This is what I was preoccupied with in June 2003!
Best enjoyed with a good 99-Cent Store merlot & the smell of your own feet.
XXOO - Rachole

6/14/03 2:51 am
Sorry to dwell on this... but have you ever met a real-life faggot family? Well, here's your chance!
Turns out, in England, "faggots" are a kind of meat ball made from pig's liver and other stuff you might not want to know about.
Yeah, whatever. Seriously dude, the British are weird.

6/13/03 8:12 pm
I know this is a bit too early for a "late night" entry, but I was invited to a party tonight!
On each table in the cafeteria at the insurance corporation where I temp are brightly-colored tent cards announcing menu specials. They're titled "Spirit Lifters" -- blatantly acknowledging the profound depression endemic in the company.
As I mentioned on 6/10/03, the whole damn place is grey...all 40 floors. I think it would be far more effective and less embarrassing to just repaint the joint, but what do I know? I'm just a temp.
But back to the menu, which is written with a forced cheer bordering on hysteria: "June 2-6: Breakfast Burrito Fiesta all week! Enjoy a delicious, warm and different burrito special...a great way to start each day!" It's the same tone you'd use you'd use to distract a loved one perched on the rail of the Golden Gate Bridge.
"Folks! Don't drive home and lock yourself in the garage with the engine running just yet...'Cause this week's Buttermilk Pancake Week! Enjoy the combination of buttermilk pancakes and fresh summer fruit all week long! And for those of you contemplating walking into the Pacific Ocean with your two small children for whom you feel you're failing as a parent -- what with all the O.T. you're working just to keep a roof over their heads, they can't even remember your name -- not so fast! 'Cause it's Crazy Pasta Days June 16-20! Complimentary dinner salad with purchase."
I'll say it again: just repaint the damn place! What's the big deal? White's still professional; even an eggshell shade isn't what I'd call "off da hook". But what do I know? I come home from work, strip down to my undies, and immediately write about it while intermittently screaming "Faggots!" at my cats.

6/13/03 1:40 am
Overheard on the Macarthur/Westlake subway platform today:

1) "That gay Mexican dude, you know the one. He speak French and all that. That shit's heated up, baby!"

2) SHADY DUDE IN WHEELCHAIR: How you doin'?
ME: Fine.
SHADY DUDE IN WHEELCHAIR: You sure?
ME: Yeah.
SHADY DUDE IN WHEELCHAIR: You lost?
ME: No. I'm fine.
SHADY DUDE IN WHEELCHAIR: You tired? You been crying?
ME: No.
SHADY DUDE IN WHEELCHAIR: You're lost, aren't you.
ME: No, I'm not lost.
SHADY DUDE IN WHEELCHAIR: It's okay if you're lost, I can help you.
ME: I'm not lost, thank you.
SHADY DUDE IN WHEELCHAIR: (unfolding map) Let's go in the corner and look at this map, and figure out where you need to go.
ME: Please.
SHADY DUDE IN WHEELCHAIR: [unintelligible] pretty girl, pretty girl...
ME: Please...
SHADY DUDE IN WHEELCHAIR: [unintelligible] such a pretty girl...
ME: Leave me alone.
SHADY DUDE IN WHEELCHAIR: You wanna be left alone?

So have ya heard about the huge active fault line that geologists at USC just discovered? It's so huge, it makes the San Andreas Fault look like a kiddie pool, and it runs right smack underneath downtown Los Angeles. They think it only acts up once every 2,000 years or so. But if and when it does, downtown will be swallowed up faster than a thong in Anna Nicole Smith's dumper.
Which leaves me with the dilemma: should I get a temp job in the
US Bank Tower or not? If it's gonna happen, I might as well get the best seat in the house and enjoy the spectacle for the last few moments of my life.
And don't say, "Why don't you just start temping in Beverly Hills, where I'm pretty sure you can avoid falling down to the center of the planet through a fiery chasm in the earth's crust?" Let's get one thing straight: no apocalyptic carnage could be more terrifying than being in Beverly Hills.

6/12/03 12:10 am
My original Smokin' Grandma (Amy Daulton) emailed me today, complaining that since she moved to NYC, "I have let my ass spread up my back. And, I have been doing butt exercises to help with the matter...and all it has done is made my ass rounder and it now sits between my shoulder blades."
I feel for her. I've also been letting myself go, and now must deal with my own U.A.E. No, not United Arab Emirates -- Unwanted Ass Expansion. Only my ass doesn't creep charmingly upward like a morning glory vine, or a child reaching for its mother's love. No, my ass falls down like a drunk on New Year's Day. It falls like an avalanche at Everest, smothering the screams of innocents. Most annoying is when I can feel it weeping down the backs of my legs like the tears of the Blessed Virgin Mary. It's so fucking irritating!
Well, with all this flowery talk about what's so horribly wrong with me and Smokin' Grandma's asses, I believe I've made my point: it's our differences that make women soooo beautiful!

6/11/03 12:08 am
Mr. Juergen taught Economics and Philosophy at my high school. He was a soft-spoken man with a huge buffalo head and a bulbous, purple nose. He walked through the halls usually with his head cocked to one side, laughing inwardly at something sad and private. If you said "hello", sometimes he would return the greeting warmly. Other times he would sputter a bitter laugh and keep walking, as if you had horribly insulted him but were too stupid to realize it.
Mr. Juergen was notoriously harsh with his students. Stories abounded about how he gave F's where other teachers would give C's, how he made students cry. Yet he had a cult of admirers - mostly lonely, depressed arty guys in trench coats - who followed him everywhere and dropped the name "Nietszche" a lot.
I signed up for Mr. Juergen's philosophy class. I did all I could to show Mr. Juergen how smart I was - mostly by nodding my head at everything he said, as if in recognition of beliefs I already held, and conspicuously rolling my eyes at students who dared to argue with him. I was enfatuated with Mr. Juergen, and wanted him to see how exceptional, how brilliant I was, how worthy of following him around like the others.
Then Murray Lembo started jerking off in class. He had a club foot and deep-set, glittering eyes that made his face look like a mask. His older brother was retarded. But Murray was fucked-up in a deeper, weirder way; we suspected he was autistic. He would be staring at a girl - he chose a different one each day - then start fidgeting around, pushing on the crotch of his pants with his fingers, then graduate to rubbing it, then stroking it. But worst of all were those eyes - black, fixed, like Michael Meyers from Halloween. It was terrifying. He did it to all of us. Our dirty looks did nothing to stop him. Finally, Wendy Dietrich, who was tougher than the rest of us, yelled, "Quit jerking off at me, you fucking freak!"
How did Mr. Juergen respond to this? He didn't. Murray Lembo jerked off with impunity for another week. Finally, a group of us girls went to another teacher, Miss Resick, and told her. Shocked, she asked if Mr. Juergen knew. We said no, and she promised to have Mr. Juergen talk to Murray Lembo. The problem stopped soon after that. I forgave Mr. Juergen for his obliviousness, figuring he was focused on more important things, like the meaning of life and shit.
It was junior year. I wore a pink triangle sweatshirt because I had just learned that it was a symbol for "gay", and thought it was cool and would shock people. I had just gotten an awful Wisconsin perm (is there really any other kind?), and was walking to my locker when Mr. Juergen stopped me. He put his hand on my shoulder and looked into my eyes with what looked astonishingly like love. I remember how my heart leaped. Then, he said, "Oh Rachel, Rachel. I look at you today, with your sweet smile, your new curly hair, and your eyes so full of confidence. So bright with possibility."
I glowed inside. Mr. Juergen continued:
"So eager to tackle life and find out the answers. I can't wait to see who you'll be 20 years from now..."
I blushed in anticipation.
"...when you're completely destroyed." Then he walked away.
Mr. Juergen was insane. Or else he was a complete prick. Either way, he was right. It took me nearly 20 years to learn that.
But at 16, standing in the dust of Mr. Juergen's pronouncement, I was simply more in awe than ever.

6/10/03 1:44 am
I've recently re-entered the World of Temping. I'm working 9-5 in a Darth Vader-like monolith downtown, and everything I've been missing these past few years is all coming back to me as I throw my life into reverse: the lunchtime shopping trips to the "Everything $10!" store in a desperate attempt to acquire a few "business casual" outifts since, haughtily and full of hubris, I dumped them off at the Goodwill two years ago... the acid reflex from bad cafeteria pasta... the suffocating tension in the elevators, as we try to shield our fear and sadness from others... the absolute victory of the color grey - grey walls, grey carpet, grey cubicles, grey faces - and do you think it's any coincidence that the Windows operating system is also grey?...the hum of our hearts as we're turned into machines... the presence of five, that's right, five clocks on the same wall, so you can witness, in five different time zones, time snailing by so slowly that the second hand leaves a sparkling trail... The realization that the highlights of my day are the bathroom breaks and the train rides to and from work, where I have the meditative quiet that I need to plot my own death... -I'm sorry; has this last bit of information startled you? Yes, I take the train. I want to get the most out of this phase of my life as I can, which means absolutely no auditions. You see, I'm finally getting my priorities straight. I love riding the train, and I love Downtown. Hollywood had its chance at me, and it blew it. I've now moved on to bigger and better things, like embarking on my new career path of being a V.P. of Dreams Deferred, or perhaps getting my Ph.D in Psychic Anesthesia. For those of us encased in the corporate world like insects in amber, there's something to be said for the Life Numbly Lived. 'Cause if your senses were up to snuff, you wouldn't be able to bear how excruciatingly uninteresting it all is.
Of course, all this Sturm und Drang dissipates with the arrival of Happy Hour (there's even a martini bar on the top floor!)...only to come back, guns ablazin', and knock you on your ass the next morning. If angst can be incorporated into your daily routine, like shampooing, all the better! Don't worry that you're a whiner or a pussy, even though you are. Just lather, rinse, repeat.

6/9/03 1:09 am
Don't drink a bottle of wine right before your appointment with the chiropractor. That's just dumbass. I did this the other day, and every time he said "Breathe in...now breathe out...", I did it through clenched teeth so he wouldn't get a blast of $1.99 Charles Shaw from Trader Joe's right in the face. Yeah, I'm still at the tender age where I feel that shit should be hidden, okay? Because if your chiropractor finds out you're boozed up on wine, well, you know what he's gonna think: that you're a fucking slut!

6/8/03 5:34 am
I haven't read a book in years. I had a more advanced mind as a 4th grader than I do now. In 4th grade, I was reading Stephen King's "Night Shift" and "The World According to Garp", and "Forever" (there was one dog-eared, jizzed-out copy in the school library). Now what do I read? Fricking "BLOWOUT SALE" mailers from the Guitar Center. So I went to the library, got a library card, and looked for a book to ease me back into reading again.
I chose Kirk Douglas's memoir, "My Stroke of Luck". It's a slim volume in big print. I read the first couple chapters in one sitting. Then I got cocky and skipped ahead.
I saw a picture of Kirk in a formal sitting room, talking animatedly to an elegantly-dressed man and woman. The caption reads, "With the king and queen in their residence in Jordan. What a nice couple."
Sure, he's not the most sophisticated writer. Maybe his editors should've been more strict with him. But come on, it's Kirk Douglas; the man had just had a stroke, for God's sakes! Who was gonna be the prick to tell him, "Even if they were a nice couple, that line makes you sound senile and Jewish. Lose it." How much better would you write it if you were a partially paralyzed, eighty-something born-again Hebe who had to spend every waking hour either in physical therapy or with the rabbi preparing for your second Bar Mitzvah? I just needed something to ease me back into reading, dickheads, and I will not have you judging my efforts, or those of Kirk Douglas.
Fuck you.

6/6/03 2:25 am
Advice from one writer to another: it's okay to write while impaired from alcohol or drug use. Don't censor yourself! Just be sure to "Save As" another file so you can undo your horrible lack of judgement in the morning.
And, in related news, RachelArieff.com presents...

"3 SHEETS TO THE WIND": MY DRUNKEN EMAIL GALLERY
Yeah, I've written a few. All gold. Here's one from last night.

On 6/5/03 11:48 PM, "***@aol.com" wrote:
if I didn't host an Open mic I would totally come down and support your well being... How is life
See ya
Dixon

Here's My Reply. Mom, please stop reading this and go to this cute site about puppies and kittens.
Wjat dp upi sjpst
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, ropsrpuu
Beem rdrininfkging.
Been drinkin’. Took a hwile to find the keys. Fucking rules of epspelling., hwnd, I meant to type “hand placement” on the kekyboard, and shit.
There was more. It went on for much longer, but I humbly feel that this opening paragraph really cut to the chase. The rest was just filler.
There was another one where a comedian friend asked me out on a date, and the hilarity that ensued when I replied, but I tragically seem to have misplaced the dang thing. Really too bad, 'cause he's been asking me to dig it up. Probably wants to use it on his website.

6/2/03 2:23 am
"What a Delightfully Fucked Night!"
Notice how time's going backwards? That's 'cause I finally decided to go back to real time. Maybe I should put "real" in quotes. The longer I live, the more that seems to be the wisest representation of it. "Reality". See? Don't you feel safe and relaxed now?
Tonight was our big Sheena Metal gig: our first "Chicks Rock" showcase in months, at the Lava Lounge. Sheena Metal is the coolest, most down-to-earth promoter I've ever met, and I want to make her happy.
So naturally, tonight ended up totally fucked. I'd booked me & both my Smileytown Boys, Eric Rudnick (aka Titty Trahan, drums) and Garner Knutson (bass). Plus, my Smoking Grandma, Victor Varnado, was gonna to be dancing to our tunes. We were prepared to Shock and Awe the Lava Lounge.
But both Smileytown Boys had unforseen catastrophes and had to cancel. So I had no bass player, no drummer, just ME on the piano (I don't even play guitar, see?) and my SMOKIN', TAPDANCING GRANDMA...doing 30 minutes in a show called, in case you didn't hear me the first time, "Chicks Rock". How could we possibly rock under such circumstances? We were fucked!
I had to find someone to play drums. So I called my dear, faithful friend: bestselling author, Renaissance mutant, and bon vivant John Skipp. He agreed to do it. There was only one problem: neither of us had any drums. So Skipp suggested I find a large cardboard box, inside which he would place his drum kick pedal and a mic; then he'd drum the top of it, also atop of which he'd place a tambourine, a couple of cow bells, and claves. I dug up the box that my IMac came in, and we went to the club prepared to rock.
Then Smoking Grandma arrived, but wasn't feeling well, and left. Now we had no beautiful Smoking Grandma! Nothing was going right! But Skipp and I smiled through our tears, got onstage, and, me wearing my finest platinum-blond, braided wig, Viking horn hat, and homemade Star of David made out of popsicle sticks, and Skipp with his elegant homemade cardboard percussion/installation piece, proceeded to ROCK USING AVAILABLE MATERIALS. A guy in the audience named Kenny D. even helped us out with the plastic eggs that make a cool cha-cha noise when you shake 'em. It was weeeeird.
When we were done, people were shaking our hands, giving us the thumbs-up, saying we were great. Beautiful, generous souls. And at least half of them had British or Irish accents. What the hell?! Why aren't we in England? Like, right now?
Finally, an American who looked like Warren Beatty in his "Heaven Can Wait" period gave me some cash. He didn't even know I had a CD! I gave him a CD...and he gave me more! I didn't understand. Was I supposed to give him a lap dance? Was there a creepy limo waiting? I've seen "Hollywood Madam"; I know what's up! But no - he did it because he was moved to do so. 'Cause we ROCKED HIM HARD... WITH AVAILABLE MATERIALS!

6/3/03 11:48 pm
Speaking of getting "hot", I grew up hearing my aluminum siding-salesman dad use that word all the time, only it meant "angry".
"So this guy tells me he can get his brother-in-law to put a roof (should be pronounced to rhyme with "hoof") on for half my price, and that made me hot. So I tell him, your brother-in-law doesn't know shit about roofing, he'll do a shit job, and you'll deserve it, 'cause you've made a shit decision. And that made him hot!"
Then I became an adult, and I learned the hard way what "hot" means to everyone else. I'd be at a party, talking: "Yeah, well, such-and-such happened, and it made me hot; so I did this, which made them hot; and then they did that, which made me super-hot!"
No wonder I was always getting molested at parties.

6/3/03 11:46 pm
Didja know that when I was in college, I was accused of date rape? I don't know for sure if I was the first female ever to be accused of this offense, but just thinking that I might be the Susan B. Anthony of sex offenders... well, it makes me hot.

6/3/03 11:42 pm
After spending the day cooped up in your apartment with your cats, do you ever look 'em over and wonder, "If they were guys, which one of them would I rather do?"
Oh, and if you're sitting back in judgement saying, "What the hell are you talking about, you fucking freak?", it's because you don't have cats. You don't get it, and you never will.
Oh, and I found out what a "Hot Carl" is.

6/3/03 2:13 pm
Last night I found out what a "reverse cowgirl" is. I can't believe I've gone all these years without knowing - and being MARRIED too! I guess I should just be thankful that I've had a purty enough face to never have done it.
I learned of the reverse cowgirl accidentally, when I went to a party and met the very cool Susannah Breslin, author of the hugely popular reverse cowgirl blog on Salon.com. Now can anyone remind me what a "Hot Carl" is?

6/2/03
Of course it's not 6-3. But it is 3 AM a few days before that. One of the cats crapped a while ago. Man, their crap stinks. I've had to pee for 4 hours & my drawers are wedged way up where they shouldn't be & I probably have candida now. But I just can't pull myself away from my computer. I've got lots of important things to figure out.

Anyone know what kind of hard liquor is best for the skin?

6/1/03
I'm so excited about having this new diary, that I'm cheating a little, 'cause it's still May. Can you tell I was a straight-A student, and also a bulimic? I'm just so excited! Remember how excited Anne Frank was about her new diary, in the beginning of the book?
Bummer. Why'd I have to remember that?

5/31/03
The entry below was written not by me, but by my webmaster, Matt Patterson, who loves to write about poop. You know how he registered my new computer? "Rachel Arieff" of the "Poo Poo" Corporation. Know how he names my web files? "I Like Poo1", "I Like Poo2", and so on... That's cuuute!

5/30/03
Things are bad. I smell. Life is interesting if you like the smell of poop.