Monday, February 27, 2006

Helen Damnation, Super Genius

What kind of colossal moron works fairly closely with someone for six months...SIX MONTHS...and somehow fails to notice that this person has an artificial leg?

This kind right here, baby. Yeah...wooo!

In my can't really stop a co-worker in the hall and say, "Hey, is it just me, or do you walk kinda fuckin' funny?"

Okay, back to counting on my fingers and drooling.

Thursday, February 23, 2006

Helen vs. Roy G. Biv

Underwear selection is a crucial step in my daily primp-and-fluff routine, as is the case with many women.

On Monday morning when I opened the panty drawer, I immediately noticed that a half-dozen or so pairs of my favorite britches were not only folded neatly, but stacked in perfect rainbow-color order. Now, the folding I remember clearly. No problem. The rainbow order bit, though...that's incontrovertible evidence that my rogue subconscious was hard at work in the laundry room.

I pondered this for a moment, searching for possible deep-seated motives and/or reasons that this may have happened. What I came up with was that at some primal level, I am either:

A) an artist
B) a naturalist, or
C) a huge queer.

I haven't yet reached any definitive or forgone conclusions as to which of these apply. I went with it on Monday, though, and picked the red ones. Today's Thursday. We're up to G. Sweet.

Tuesday, February 21, 2006

True love, Helen style

Unedited email I received this morning from a far-away friend:

Dear Helen,
I saw a bum pooping this morning and I thought of
you. Just thought you should know.
Love you,

Well, gosh. Uh...thanks? That', real touching, or something. I love you too, pumpkin. (tear)

Friday, February 17, 2006

A little right-wing lie

When my boss asked me why I wasn't coming in to the office today, I told him I haven't been feeling so well since Dick Cheney shot me in the face.

He was not amused.

I stuck with my story, though, because it was easier than explaining that I caught pneumonia while completing a gay bar crawl in a blizzard.

(Don't worry. It's not really pneumonia. At least I don't think so.)

Tuesday, February 14, 2006

V-Day...not too shabby

On this day last year, I was heartbroken and alone and incredibly bitter about it. (Check the archives if you don't believe me.)

Today, in spite of the fact that I'm home with what feels like pneumonia (but is probably just a nasty cold resulting from Blarg Hopping in a blizzard), I'm happy and strong and loved and pretty damned okay, overall.

Can't really ask for more than that.

Well...some booty action would be nice, but whatever. I have the cramps anyway.

Happy Valentine's Day, monkeys.

Monday, February 13, 2006

Blargback Mountain

Mountain of snow, that is. Jesus murphy. My, how well that Curbed photo captures the essence of the Blarg Hop.

I'd like nothing better than to enrich your Monday with dozens of fabulous details from Saturday night's drunken, snow-covered adventure. Problem is, I don't remember too much. The personal alcohol disaster I predicted for myself hit even more quickly than I thought it would. I guess it was a bad idea, little hundred-pound me trying to match drinks with a bunch of big burly mens. I'm still having a little trouble forming coherent thoughts, but I'll do my best to re-create the magic for you...

Stop One: Pieces
Charles and I trudged bravely through the freezing wind and snow, bitching all the way. We were excited to see our pre-established blogger friends and scope out some new ones as we stumbled into Pieces. Hugs were exchanged, introductions made, drinks ordered and rapidly consumed, ice was broken, and the evening's fashion choices were discussed. It immediately became clear that I was to be The Lone Vagina on this trek, a role I took on with all the honor and solemnity it was due. Or something.

Pieces is a lot like Little Orphan's got everything working against's poor, and dirty, and kinda lonely...and it seems like it oughta just be sad and pathetic. But somehow, in spite of it all, it maintains a bright & happy spirit that one just can't help but admire.

Or perhaps the scotch on the rocks just hit me even more quickly than I thought.


Stop Two: Stonewall
Or...not. Newsflash, Stonewall guys: I don't care how historically relevant your bar is. When a group of thirty or so potential patrons, a damned good-lookin' buncha 'mos at that, show up at your joint IN THE MIDDLE OF A FUCKING BLIZZARD, you prolly oughta think about waiving your ridiculous ten-dollar cover charge and just letting 'em in. Otherwise, they might just take their business elsewhere. Der.


Stop Three: The Duplex
The Duplex holds a special place in my blackened stump of a heart, as the bar where I spent my first NYC Pride, getting wasted on canned Coronas. Thus, I was not unhappy when our detour from Stonewall led us past the scary warbling of the Duplex's downstairs piano bar to their tiny upstairs lounge. The vastness of our numbers had the existing patrons and beleaguered bartenders looking around in puzzlement...the place went from nearly empty to squeezey-packed in about 45 seconds. We were like beer terrorists, or something. We drank quickly, we chatted a bit, my buzz started to get serious, and then it was time to go.


Stop Four: The Monster
This place was a new one on me. We paid some kind of cover, but it seemed reasonable, considering that there's actually room to move in there. Shortly after we began swilling, I was pulled aside by the utterly adorable and infinitely patient Mike P. of Blather and Bosh, who was kind/brave enough to interview me for his podcast. I don't remember the conversation too clearly. I recall being helped along by my handlers, Charles and Farmboy T. Listening to it today, I sound like an arrogant retard. So it was pretty spot-on. Mike wins the prestigious Favorite New Person I Met on the Blarg Hop Award, and not just because he laughed at my stupid jokes. And then, alas, we had to move on.


Stop Five: Boots & Saddles
I have absolutely no recollection whatsoever of this bar or what took place there. Maybe it was so horrible that I blocked it out. I know I drank there, because that's the only way to explain my state of complete shithammeredness. Um...


Stop Six: Ty's
Ditto Boots & Saddles. No fucking idea, at all. Probably drank there too. Anybody? Anybody? Uh...

But hey, the blizzard conditions outside were bugging me far, far less by this time, so that's something.


Stop Seven: The Hangar
Ah, the Hangar. Hard to forget, no matter how I may try. The anxiety over the possibility that my ex-boyfriend might still be stripping there must have sucked me, albeit temporarily, out of my blackout. Mercifully, it was some nice young man shaking his wares on the narrow stage. I remember a pair of yellow briefs and a pool table. The tunnel vision was extreme. I think the go-go boy's beefy presence might have kept us there a tad longer than we stayed at the other bars, but who knows.


Stop Eight: Chi Chiz
I remember exactly one thing about this bar, and even that is hazy...that would be Pete, the purportedly straight Jersey boy/bartender who gave me his phone number. Boy, I bet that was a real interesting conversation, there. Don't recall it, of course, but I can imagine...

Me: I have a vashina, gah...Blarg...whut?
Him: I like vashinas!
Me: Urg, nuh-uh!
Him: Call me!
Me: Okay!

Yesterday, Charles mentioned the extensive collection of African masks adorning Chi Chiz walls. I don't remember that either. Whoops?


Well, there wasn't much of a next. Those pussies at The Dugout closed their doors early on account of the massive winter storm. Pssssh...whatevah. (Don't listen to me. I've never even been in there. They might not be pussies. I'm just belligerent.)

Anyway, I guess we went back to the Monster for awhile. Evidently there was some dancing. I certainly hope that I took no part in that, though I can't be sure.

The next thing I remember is being back out in the snow with Charles, who valiantly assisted me in my desperate search for a cab driver dumb or greedy enough to drive my piss-drunk ass back to Brooklyn. This took some time, as you can imagine. Finally a gypsy cab scooped me up, and we started the long trek back to the 'hood. I don't think I ralphed in that nice man's car. I sure hope not.

That's all I got. Yesterday was spent bleeding out the eyes and craving anything and everything Pizza Hut has to offer. Today I'm a little better, but still not all the way back. I'd say that's an indicator of this event's overwhelming success. The photographic evidence I've seen thus far supports that contention as well.

To my blogger friends: I honestly adore every single damned one of you. We need to hang out more often, for reals.

To my new blogger friends, and their friends: Y'all are pretty awesome. If I offended you in any way...well, get used to it, bitches. There's plenty more where that came from.

To Joe: My liver might not agree, but the rest of me appreciates your technique as an instigator of madness and mayhem. Nicely done.

Saturday, February 11, 2006

Blarggin' ass bitches

In case you need:

a) further motivation to join me and my posse of light-loafered hooligans as we Blarg up Christopher Street tonight, or

b) to understand why we're all so profoundly enamored with the Farmboyz...

read this.

I'll do my best to report in tomorrow, but I make no promises.
Pray for us, or something.

Friday, February 10, 2006

Thar she blows!

Yesterday while dressing, I caught sight of myself in the full-length mirror affixed to my closet door.

"Holy crap!" I thought. "I'm starting to look just like one of the stars of one of my favorite TV shows!"

Who, you ask? Evangeline Lilly, perhaps? A Desperate Housewife, maybe?

Um, yeah...not so much.

Rather, my flabby, pasty figure is frighteningly reminiscent of none other than Toot Braunstein.

It might be time to buy a Bowflex.

But hey, I should get some great exercise carrying an intoxicated gay man or two up Christopher Street in a gahddamn blizzard tomorrow night. It's a start.

Wednesday, February 08, 2006

Look out, Bugs Bunny

Dubya's coming for you...

Updated: 11:07 a.m. EST (16:07 GMT), February 8, 2006
Bush urges end to cartoon violence

It was only a matter of time, really. You, Daffy, and Yosemite Sam may want to talk to your boy Osama, get some tips on hiding out.

Go with God, my big-eared friend.

[Update, 1:34 PM: Fuck you, Gawker, for stealing my joke. I'll still sleep with you, but forget breakfast!]

Tuesday, February 07, 2006

I think I'm gonna Blarg

If you have plans this Saturday night, my New York friends, now would be a great time to cancel them.

The explicit details of what you'll be doing instead are here. Thanks be to Joe.My.God for concocting this harebrained scheme in the first place.

I'm scared. I mean, I'm excited! Yeah, excited. It's just my liver that's scared.

9 bars + 1 drink per bar + 1 Lilliputian blogger = inevitable disaster

If you don't hear from me by next Tuesday, assume that I'm on an extended date with Betty Ford. Here's hoping that bitch puts out.

Saturday, February 04, 2006

So Helen wants to be a rock-n-roll star

I don't know that I've mentioned this before, but your friend Helen has every intent of being a big rockstar someday. No, really.

The pursuit of an elusive dream such as this one typically requires huge talent, years of toil and commitment, and a good dose of determination.

Someone like me, however, who has zero musical talent and is far too lazy and/or otherwise occupied for any of that other stuff, better have a damn good title for her record. Something beyond catchy...a title that makes the record utterly irresistible to the average music consumer at large.

It occurred to me that I have a wonderful ready-made test audience...a focus group of sorts, to gauge the appeal of some potential album titles. That would be you.

So here's the final list of possible titles. Please vote for your favorite, or feel free to submit your own suggestions:

  • I Don't Remember Eatin' That! [my favorite post-belch line]
  • Percocet Wishes and PBR Dreams
  • Kanye West Presents [Kanye makes it a sure thing]
  • Free Porn DVD Inside
  • Teenage Waistband
  • Everything's Better With Kanye
  • Low Hopes and High Fiber
  • Helen Loves Kanye
  • Everyone Loves Kanye
  • Top 40 Music is for Smart Awesome People Like YOU!
  • Get Behind Me Kanye
  • Clap Your Hands Say Kanye!
  • Oprah's Record Club Selection of the Month
  • A Million Little Pieces [hey, it worked for that other talentless douche]

Okay, there you have it. Now git out and vote! I'm gonna go, like, learn how to play the guitar, or something.

Wednesday, February 01, 2006

Inside the Actors' Potty Mouth

Not that most of the crap I throw your way IS safe for work...but this really, really isn't. Zach Braff makes life worth living. (Thanks Dan.)

While we're giving thanks...I'd like to express my sincere gratitude to Mrs. Poguego, of the Kansas Poguegos, for producing one of my favorite people 30 years ago today. That Charles...he's a lovely boy. Doesn't look a day over 27.
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