers bars I ingested last evening have elected to disagree with my somewhat delicate digestive system.

Character studies

2007-05-14T15:47:00.001-04:00

Joe's recent post about the Central Park Disco brought back fond memories from a couple summers back...

That dude, who was all of 40, spent the whole afternoon hitting on her.

If she's 71 now, Disco Grandma was 69 years old then. I've heard people comment that they hope they look that good at her age. Shit, I say. I wish I looked that good now.

I love New York's extensive and bizarre cast of characters. I think she's my favorite, in a close race with the Naked Cowboy. Ultimately, though, Disco Grandma wins. The Cowboy attended a party I bartended a few years back, and though he was very sweet and has washboard abs, he's a pretty crappy tipper.

Tagged & towed

2007-05-10T16:38:00.000-04:00

Our heroine Lynette tagged me this week, in what I believe to be sweet and well-aimed effort to distract me from the craptastic-ness that has recently abounded. Because I love her, and because my vacation got cancelled and I'm totally missing tonight's Cloud Cult show in Denver and need something to do instead of think about that, and because I'm a huge slacker, I'm gonna play along and tell you ten things about me. Try not to shit yourself with excitement.

Aiiight, here goes:

I'm freakishly ambidextrous. Completely snapped both bones in my right arm when I was four, and as a result had to learn to use my left. I still write, play guitar, and primarily eat right-handed, but I bat, throw, and brush my teeth lefty, and can paint equally well with both hands (which is to say, not well at all.) I tend toward the left foot in soccer, too, but my right is almost as strong. Or was, back when I could still be persuaded to get off the couch every once in awhile. (NOTE TO MY LOVING COMMENTERS: Don't bother asking which hand I diddle myself with. That's an unimaginative question. I expect more from you.)

I was Little Miss Boulder County. Yep. I was on the road to Jon-Benet Land for awhile there, from ages four to six or so. I was winning, too. Tied for first place in a talent competition with the first and only stand-up comedy routine I have ever performed. The problem was that I hated dresses and girly things. At seven, I quit pageants to play little league baseball. My mom was heartbroken.

I'm scared of grasshoppers. We had this huge, horrible infestation of them the summer I was seven. The back yard was so carpeted with fucking grasshoppers that it crunched when you walked across it. They covered the back of the house, including the outside of the back door and the doorknob, so they got inside every time one went in or out. Do you have any idea how huge those bastards can get? And they spit that nasty tobacco juice shit all over you...iiiiiiiick. I can chase down a roach the size of my foot and kick its arthropodic ass, but show me a grasshopper and I get squealy.

I was in a Kevin Costner movie. My dad and I were extras in American Flyers. It pretty well sucks. But I got to meet John Amos, who was completely awesome and seemed extremely large to me at the time.

I was overweight and distinctly unattractive from ages 13 to 19. I'm neither now, but I still walk around feeling like a fat, ugly kid half the time. Especially in New York. Oof. I think I'd feel better if I moved to the Midwest and wasn't surrounded by 23-year-old stick figures with flawless faces all the time. Jesus christ, enough with the models already.

I have consumed damn near every illicit substance known to man at one time or the other, with the exceptions of cocaine and meth, neither of which will ever pass my mucous membranes. The first half of that statement shocks no one, I'm sure. Some may doubt the second half. All I can say to them is...well, fuck you.

I have never, ever shoplifted anything in my life. I may have a felonious nature, but I don't steal shit from stores. In fact, a Best Buy clerk once forgot to charge me for a $30 telephone, and when I realized the mistake, I made the 45-minute drive back to the store to pay for it. Then I called my mother and told her she had raised me all wrong.

I detest Ray Liotta with every strand of my DNA. I'd tell you why if I really knew, but I don't. I'm just deeply Liottaphobic. Fuck you, Ray!

I attract sociopaths. If you've ever had any desire to date/fuck me, you probably are one, and should have yourself committed to a psychiatric facility before you commit a(nother) crime against humanity. Seen Girl, Interrupted? Yeah, you're Angelina Jolie's character. Now get the fuck away from me.

Yes, it was me. Oops. Sorry 'bout that. What can I say? I'm a vegetarian. Lots of legumes and whatnot.

There you go. I guess I'm supposed to tag some other folks, or something? Sigh. Okay. Uhmmmm...how about Earl, and P/O ('cause he hasn't been around much lately...wtf?), and CSCFON. Yeah. Bring it, bitches.

Perspective

2007-05-07T13:40:00.000-04:00

I could bitch like mad about the slew of crazy medical problems I've had in the past couple of weeks. It would be easy. I'm good at that type of thing. You've been here before. You know this.

I won't.

Instead, I feel lucky. Lucky that my medical issues are more inconvenient than serious. Lucky to have a job that provides health insurance to cover the extensive bills. Lucky to have a caring family and wonderful friends who have called and emailed and cheered me up and helped me out. Lucky, all in all, to be me, to be 34 years old, and to have a long life to look forward to.

Jesse, after all, just recently turned 33. And on Friday, his life ended, after a heroic battle with a horrible illness.

I feel lucky to have shared Jesse and Yen's courageous, painful, and beautiful journey. Yen's eloquence has drawn readers from all over the world, and provided them...us...with a constant reminder of the immeasurable values of life and love and chocolate and faith and now. Their story has become a powerful force in the lives of people who have never met them. I've come to consider their acquaintance a gift, and I am profoundly saddened that Jesse's portion of the narrative has come to a close.

The looming presence of Jesse's mortality has given me cause of late to formulate a theory regarding the deaths of those we love. I believe, at a very visceral level, that there is no real death, but merely a change of energy and scene which gives the illusion of separation for those who have yet to make the transition. Perhaps, then, it would be a worthwhile venture to treat the period of time after our loved one's passing and before our own in the way a child treats the night before Christmas. Maybe if we focus on the excitement and anticipation of the day when we'll see our love again, rather than the pain of loss and longing, we will live more and suffer less. Maybe. Wouldn't it be wonderful to wake up every day with that tiny, glowing ball of exhilaration in our bellies that tells us we're one day closer to something amazing? There aren't too many things better than that sense of I-just-can't-wait-ness...maybe thinking this way will allow us spend the rest of our lives feeling it.

It's just an idea. And it is, without question, one of those ideas that is far simpler in theory than in practice. The very physiology of human emotion necessitates some period of abject suffering after the loss of something or someone to which our circuitry has grown lovingly accustomed. But I want to believe that it's possible to choose joy, to appreciate what was and what will be again, and to treat life as a fantastic adventure so that we have great stories to tell when we're finally reunited with our loves.

Maybe I'd just rather think of sweet, incredible Yen living his life with the joyous anticipation of the night before Christmas, as he eagerly awaits the day when he'll see Jesse again.

I guess it's all about perspective.

Travel well, Jesse. My gratitude and tremendous admiration for your bravery, strength, and brilliance go with you. You will be missed.

U.S.C. in da house

2007-04-27T19:35:00.000-04:00

What up, yo?

I should introduce myself...I'm Helen's upper spinal column. Nicetameetcha.

Why is Helen's upper spinal column guest blogging in the Ninth Circle, you ask?

Weeeeellll...I guess I just got sick of that drunken little hussy and her crazy livin', so I kinda took over the body for awhile. I put the word out to seven of my vertebrae to start an insurrection, so four of them locked up tighter than Mother Teresa's britches, and the other three jumped out in different directions like white people attempting to step dance. That sure as hell shut Helen up but good. Except for the moans of pain and whatnot, that is. For the last week, Miss Mouthypants has been flat on her back. And for once, it was for a reason other than, uh...well, you know. Ahem.

So anyway, that bastard physical therapist of hers managed to snap one of my boys back in line today, which has temporarily enabled Helen to sit upright for more than 20 minutes without crying. Son of a... But worry not, I'm still conspiring with my vertebrae, and we're working hard to ensure she's on her back again, just in time to ruin her vacation. I'm so awesome.

Did I mention that I already cost her free tickets to see The Killers from her firm's corporate luxury box? Oh yeah. I totally did. Who's the big winner? Upper Spinal Column, bitches!

That said, I doubt you'll be hearing from her again for a minute. Little crackhead looooooves those muscle relaxers that the doctor gave her, so she'll probably be too busy drooling and giggling to blog much.

She may not let me blog again once she gets better...vindictive little shit...so I'll say peace out to y'all. Cross your fingers that she doesn't get all crazy and try to make me exercise, or something, once she's back on her feet. I shudder at the very thought...and hey, that shuddering seems to cause her pain! Woooooooo!

USC out.

Cult of Personality

2007-04-18T17:25:00.000-04:00

Celebrity encounters, so comparatively common for the denizens of New York, are very often disappointing, embarrassing, or both. The Pretty People sometimes smell horrible (I won't name names), treat you rudely (up yours, Pink!), or simply render one so star-struck that she says something incredibly stupid to them. (Apologies to both Susan Sarandon and Mike Myers are appropriate here. Oh, and William Forsythe, too. Yikes. Sorry guys. Really.)

Thankfully, this was so, SO not the case this past Saturday, when Tim and I were lucky enough to attend Cloud Cult's Mercury Lounge show, and to hang out with the band a bit afterwards. Wow. I've been so profoundly, wonderfully affected by the whole experience that it took me this long to sum up the words to describe it.

I am so enamored with and inspired by this band, their music, their journey, and everything they stand for, that had they been buttholes, I would have been entirely heartbroken. They turned out to be, quite literally, some of the nicest people I've ever met.

The show was nothing short of incredible, especially from our front-and-center vantage point. They played every song I'd been hoping to to hear, from both their new and previous albums (how often does that happen?), with a casual sense of precision and kind, happy energy. These kids from rural Minnesota had a typically snotty, arms-impassively-crossed crowd of New York hipsters actually dancing, and singing their songs back to them word for word. Meanwhile, artists Connie Minowa and Scott West created stunning paintings onstage along with the music. All senses were engaged. It was amazing.

At the end of the set, Tim gallantly grabbed the setlist off of Craig Minowa's synthesizer for me, and we headed out to the bar. There, we met up with Connie, who greeted me with a warm hug and spent the next 20 minutes pleasantly tolerating my semi-coherent flood of admiration. When I asked her to sign the setlist, it took her five solid minutes to craft an appropriate note. Who does that? Unbelievably sweet and beautiful.

Craig (who is also Connie's husband), is the anti-rockstar. He too hugged and thanked me post-show, and stayed around to talk with the remaining fans. He tolerated my teasing him about his smoking (and then fully busted me for taking a pull off Tim's cigarette), as well as the pajama-esque pants he wore onstage ("but they're comfortable!") The guy is a musical genius/organic farmer/environmental scientist who provides consultation to the United Nations and survived the tragic loss of his only child, yet he remains remarkably affable, humble, and perhaps even a bit shy. He puts to shame the self-important, low-or-no-talent, diva-esque nobodies who pass for music idols these days. He reminds me...and this is no hyperbole here, people...of John Lennon, both in his immeasurable talent, and his commitment to leaving a better world behind after he's gone.

The best part is, I have no doubt that Craig will accomplish just that. The fans were absolutely nuts over these guys, and I'm sure anyone who was there would gush as unabashedly as I am. Perhaps it's because everyone in the band is just as awesome as Craig and Connie, but Cloud Cult seems to have an almost magical effect on people. I wasn't kidding earlier...I saw hipsters dance. If that's not magic, I don't know what is. People are paying attention to this band's mission, and only good can come from that.

Eventually, Tim and I left the band at the club and ventured out into the Jersey-trash nightmare that the Lower East Side has become. I had a soon-to-be-framed setlist signed by everyone except drummer Dan Greenwood (next time!), and proceeded to float three feet off the ground for several days to follow.

It goes without saying that I encourage you to listen to and buy Cloud Cult's music, under the following conditions:

Buy CDs directly from their site. They're an indie band (by choice!), and that maximizes their profits (ALL of which are donated to environmental causes, by the way. Yeah.)

Listen to the CDs in order of release. Especially the four most recent. That will make more sense if you read Connie's bio, linked above.

For my Denver peeps: You'll have the chance to see them at the Larimer Lounge on May 10. Buy advance tickets here. It'd be the best seven bucks you spend this year even if I wasn't gonna be there. Which I totally am. So it totally will be. Ayep.

I stole this picture of the new record's cover from their site, obviously. I'll post my own photos when they get developed, if they don't suck that much. And my new boyfriend will be with me at the Denver show, so photos and hopefully some video will most definitely be posted.

The doctor is IN (the Ninth Circle)

2007-04-12T10:55:00.000-04:00

To the person or persons in Auburn, Washington, who just landed on this page after Googling "take alka seltzer and a coke for diarrhea"...

Get well soon.

Love,
Dr. Damnation

Holy Week in the Ninth Circle

2007-04-08T21:05:00.000-04:00

To mark the celebration of the resurrection of Jesus Christ, or, like, the invention of the Cadbury Creme Egg, or something...whatever Easter is about, man, I dunno...but anyway, to mark it, I bring you an interactive map of pretty much every bar in New York City, thanks to NY on Tap.

It just seemed like I should give y'all a gift.

It's what the Easter Bunny would do, I think.

Quick and only vaguely dirty

2007-04-05T17:40:00.000-04:00

Christ but a bitch is busy.

More later...but for now, know this:

Lots of green tea = lots of green pee

Yep.

Helen Damnation, Corporate Whore

2007-04-02T15:53:00.001-04:00

Lately, I've been awakening with these incredibly ominous, profoundly dark thoughts in my head. I'm not sure where they're coming from, exactly, but they drop breath-stealing weights onto my chest and make me wish I could go back to sleep once and for all.

This morning's gut-twisting revelation was that the content and quality of my soul seems to have an inversely proportional relationship with the balance of my 401 (K).

Let me tell you...it's happened quietly, little by little, but I checked on my account today, and there's some real cash in there.

Yay for corporate America. And me. Wooo. Yeah.

Sigh.

Blogger helps me help you

2007-03-30T10:26:00.000-04:00

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

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?

2007-03-28T16:15:00.000-04:00

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

2007-03-23T15:55:00.001-04:00

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!

2007-03-22T16:42:00.000-04:00

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

2007-03-21T13:40:00.000-04:00

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

2007-03-19T13:25:00.000-04:00

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...

2007-03-16T12:42:00.000-04:00

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

2007-03-15T16:51:00.000-04:00

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

2007-03-12T17:16:00.000-04:00

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

2007-03-10T18:58:00.000-05:00

It was unavoidable.

My pussy is on the interwebs.

The only surprise is that it took this long.

Sigh...

2007-03-09T23:30:00.000-05:00

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...

2007-03-09T14:50:00.001-05:00

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

I am your father, Luke. And your mother.

2007-03-08T17:11:00.000-05:00

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

2007-03-07T15:51:00.000-05:00

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

2007-03-06T17:08:00.001-05:00

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

2007-03-05T16:18:00.001-05:00

It really is.

Bless me, Father Tony...

2007-03-02T12:53:00.001-05:00

...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

2007-03-01T12:05:00.000-05:00

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?

First!

2007-02-25T05:15:00.000-05:00

I just want it on the record...it's 5:14 AM, I am home, unbroken and (unfortunately) unmolested, and, even more shockingly, 80% sober.

It was the best Blarg Hop ever. And this year, I remember all of it.

More to come. Now, though...sleep, and hopefully lots of it.

Holy shit, dude.

Greasy Backwash Candy Whores

2007-02-23T17:42:00.001-05:00

Best. Spam. E-mail. Title. EVER.

Seeya at the Blarg Hop, bitches!

I'm already carbo-loading in preparation...

Countdown to Saturgay

2007-02-22T17:30:00.001-05:00

I'm about to have the most stunningly homosexual Saturday of my life. Gayer, even, than the Saturday after my 28th birthday, which involved a topless multi-chick makeout session in a hottub. (That there is clearly a story for another day.)

I'm not counting on any lesbionic action this weekend (though would not be disappointed if some came my way.) No, this Saturday's gayness is about two things: The Oscars and booze.

First thing in the morning, O and I plan to plunk ourselves down in a theater with our complimentary drinks and popcorn and the intent of watching four of the five Best Picture contenders. In a row. Yeah. For the low low price of $30, you're more than welcome to join us. (Provided that you're not a douchebag, that is.)

Oscar Madness = pretty gay

Gayer still...by far, even...is what comes after.

We'll be opting out of the marathon's last film, Little Miss Sunshine, to meet up with Bisexual Bobby and hit Joe Almighty's Second Annual Blarg Hop.

I'm quite excited about this year's event, especially considering how much of last year's I don't remember. Looking forward to new memories. Or memory gaps, as the case may be. It'll be quite nice to have a co-vagina along this year, too. Matching drinks with burly mens all by my lonesome maybe wasn't the best plan last time around. Lesson learned.

This year I'm ready. This year I have a plan...

2007 Blarghop Goals:

I will not barf on my good winter coat. Again.
I will obtain phone numbers of any and all errant straight boys present. Again.
I will steal Farmboyz semen to freeze for future impregnation.
I will convince people I met last year that I TOTALLY remember them.
I really won't barf on my coat. Really. Or in the cab, either!
I will not give interviews. (Why did I do that? Oh yeah...I was hammered!)
I will find a hot chick for Bobby to make out with.
I will get someone to take pictures of Bobby making out with hot chick.
I will try my best not to look completely cracked out and/or mentally deficient in photographs (this one is a stretch, admittedly...see below for a stunning example.)
I will make my mama proud. Again.
I will write another recap afterwards.

Again, any and all non-douches are welcome to join the carnage...er...party. For those of you who can't make it (especially the ones I really, really wish could), tune in next week for all the lurid details we can piece together. And pray for us. Oy...

Helen gets #, by Farmboy T, Blarg Hop '06

Son of a...

2007-02-19T13:40:00.000-05:00

He said that he wanted to read my blog.

I responded with something like, "fuck no." Those of you who have been reading awhile...more than, say, two days...can imagine why I'd respond as such.

Mr. Smartypants was evidently dissatisfied with this answer. He proceeded to piece together little bits of information...and I mean miniscule, seemingly insignificant and unrelated items...and found it anyway.

Wow. It really, really sucks that dating dumb people is so boring.

As for you, Mr. Smartypants...now it's ON. You just wait.

Squishtastic

2007-02-18T23:10:00.000-05:00

Dood.

I think all of this weird boy-related happiness I'm experiencing lately is making me soft.

I've been reading Cute Overload regularly, and I actually showered on both Saturday and Sunday this weekend.

I may need to punch a small child on the subway tomorrow, just to maintain balance.

Shake this bon bon, George

2007-02-16T08:58:00.001-05:00

I've said it before, and will likely repeat it again until you're sick of hearing it:

I LOVE YOU, RICKY MARTIN!

Oh, and fuck you, Bush. Yeah.

Update, 3:58 PM:
Um, Georgie? Congress says "fuck you," too.
Good thing they listened to Ricky.

Ask and ye shall receive

2007-02-14T20:45:00.000-05:00

Dear Eric,
Your Valentine's Day wish is my command, honey. Feel free to direct your anti-Valentine here to get his present.
Love,
Helen

I'm a giver. That's what I do. I give.

Love, Helen*

2007-02-14T09:00:00.000-05:00

Click to biggenate & read. Worth it, I promise.

*This message is for entertainment purposes only, and does not necessarily represent the views or opinions of the proprietor of this blog, who, believe it or shove it, actually has an incredibly hot Valentine of her very own this year, and thus is not the least bit btter or pissy about the holiday. Everything she does, she does for you, people. Don't you forget it.

Bachelor #1

2007-02-08T09:06:00.000-05:00

I told him that I like the word "lollygagging" because it sounds vaguely dirty, even though it's really not.

He replied that we should come up with an activity to suit the word.

I'm not sure if I should marry him immediately, or change my phone number.

Either way, this should be an interesting weekend

Helen + Rum = Fun for everyone

2007-02-05T14:12:00.000-05:00

I guess I must have been blacked out when I poured most of that bag of tortilla chips down Chano's pants at Frankie & Tee's housewarming party.

Damn. I miss all the good stuff.

Helen's not-so-triumphant return

2007-01-31T09:37:00.000-05:00

Let's play a game, wanna? Too bad, you're playing anyway.

This game is called "Name Something Worse Than Getting Food Poisoning On the Day You're Supposed to Return From the Vacation You Spent With Your Parents, and Then Spending a Shitload of Money to Change Your Plane Ticket Because You Couldn't Stop Barfing For Long Enough to Fly!"

This will be so.much.fun.

The rules:

No depressing, high-minded, big-picture answers like "the war in Iraq" or "cancer." This is a game, people. Fucking relax already.
That's pretty much the only rule. Rules are stupid anyway.

I'll get you started, but it's all you after that. Here goes...

*Pissing someone else's pants!

*Dad's overt racism!

*Guys with moustaches wearing Oakley Blades & No Fear shirts!

*Oh, shit. This is definitely way, way worse. Wow.

Okay, your turn. Ready go.

Barack Me Like a Hurricane

2007-01-19T10:06:00.001-05:00

My pal Carolyn has said pretty much everything I wanted to about Obama's Presidential candidacy, except for FUCK YES, WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO, YEEEE HAAAAAAAAA!

She's also shilling the Obama-wear. Total badass, this girl.

My (Ba) rack is gonna look spectacular in one of those t-shirts.

I'll post photos. I love you that much.

I'm off to Vegas, bitches!

I'll either be back in a week, or call you for bail money.

You make me feel so young

2007-01-16T18:11:00.000-05:00

What could possibly be responsible for my sudden sense of youthfulness?

New love?
Nah.

The unseasonably warm weather?
Nope. Actually, it's finally getting cold here.

Been working out, Helen?
Pssh. What are you, high?

No, I'm I'm pretty sure that these feelings of adolescent awkwardness and discomfort are due to the unbelievably enormous, evil, unhideable zit on my chin.

It's like being 13 all over again, but with (slightly) bigger boobs.

Awesome.

Poop on Paris

2007-01-12T10:35:00.001-05:00

It's Friday. No thinking required.
Just wiping, and evil laughter.

New Drunk City, Part 2

2007-01-10T13:20:00.001-05:00

Read part 1 here, or this won't make quite as much sense.

Now, you’d think that after an experience like that, I’d simply thank the gods of urban intoxication and make certain to never, ever do something that stupid ever, ever again.

You would be as wrong as I was about the treasure trove of public toilets available in Times Square in 2002.

Now it’s 2006. Your little friend here is a confident, experienced, jaded, bitchy New Yorker. Nothing surprises me, nothing scares me, and I’ve learned to take care of myself. I’m savvy and street smart and…still a drunk, and, as such, still as dumb as ever a good portion of the time.

On a recent drizzly Friday evening, I accompanied my friends Frankie and Tee out for a night of drinking on the Upper West Side. Thing is, I live in Brooklyn, and when it comes to Manhattan, I am decidedly a downtown kid. I work at 51st Street and will have the occasional drink in that area, but anything above that is foreign soil. Thus, I was slightly shocked and deeply disconcerted by the multitude of bra-on-the-wall, borderline white-trash fetish frat boy bars on Upper Broadway. But the beer was relatively cheap, I was in excellent company, and by the last bar we were utterly shithammered, so what the fuck.

Regarding the company…I must note at this point that Frankie and Tee are a married couple. Frankie is a white woman, and Tee is a black man. One would think that in New York City in 2006 this would not be a point that even warranted discussion, but keep in mind that we were in a bra-on-the-wall, borderline white-trash fetish frat boy bar on Upper Broadway.

We sat at a table in the back, drunk talking and taking in the scene. We were surrounded by young, white, male Upper West types. You know, the Docker-wearers who tell gay jokes at work and secretly dance naked to Justin Timberlake at home? Yeah. It was like an anthropological study of the species Uptownus Douchis Trogloditus.

“Imagine how many of these guys are total closet racists, and are totally pissed off to see two white girls with a black guy,” Frankie said. We were, in fact, getting some pissy stares from the sweater vests.

“Totally!” I agreed. “If there’s a KKK chapter in New York City, this is pretty much their meeting place.

At some point prior to this, Frankie had handed me a pen, because this bar in particular encourages its patrons to leave graffiti on the walls. She noticed now that I was drawing on the web of my left hand.

“What the fuck are you doing over there?”

I smiled, quietly completed my masterpiece, and held it up for them to see. It was a hand-mouth puppet. He was wearing a KKK hood, and had a thought bubble above his head that said “WHITE POWER!”

Thankfully, Frankie and Tee were amused. For the rest of the evening, the puppet continually interrupted conversations, interjecting with “WHIIIIIITE POWER” in his best Mr. Hankey the Christmas Poo voice whenever he felt like it. (I think he was drunk too.)

“What do you think about Bush’s foreign policy, Helen?”

“WHIIIIIIITE POWER!”

“Do you think the new James Bond is gay?”

“WHIIIIIIITE POWER!”

I think the fact that none of the other patrons kicked my ass tells you pretty much everything you need to know about that bar.

Several hours and a few drinks later, I found myself walking to the subway in a torrential downpour. Mercifully, the train showed up within minutes, and I was on my way back to Brooklyn. It was 5:00 in the morning, I was still totally plastered, and my Klan puppet was long forgotten.

I must have passed out within minutes of sitting down. I awoke to the sensation of someone gently tapping my shoulder.

“Miss. Miss!”

I jumped. Standing over me was a pleasant faced, middle-aged black man. He was looking at me with gentle, fatherly disapproval, and holding my umbrella. “You dropped this.”

“Oh., thank you sir!” I slurred at him. I reached for the umbrella with my left hand…you know, the one with the KKK dude drawn on it? Yeah. Whiiiiiiite power...

We both saw the drawing at the same time. Just about anything could have happened during the momentary pause afterward. He said nothing, but looked hard into my eyes, handed me the umbrella, and stepped off the train. Needless to say, my hand spent the rest of the trip back to East Flatbush shoved deeply into my pocket, and again, miraculously, I made it home without further incident.

Clearly, my mother is right. The angels that look out for stupid-assed drunk girls are alive and well here in New York City. And it’s a goddamned good thing, because I’m probably gonna need them tonight.

Out of the mouths of crackers...

2007-01-08T16:06:00.001-05:00

"You know what'sa matter? Yer missin' a hose!"

- Southern lady at the vacuum cleaner company
(I called to order parts.)

You said a mouthful, honey. Did you ever.

May the South rise again.

New Drunk City, Part 1

2007-01-05T09:35:00.000-05:00

Because several people other than my mom have requested that I do so, I'm posting the story I read at the 12/20/06 WYSIWYG. It's long and I have a short attention span, so it's coming to you in two parts. It was also written to be read aloud, using different voices and stuff, so I'm pretty sure that a good portion of the comedy is lost in translation here. But whatever. Here you go.

If I’m going to get up and have a laugh with y’all on the topic of alcohol intoxication…and I sure as fuck hope I am, or this is going to be the longest 10 minutes of my life…I’d be remiss in failing to note that nine years ago today, on December 20, 1997, my 23 year old cousin, Doug Murray, was killed in a drunk driving accident in Longmont, Colorado. This was by far the shittiest birthday present I received that year, worse even than the army green thermal shirt my hippie boyfriend inexplicably selected for me. In retrospect, though, it’s become clear that some interesting lessons came of this tragedy. The one that’s relevant to this evening is that drinking is fine, provided that you’re not a total asshole about it, and sometimes, even when you are, provided that you’re not behind the wheel of a motor vehicle, operating heavy machinery, or in possession of a loaded firearm. All in all, I’ve come to believe that it is possible to be both a drunk and relatively functional…or, as I refer to it, drunktional.

This is especially true here in New York, where one never has to drive. Absurd drink prices aside, New York is one of my favorite places to be drunk. And maybe it’s partially because of the prohibitive cost of booze in many of our bars…when you’re shithoused in New York, goddammit, you’ve earned it. You’ve spent half your sorry paycheck, and you’re fuckin’ WASTED, and no one can take that away from you. (Unless, of course, you’re really pretty and someone else always buys your drinks. And in that case, well, fuck you anyway.)

There’s an edgy aspect to being a drunk chick in this city, too. Anything…literally anything, good or bad, can happen. Celebrities show up when you’re already drunk enough to try to talk to them. (Sorry, Susan Sarandon!) Subway trains break down between stops when you’re struggling desperately not to vomit and/or piss yourself. Wasted club guidos decide randomly that they’re gay and try to make out with your boyfriend. Transit strikes coincide with your birthday party, and you say fuck it and get hammered anyway. The stripper from the boy bar turns out not to be gay after all. The bar owner offers you a ride in the back of his customized Cadillac hearse, which you gladly accept. If I had a nickel for every time I found myself alone and piss drunk in a totally sketchy or bizarre situation in this asylum of a city, I’d have enough money to get drunk a hell of a lot more often than I already do.

I’ve been lucky, though. In most if not all of those dodgy scenes, things have turned out okay. Often humiliating, but without serious mishap, and nearly always funny later. My Irish mother says that God looks out for idiots and drunks, and I am living proof that she’s absolutely right.

My first serious drunk experience in New York occurred in the spring of 2002, about a month before I actually moved here. My friend Brando and I flew out from Denver to survey the scene, check out my new apartment, and presumably hook up with pretty people. We spent a few innocuous days shopping, bickering, and eating street meat before we met up with our friend O and hit the town. After multiple cocktails in multiple joints, we wound up, of course, at a boy bar. When the story of my life is finally written, people, it will be set in a boy bar.

As often happens at boy bars, I was in the process of getting lucky. Let’s face it…any and all straight boys in a boy bar are like ducks in a bucket for any vagina that happens to show up. This one happened to be a smokin'-hot part-time soap opera actor. Blake, or something. Brando, in the meantime, was busy making out with a total troll. That encounter was brought to a swift end when O stated quite loudly that “we were on vacation and had NO TIME FOR UGLY PEOPLE.” Brando, jealous of my good fortune, got pissy and stomped out. I decided, for reasons I’ve since forgotten, not to go home with Mr. Sands Through the Hourglass. O was headed downtown, and responsibly put me on the 1 train toward my hotel on the Upper West Side.

About two stops along, it occurred to me that I had to pee rather desperately. The urge grew more powerful by the second, until I could stand it no more. The train reached 42nd Street. “Hey, Times Square!” I thought. (My words were slurred, even in my head.) “There’s gotta be a bathroom THERE I can use!”

I dashed off the train and bounded up the stairs to the street, naively counting on there being a pizza shop or bar or SOMEPLACE with a pisser that would be open, even at 4:30 in the morning on a weeknight. City that never sleeps, right? No problem!

This is about as wrong as I’ve ever been about anything. And that, my friends, is sayin’ some shit.

Reaching the street, all I saw was dark storefronts and sleeping homeless people. The trip up the stairs had nearly gotten messy…I was fully potty walking at this point. Finally in desperation, I approached a pair of beat cops on Seventh Avenue.

“’Scuse me, sir?" (Trying my best to appear sober.) “Could I ask your help with something?”

Cop #1, short, young, and adorable, turned to me, theatrically swept off his hat and held it to his heart. (I’m pretty sure he was drunk too.)

“You can aks me any-ting, sweethaht. Whatevah you need, whatevah you want, I will personally make showah you get it. Dis I promise you, on behalf of da NYPD. Any-ting!”

“Uh…okay. I need a bathroom.”

“Oooooh...any-ting but dat.” He replaced his cap on his head and stared at the ground in somber dejection.

Cop #2, large, slightly older, and thankfully sober, rolled his eyes at Officer Broadway. “You see that sign down there?” he said, pointing. I followed his finger as best I could, spotting a blur of neon that appeared to be several miles away. “That there’s McDonald’s. You can use their can, but you prolly gotta buy some fries or somethin’.”

I came close to bursting into happy tears. “Thank you, officer, thank you!”

“Yeah, whatever.”

I set off in the direction of the Golden Arches, clenching my nethers so tightly that my knees were actually touching. I’d made it about half a block when I realized that there was just no.fucking.way I was gonna make it that far without pissing my pants.

And then…to my left, I noticed a boarded-up window and a small construction site. A small construction site, right on the street, with plywood walls and an ALCOVE in front of the building’s door. A dim bulb crackled to life above my addled head. I looked behind me. The cops were gone. Yessss.

I ducked into the alcove, nearly delirious in anticipation of the sweet relief I was about to experience. My jeans were halfway down when I heard the voice.

“Hey! Hey lady! You pissin’ back deah?”

Fuck. Fuckity fuck fuck, fuck-a-doodle-doo. It was a male voice. The cops, I thought. I am soooooo going to jail.

I turned my head in trepidation, hands clutching either side of my zipper. It was not the cops. It was a teenaged boy. A big teenaged boy. A big teenaged boy and six of his friends, all peering at me around the edge of the plywood wall with looks of great interest and curiousity.

Clearly at a gross disadvantage, I mustered the flapping shreds of my dignity, looked up at the kid from mid-squat, and answered the question.

“Yes. Yes I fucking am.” I held my breath and my stream, totally unprepared to defend myself and waiting for him to respond.

“Awright den!” the kid said. “We’ll block for ya!”

Insert Scooby-Doo's incredulous noise here.

“Hey you guys, com’ere! Stand ovah heah! Dis lady’s takin’ a leak back heah, and she needs blockas!”

Next thing I know, I see eight or ten t-shirted backs surrounding the alcove as the boys line up to block the view from the street. It was more from shock than urgency that I finally let go and started pissing.

“Are you guys fucking kidding me? I TOTALLY thought I was getting gang raped for a minute there! How awesome are you?” Still pissing.

They all laughed. “Hey no problem lady! It happens to everybody!” Uh, okay.

I heard footsteps approaching. “What are you lookin’ at, asshole? Keep walkin’!” My underaged heroes!

Still pissing. Thirty seconds. Forty. A minute.

“Hey lady?”

“Yeah?”

“That’s some piss you’ah takin’ back deah, huh?”

“Ayep.”

“You drunk?”

“Ayep.”

“Dats awright. You take yah time! We can wait!”

By this point I had descended into silent, hysterical laughter, trying at the same time to balance my drunk ass so as not to piss into my Chuck Taylors. (I was not entirely successful, by the way.)

Finally, at long long last, my bladder imploded and it was over. I wobbled to my feet, zipped up my drawers, and announced to my protectors the commencement of my urinary activities.
They all turned to face me at once, like a school of fish.

I was overwhelmed with shitfaced gratitude. “My god, you guys are an amazing bunch of gentlemen.”

“Of course we aah! We’ah from YONKERS!”

A cacophony of pro-Yonkers whoops and hollers erupted into the still-dark morning, and again moving as one, fish-like, they were gone. I stumbled back to the subway station and made it back uptown without further incident, now positive that my decision to move to New York was the right one.

Part 2 next week.

Deep Thoughts by Helen Damnation

2007-01-02T09:51:00.001-05:00

If I was a toilet, I would totally quit my job.

So this is the new year

2006-12-31T14:22:00.000-05:00

I refuse to do the year-in-review type of thing. That just seems ridiculous. I'm a blogger, for christssake, not a newscaster or a pop star or a recently deceased president or something. Like you care about the details of my year. And if you do, the archives are over there on the right side of your screen. Knock yourself out.

I don't believe in New Years resolutions, either. If I can't make myself work out or cut back on the pizza & porn today, what's going to motivate me tomorrow? Not a goddamn thing, that's what. Well...maybe the prospect of getting a whole lot more boo-tay in 2007. That could do it.

Anyway, all that aside, Happy Fucking New Year to all y'all, for reals. Be safe, have fun, yada yada. Helen loves you.

Jail stinks

2006-12-27T10:34:00.000-05:00

Take it from Helen the Felon, kids...stay out of trouble, or this could happen to you.

And then, even worse...after you get your smelly ass kicked, stupid bloggers make fun of you.

It just ain't worth it.

So, like, stay in school, and stuff. Yeah.

Crappy New Year

2006-12-25T19:43:00.001-05:00

He was scheduled to perform here in NY on New Year's Eve. Sigh.

Peace out, Godfather.

Happy Birthday, Jesus!

2006-12-25T13:31:00.000-05:00

The three wise men arrived to visit the child lying in the manger. One of the wise men was exceptionally tall and smacked his head on the low doorway as he entered the stable.

"Jesus Christ!" he exclaimed.

"Write that down, Mary," said Joseph. "It's better than Derek."

(Via Popbitch. Who else?)

A Very Timberlake Christmas (Eve)

2006-12-24T12:36:00.001-05:00

Finally, some Christmas music I can stand!

Not sure what's more awesome/ridiculous: The video itself, or the fact that I first saw it on Dave Navarro's blog.

God bless you, Andy Samberg.

WYG out!

2006-12-21T21:07:00.000-05:00

Yeah, so holy crap. Last night's WYSIWYG was just...wow.

Bear with me, here...I got home this morning at about the same time I normally get up for work, so I'm still a little messy.

First and foremost, huge thanks to Chris and Andy for letting me participate, especially amongst a group of actual performers and real writers. Chris totally rules. And she sher is perty.

I was incredibly pleased and flattered by the throng of blogger friends who showed up, including Tom, Aaron, Joe, Dashiell, Curly, and David. And a whole bunch of my non-blogger friends (yes, I have non-blogger friends) attended as well, for which I'm very grateful. We had a great crowd, made even better by the high volume of booze being slung by the wonderful staff of the Bowery Poetry Club.

The performers were, all in all, pretty damned hysterical. Emily Epstein is now officially the only person I know to have bungee jumped with a snootful. Awesome. Ed Hamilton was responsible for the night's best (and ultimately, most painful) belly laughs...read his story and see for yourself. Derek Hartley taught us some valuable lessons about hooking up with drunk people (don't do it...they'll pee in your closet!) and NOT drinking Jagermeister after eating chicken alfredo. I'm sure this knowledge will come in handy someday...thanks Derek! Reality TV celeb Dan Renzi and his quietly hilarious not-so-straight man performed a dialogue revealing the joys and pitfalls of dating a beer-swilling closet case.

And then, keeping with the theme of the evening, I went out with Curly, uptown boy MA, and my beloved Flower from Colorado and got totally shithammered. Good times.

The only downside: I was such a waste of space all day that I completely forgot to show up at the kids' Christmas party I was supposed to work this afternoon. Look at me...one show, and I'm already exhibiting flaky diva behavior. WYSIWYG may have created a monster.

You can be a WYSIWYG-er too

2006-12-20T12:37:00.000-05:00

I hate it when bloggers get overly self-referential, but I'm too goddamned lazy to type this all over again. Thus, please come see this show tonight, and be entertained as I bring my past episodes of drunken humiliation into our collective present. It'll be fun. No, really!

And besides...if I start to bomb, I'm totally taking my shirt off. That alone is worth the $7.

My girls and I thank you in advance for your support.

The onset of the Early Mid-Thirties

2006-12-19T15:31:00.000-05:00

Guess what Helen got for her birthday, kids!

Was it...

A) Her period

B) A zit with its own weather system

C) Three pounds heavier

D) Lots of awesome messages and calls from people she effin' loves

E) A surprise visit from a much-hearted Denver kid

E) A wonderful upscale Chinese lunch, complete with birthday mousse

F) A digital copy of Punk Rock Girl from Eric

G) A Freedom Tower

H) Madly, totally, awesomely laid

I) All of the above

J) All of the above except laid

Guess! G'head!

Giant tampons or upside-down birthday candles? You be the judge!

Nature's own revenge

2006-12-16T20:28:00.000-05:00

Everybody has one.

It's that one person in your past who, no matter how hard you may try, you're unable to forget. The one ex who didn't so much break your heart as shove it through a meat grinder, make a burger of it, eat it, crap it out, and flush it away. Yeah, that one.

Time passes. You get over it, you move on, you grow.
Or at least you think you do.

And then, years later, the bastard turns 40 WAAAAAAAAY before you ever will, and the perverse pleasure you garner from it is so intense that it almost makes that sorry turd of a relationship and the torture you endured for it worthwhile.

Maturity is SO kick ass. Being old, though...that sucks.

BWAH HA HA

Happy birthday, shitbird.

The Biggest Helen

2006-12-11T16:25:00.000-05:00

There's something inherently evil about eating a large pizza and an order of extra-greasy garlic knots while watching a marathon of The Biggest Loser.

That didn't stop me, of course.

I think I'll pay my karmic debt by sleeping with Marty, who at this point has lost like 600 pounds and morphed into a total hottie.

Still going to hell. But I might get a good seat.

Joyeux Noel

2006-12-07T17:17:00.000-05:00

I love my job not for the benefits, which are great, or the paycheck, which is okay, or the work, which is totally fucktarded. No, I love it for the people . Considering how much I despise people in general, that's surprising, even to me. But these people...they're special.

The other day, Officemate Eric, Coworker Charley and yours truly were discussing the decscent of the Christmas season as we wandered across town (toward a bar, of course) after work.

Helen: Oh god, I hate Christmas music.

Eric: You hate everything.

Helen: Yeah, but I really, really hate Christmas music.
In fact, there are only two things I hate more: Mayonnaise, and...
And, uh...hmmm...

Charley: The French?

Helen: (Stunned, deeply impressed pause) Yes, that's right.
The French! Thank you, Charley.

Charley: No problem.

Somehow, the chorus of "Let it Snow" blaring from a storefront as we passed didn't bother me quite so much after that.

This job...it's a keeper.

Save the date, or something

2006-12-05T12:59:00.000-05:00

Okay, so that nice girl who puts on them there blog and pony shows over at the Bowery Poetry Club decided that if she was gonna do a show about boozin', she best call in some Subject Matter Experts.

Needless to say, I, along with Dan Renzi, Emily Epstein, Derek Hartley, and Ed Hamilton happily (okay, drunkenly) accepted her invitation.

Since this blessed event takes place the day after my birthday, we'll be drinking (surprise!) afterwards at some shitty joint over there in the East Village somewheres. The $7 you pay for the show absolves you from your obligation to buy me a birthday drink. Everybody wins!

Also, if you have any good stories about me being drunk that I may not remember too clearly...and I'm sure many of you do...email me, as most of the material I'm working on is, uh...a tad gappy at present. (Scotch is bad for you, kids! Just say no!) Thanks.

This is neither sad nor ironic...

2006-12-04T09:45:00.000-05:00

Gay marriage is now legal is South Africa.

You remember South Africa, don't you? Aptly named little country located on the southernmost tip of Africa, which enforced a system of aparteid from 1948 until just 12 short years ago? You know, the government that kept Nelson Mandela locked up for almost thirty years, basically for being black? Yeah. That South Africa.

And here in good ol' America, land of the free and home of the gays...I mean, brave? Up here in America, in spite of a Constitution that is supposed to guarantee equal rights for all citizens and a purported separation of church and state, we've got laws against same sex marriage in...how many states now? Five? Twelve? Thirty-three? You tell me, kids. I'm too lazy and disgusted to look it up.

Awesome. Totally awesome.