August 10th, 2003 2:19 am "Oh, the Mediocrity!"
It's Sunday and you're missing work. I can tell. You wish the weekend would hurry up and end so you could leave your friends/family and your yardwork/barbecues/beaches and get back to your grey cube and the grey air coming from the grey vent originally white but now black with vaporized Los Angeles breathable filth that no one's cleaned in the 30 years since they installed the vents 'cause nobody gives a damn about you or anyone else on the 6th floor. There's 33 floors in this monolith; do you really think they give two baboon turds about the Oompa-Loompas on the 6th? You're barely above the people in, like, H.R.

Anyway, to satisfy your corporate craving, I've included another heartwarming email from my temp job, indicating that they've assessed our IQ's at a level such that it's necessary to circulate a company-wide memo on How to Correctly Create a Password. (I've thrown in a little color commentary of my own, 'cause I'm a Team Player.)

----Original Message-----
From: Communications (TIIG)
Sent: Monday, July 28, 2003 4:51 PM
To: Z-TACorp-Audit-Group-LA-x; Z-Procurement Services; Z-TLRS-LA; AIT Internet Team LA; Z-TA-RS-Homeoffice; Z-TIIG-HO-Employees
Subject: Security Awareness Month: Passwords

From: Cathy Price, Vice President, Human Resources, A*G*N Financial Partners

To: A*G*N Employees in Los Angeles

This week's focus is on passwords. [Yaaay! Passwords!]

Guessing or cracking your passwords shouldn't be a piece of cake [Mmmm, cake!], but creating strong, effective passwords can be. Use your imagination [WHAT? "Imagination?" But we work in Insurance.] when creating your passwords. Here are some guidelines:

· Use at least six characters [I can count to six on my fingers! Yaaaaay!]

· Use both upper- and lower-case letters [Hmm?]

· Include both letters and numbers [Wait, I'm getting confused. Can I take some notes?]

· Use special characters such as #$%^&! [But I thought we weren't allowed to swear here.]

· Do not use names of friends, relatives or pets [That's cool, 'cause my family, friends & pets all have the same name: "Killer."]

· Avoid words found in a dictionary [You're preaching to the converted!]

· Intentionally misspell words [U meen peeple doo it sumtimes by aksident?]

· Use phrases or combine words [I am a writer, and I can honestly say I have no idea what you're talking about.]

· Do not use personal information such as birthdays, hobbies or favorite teams [Yaaaay, "birthday!" Cake! ]

Spam: It's Not Just Luncheon Meat...

Ooh, I love that part! "Spam: It's not Just Luncheon Meat." That made me chuckle! That shows that they have a sense of humor. But they also care enough to mean it seriously, too. 'Cause if there are people mentally deficient enough to need to be told how to create a password, then these same people probably also eat Spam, and consider it "luncheon meat". Of course, no one has the heart to tell them otherwise, because, as I said before, this is a Kompany that Kares^TM. It really does! :)

In my opinion, there's only one thing that would have improved this email: They could've made it really easy and just supplied a password for everyone to use. Like "password".
Then we wouldn't have to do all this mental gymnastics! ; )

Oh, and maybe they could've added one other point:
"Don't write a security email so inane that some snotty temp is gonna post and make fun of it on the World Wide Web."

Like, have a nice day! >:)

August 8th, 2003 11:17 pm
"I can't imagine how The Power of Positive Imaging could possibly be of any use to me."
I would like to do a better job Living My Life Using Available Materials, so I went down to the magnificent downtown library and checked out Dr. Norman Vincent Peale's book, The Power of Positive Imaging. I actually wanted The Power of Positive Thinking, but as I've made clear before, my reading skills ain't all that, and I, like, misread the title.

I had high hopes for this book. Till I read the first three lines.

"Suppose a trusted friend came to you and said, 'There's a powerful new-old idea that people are talking about, one that I think you should be aware of. It's a concept available to all of us that can shape and change human lives for the better in an astonishing way.' What would you say?

"You'd say, 'Tell me about it!' Wouldn't you?"

And that's where he lost me. 'Cause, uh, no, I wouldn't. Where'd this guy been living, Atlantis? With all due respect to the late Dr. P. (died 1993, aged 95), he'd obviously managed to get through life without ever having met a $cientologist^TM, Lifespringer^TM, Forumite^TM, Herbalifer^TM, Est-er^TM, or salesperson from Bally's^TM.

"It was a different time and place," people always say.
Is that what it is? 'Cause if a "trusted" friend gave me that "powerful new idea I think you should be aware of" pitch, I'd say, "Gosh, look at the time!" and I'd bolt. Because at that moment, my friend would've revealed to me that they were no longer my friend, but a member of a creepy cult, a body without a soul, whose job it was now to co-opt more bodies and souls into the Dark Side.

I hate to say this, but if the adorably trusting Dr. Norman Vincent Peale had been born in 1958 instead of 1898, he would've fallen right into the talons of the $cientologists and ended up being one of the biggest, highest-paid box office sensations in Hollywood. Maybe he'd have even been one of those assholes running for Replacement Governor of California right now.

So I think for the Reverend Doctor's sake, things worked out pretty damn sweet for him. Rest in Peace, master. Grasshopper thanks you for the books anyway.

THE NEXT MORNING, 9:23 am:
Oh, what a cruel cosmos we live in. This morning, on my way to take a tinkle, I glanced at The Power of Positive Imaging laying on the floor.
My cat, Charles Van Doren, had thrown up all over it.

August 8th, 2003 1:38 am
"Neat! I got an email from work!"

This is an automatically generated Content Filtering notification. The data is Profanity Strings and the action is Message Quarantined (Content Filtering).

We apologize, but our automated e-mail scanner, which looks for key words in several categories of dangerous or inappropriate messages, blocked delivery of your e-mail message (see details below).

This scanning is an automated process. In our desire to provide a safe computing environment for our employees, we may have erred on the side of caution and blocked legitimate business e-mail. If this is the case, we sincerely apologize for the inconvenience and would like an opportunity to resolve the problem quickly and to your satisfaction. Please forward this message to the Enterprise E-Mail Team at postmaster@****usa.com <mailto:postmaster@****usa.com> for immediate action.

If you are not a customer or business partner, we hope you can understand and respect these necessary security measures, and that our e-mail system is restricted to business messages only. Thank you.

Message details are as follows.
*****
From: rarieff@sbcglobal.net
Subject: Discotown Rocks Using Available Materials/Rachel & Joe's Comedy-S*x Show
Date: 2003-08-08 03:16:12
*****

Damn right they blocked a legitimate business email. It's Discotown!, goddammit! What's more legitimate than that? See how, savvy from my experience with Corporate America^TM, I tried to get past the fascist filters by spelling it "S*x"? I write from my temp job to my brother in Qatar (he's in the Air Force) and we've learned to spell things like "fucckers" and "bbitcch" and "shiit". Must've missed something in this email. Now it's officially classified as Dangerous Profanity Strings, Message Quarantined.
Ooh, I feel so important now!

So come to Discotown! this Sunday. It's now been officially deemed "dangerous"^TM.

August 7th, 2003 12:43 am
The grand old Treasury Building downtown is being renovated. During the day, two doorways stand wide open to the street. Each doorway leads to a separate cavernous, dusty lobby. Inside each lobby is a sixtyish-year-old man in a suit -- one Filipino, one Middle Eastern -- sitting at a beat-up desk. I was walking past the first doorway on my lunch break today when a voice inside shouted, "Hello! How are you?"

"Fine, how are you?" I replied and walked inside. It was the little Middle Eastern man, in a perfectly-pressed tan suit.

"Wonderful, now!" he sang. On the desk were a radio, an Arabic newspaper, and some dusty papers.

"What is your name?" he asked.

"Rachel," I said.

"My name is Farhad."

We shot the shit for a minute or two, until I told him I had to be on my way.

"Please, stop by again!" Farhad said. "Let me take you to lunch one day and spend time with you."

"Okay," I fibbed, backing away. "It was great to meet you, Farhad."

"Please, take this," Farhad said, pressing a small rectangle of paper into my hand. "Call me sometime. We'll spend time together."

Then, still grasping my hand, he drew it to his face and mashed his lips into it.

"Goodbye, honey!" he said.

I walked outside and the Filipino man was standing outside smoking, rolling his eyes like he's heard it a million billion times before.

I didn't look at the piece of paper 'til now. It's actually pre-used scrap paper, but it's been carefully hand-cut into nearly perfect business card size. On the blank side, handwritten in ornate letters, it says,

Farhad.
Cell = (818) 241-5623.
Thank you.

Yes, I particularly loved the "Thank You" part, too. And now I remember: he had a whole stack of these on his desk! Good for you, Farhad -- making the most of a lonely job. I wonder how many of these he gives away each day.

So the moral of the story, boyz-'n-girls, is: Don't wander into empty old buildings where enterprising old men lurk, unless you wanna get some action!

August 5th, 2003 10:33 pm
Every day, I wake up exhausted at 6:15 am. But on good days, I force myself out of bed and onto my bike for my morning hill routine. I finish in 1.25 hours, rarely with any time to cool down or stretch out, very bad -- only shower & rush off to work. Arrive exhausted & damp, but weirdly high for the rest of the day.
Went to Victoria's Secret today on my lunch break & spent, shit, 50 bucks on two 36C boulder-holders -- the same size as my dad. I realized how far I've come since my college days, when me & my roommate used to shoplift all our foundations from Meier's^TM, the Wal-Mart^TM of the Ohio Valley. Do you know they sell mints at Victoria's Secret now, two tiny tins for $5 -- bitch, pu-leeze! With the $5 I didn't spend on skank-ass mints from a butt-floss store, I bought two slices of crappy pizza from "Checker Cab" pizza parlor. Even crappy pizza is pretty good compared to other crappy food, like bargain Chinese.
After work, I limped over to the stunning Central Library, where I checked out a book by the 20th century thinking man, Gurdjieff. I got it 'cause the guy who works in the coffee shop in the lobby where I work recommended it to me in one of our revelatory chats on my 15-minute break. Though he read it in Russian. So yeah, I went to the library to get it. Could I behave any more like an infatuated schoolgirl in a dopey Ron Howard movie?

I walked to the subway, and on the corner of Hell & Broadway -sorry, Hill & Broadway, were down-and-out men slumped in doorways, pressed against the walls like gargoyles. A filthy Indian dude stood on the corner, selling batteries out of a carry-on bag. But what made my heart seize up was a homeless, white-haired black man in a motorized wheelchair with an oxygen tank strapped to his back and clear plastic tubes running to his nostrils. I heard him before I saw him 'cause he was parked in the middle of the sidewalk, screaming "AAAUGHHH! AAAAUGHHH!" A young dude in cornrows and basketball getup stood next to him, looking helpless but not panicked. "Is he okay?" I asked him, looking into the screaming man's tearful, enraged eyes for an answer. No one responded, so I continued on to the convenience store to buy a monthly subway pass. On my way to the train, I passed the old man motoring towards the subway station, still yelling, his friend by his side. I guess if you were an old skid row guy in a wheelchair with an oxygen tank strapped to your back, you might be screaming too.

Now I'm home, and I just opened the Gurdjieff book. Damn, it's hard to read. So I close the book and walk to the fridge. And I've just said this for the benefit of my cats: "Mama's gonna be naughty, and she's gonna have some fucking chocolate."

August 4th, 2003 10:02 pm "My Love Liiii(yawn)ffffe"
All right. I have something to confess. Most of the world (meaning the 62 people on the planet who read my WorldWideWebTop Secret Diary Keep Out ThisMeans,Like,YOU!!) thinks I'm in a post-divorce, nunnish funk, especially since I said so myself just, what, six days ago?
But the truth is, I have several boyfriends and I might as well shout it to the cyber-heavens. Why? 'Cause it's scandalous and shameful. And hopefully entertaining? Anyway, here's the List of the Lucky:
WHO: Vladi, the man who sells coffee in the lobby of the building where I temp.
WHY HE'S A GREAT BOYFRIEND:
1) He's awesome to talk to! Why, only the other day, I walked in there just to buy a medium cup o' joe and he looked into my eyes and said in his musical Russo-Armenian accent, "You look sad, Rash-ell. Why?" I started bitching about how I wish I wasn't working there, how I wished i could be making a living performing, blah, blah, blah. He said, "The job doesn't matter. The act of creating is instant. It happens all the time, for me every day. (He's a musician and lord knows what else). I get ideas all the time. Do you think I like being here, serving coffee to people? When I lived in Russia I was traveling all over Europe, playing music. But ten years ago I move to the U.S. and everything change. Now I serve coffee. But I still have ideas. I still play. And I am always me, no matter where I am." After a pause, he said, "You seem like you need help, Rash-ell. Can I do anything for you? Do you need anything moved? I feel like a woman today; I want to move furniture."
2) He's married and has a kid.
3) He has no idea that we're together.
WHO: My friend Jackie Beat.
WHY HE'S THE MAN FOR ME:
1) Three words: hilarious, hilarious, hilarious...drag queen. OK, that's 5. Sorry.
2) He's inspiring: lost over 150 pounds (he used to be large-'n-lovely) and really takes care of himself. No drinking, smoking ("Once in a while I'll take a pill - I love pills!" he says) or sugar for over a year.
3) He's a great singer! Gee willikers, it's just like watching Dolly Parton sing... if she'd taken lots and lots of testosterone injections.
4) As a man, he's sweet and soft-spoken. As a woman, he's a gorgeous, vulgar, loud-mouthed slut. Plus, he's got great knockers. No longer will I have to choose "which team I'm on"!
5) Gay. No duh.
6) I could borrow his clothes & my Discotown wardrobe would triple in size!
7) He has no idea we're together.
WHO: My Greek landlord, Angelos.
WHY HE'S MINE:
1) He looks fabulous, and I'm not kidding: petite, trim body with perfect posture and a tanned, handsome, chiseled face. A full head of bright white hair, always perfectly combed and Brylcreemed^TM back so you can see the grooves where the teeth of the comb went through. Shoes always shined, shirts always starched, pants always pressed -- kudos to the Mrs. for her hard work!
And he's 70. Perfection!
2) Fatherly, protective. Angelos chased the mailman, whom he's known for 30 years, away with a hammer after he talked to me. "Don't you talk to her; get out of here!" he yelled, swinging the hammer high in the air above the mailman's head. The mailman grinned, gave a friendly wave and beat it.
4) Affirming. Every time I see him taking crap out of the shed, filling the shed back up with crap, or hosing down the parking lot while threatening the vagrants on the other side of the fence, he opens his arms wide and shouts, "Hello, beautiful!" Then a kiss on the cheek. When I ask him how he is, he says, "Not so good, not so good." (He's got bad heart trouble.) "But now I see you, I feel like a million bucks!"
3) Married to my landlady. She's great too. (see directly below).
4) Not gay, but has a promising gay sensibility. He gave me an autographed 8x10 of Telly Savalas that said, "Dear Angelos,"(and right there, someone had written, in another colored pen, "Tsoukalas" - dear lord!) "Who loves ya, baby?"
He also gave me a browned, matted poster of Lucille Ball in the famous "Vitameatavegemin" picture.
5) Utterly clueless that we're going out.

August 3rd, 2003 11:19 pm
Today my Greek landlady from Glendale paid me a visit and described how her neighbor, "a Chinese lady" with 5 dogs, went on vacation for three weeks and left the dogs with 20 bowls of water, 20 bowls of food, and a lawn steadily filling up with dog shit. "She no get nobody to clean it up, Richie," my landlady said. "Richie," [they call me "Richie" 'cause they can't say "Rachel"] "Richie, I go outside and see all that dog shit, I throw out," and she made a sweeping gesture from her belly upward, out into the air. She meant "throw up." I like "throw out", though. Maybe I'll start using it.
I'll tell you now: I'm not at the top of my game. I'm exhausted, having drinked 2 Stoli Vanillas & pineapple at D-town. I've been cutting down on my drinking, really, mostly due to my need to bike in the morning before my day job. It's the only thing that keeps me from feeling I'm rotting away, and i can't get up at 6 if I drink the night before.
But things are looking up. First of all, Discotown! now has its first official intern. His name's Devin and he's 20 and "looking for ways to get out of the house." Fine. No questions asked. He was a big help tonight, videotaping and making & working a spotlight for the comedians. He will save my ass. Which is no small feat, 'cause there's so much of it. I don't know what I did to deserve him, but as I said, no questions asked.
Tonight there was a 10-year-old boy at Discotown! with his dad. I freaked when I saw him and made a point to warn his dad, "Uh, you're welcome here, but please know that there's some profanity." The dad said, "Knock yourself out. Don't censor yourself." I marveled at how cool the dads was to Manuel, a stunningly hilarious and moving performer doing a guest spot on the show. Manuel was cynical. "Yeah, they all say that. And then when you actually start it's a different story." But no, this kid, whose name was Frank, and his dad stayed for the whole show. What killed me was looking over to the couch at little ten-year-old Frank, whose feet didn't even touch the ground, and seeing him clapping and screaming with laughter at fuck jokes. God, I wish the camera battery hadn't died by that point! Judah Friedlander did some good crowd work with them, and when the show was over, Frank said, "The show was very funny." "Thanks, Frank!" I said. "You were funny too." "When?" Frank said. "All throughout!" I said. Then his dad said they were going to go to the NASCAR ride in Universal Studios tonight, but instead ended up in the lounge at D-town. "But was this as fun as going to Universal Studios?" dad asked Frank. "YEAH!" Frank shouted. I almost fainted from joy. A ten-year-old thought Discotown was just as fun as Universal Studios! He'll probably need some therapy after seeing the show, but I'm sure his dad will pay for it. Not bad, ya crazy old broad, not bad.

August 3rd, 2003 1:33 am
I wish I could dump my brains into a bowl, toss 'em with garlic & breadcrumbs, fry 'em up in a cast iron skillet and serve them to a party of swanky folks who really appreciate my efforts.

Gordon with the new bass player from Breech

August 1st, 2003 11:01 pm
I'm sad because my ex-husband didn't respond to my last email. I wonder if he's trying to drop me a hint. You know, like he's not interested or something.
Nah, he'd never do that to me. He knows I can't handle loss. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to run to the video store before it closes, pay my $27 late fee for "The Way We Were", and rent "Truly, Madly, Deeply". It's almost as fun as Disneyland^TM!

WANNA READ MORE OF MY DIARY?