MY LATE-NIGHT NAUGHTY DIARY
I really do update my diary of True Tinseltown Tales every day. Meaning, once within a 24-hour period.
XXOO -- Rachole
Oct. 15, 2003 9:06 pm
Well, tonight's excuse is also a good one: I'm headed out to March Air Force Base in Riverside to spend 12 hours with my darling little brother, Sam. And I've got to go like 15 minutes ago. (Wow - a gunshot just went off outside my apartment!! Am I living the life, or what? It's hard to leave this place, even for just one night. I just miss all the excitement!)
Ya know, as I'm typing this latest excuse for a thin entry, the brusque words of my college drama professor are echoing in my head: "Never apologize, never explain!" A good approach, in many ways, to this dog-eat-dog world. Approach life with confidence and without excuses, and not only will others respect you more, but you'll live a more full and authentic life. Right?
However, this woman also happened to be the biggest asshole on campus. I mean, a horrible human being. She even pushed my music teacher off the stage! So ironically, her brusque mantra of "Never apologize, never explain"... well, it actually explained a lot.
And now, a picture of me and my mom!
Oct. 15, 2003 12:22 am
Shit, I have what feels like is turning into a baaad headache. I used to get those all the time as a child, but hardly anymore. Except right now.
Can I write something inspired before my head explodes? The pressure's on.
Wait, isn't pressure, as in stress, what causes headaches?
F this. Sorry, faithful readers. You're just gonna have to wait. Ladies and gentlemen, get ready for the New MeTM -- one that takes care of myself and tries to get to bed on time! Disappointing to readers, inspirational to Oprah.
Here, I know what I can do for now:
I'm not sure how many others have experienced the childhood trauma that I'm about to describe, but I can no longer keep silent. Maybe if I go public with my own story, others will come forward, and the healing can begin...
About 25 years ago, my dad, my uncles, every guy they knew, all got perms. Why this happened is an eerie mystery that will perhaps never be explained, like Bob Dylan's bizarre conversion to born-again Christianity. Or the sudden disappearance of the dinosaurs, along with tuna noodle casserole topped with DurkeeTM dehydrated onions. Whatever happened to that wonderful dish?
So here's my dad on a trip to England around 1979.
(Uh, just so there's no mistake, my dad's the Ron Jeremy-looking guy on the left.)
I've titled this photo Dueling Jewfros.
To all my fellow Adult Children of Jewfroholics: I hope this entry proves helpful on our Journey to Healing.
Oct. 14, 2003 1:24 am
Just Because You're Drunk Doesn't Mean You "Get It".
Word to the wise: don't ever approach a homeless man ranting at a bus shelter poster of Ashton Kutcher & Brittany Murphy in Just Married as if you "understand." I don't care if the movie's awful, he's homeless and you're drunk. That still doesn't give you a license to bond. Mind your own beeswax and move along.
Why am I being so adamant about this? Because I learned the hard way a few months ago, that's why. I was almost home free, fresh from the bar and feeling jolly like Santa -- ho, ho, ho! Just a few more shuffles and I'd be home safe.
And then I see this huge, fat, Sasquatch-y man standing at the bus shelter. His face is black with filth. He's standing inches from the glass, flailing his arms like a symphony conductor... and yelling straight into Brit & Ash's shining young faces. I can't hear what he's saying, but the look in his eyes and the way he shakes his head says, Ohhh, I'm onto you now! I've got your number, buster; the jig is up!
Then my nasal vodka voice cuts through the cold air. "You're totally right about that. It's bu-u-ullshit."
Sasquatch turns around. His anger's turned to innocence. His eyes are blank and round and helpless. "Huh?"
That's okay. I'm determined to support him. "What you'rrre saying to them," I slur, "I totallllly agree with you." Where's the smiling Irish bartender, the comfy bar stools, and the hearty drinking songs to drive the point home?
But now Sasquatch is nervous. My heart cracks a little when I see tiny webs of fear threading across his face. "What are you...talking about?" he whispers.
Now I realize I've made a terrible mistake. I've just interrupted a man in the very private business of duking it out with his demons. It had nothing to do with the poster. Who knew what his eyes saw? All I knew was, the bear had been in hibernation. And I'd gone and poked his balls with a stick.
"Oh nothing, it's cool, nevermind." I back away and walk three steps... to my front gate. That's right; I'd chosen my own domestic turf for this summit meeting. Brilliant.
I force the key into the lock. It's cold and I can see my breath. The keys fall from my hand to the ground. I snatch them up and try again. I look up at Sasquatch. He's standing stock still, staring at me.
"Hey," he shouts. "Who are you?" Jamming the key in again. "Uh, yeah, good-night..." I trail off, looking over my shoulder. Sasquatch starts to trudge towards me. "Hey, baby..." he says, eyes burning.
The key slides in and turns. I push the gate open, whiz it shut. Head quickly back towards the darkness, where, if he watches closely, he can see exactly where I live.
Asshole, I mutter as I head straight for the wine glasses. Fuckin' idiot... No, I'm not talking to Sasquatch. For the rest of the night, it's an interior monologue.
Oct. 13, 2003 10:44 pm -- Talking Points
Item # 1: First of all, how on earth did I get to be so stinky? My armpits are amazing! And by amazing, I don't mean amazingly bad... I mean, just plain amazing! Not to toot my own horn here, but I didn't know I was capable of such an odor. It's like a skunk mated with a cannabis plant. Must be the special diet I've been on, which I like to call "The Best Low-Carb Intentions". These last few days, my diet's consisted entirely of Bulgarian Kashkaval, a salty sheep's milk cheese; Guinness stout dark chocolate cake (yes, a chocolate cake made with Guinness stout in the batter - delicious!); coffee; brownies, and beer. Yeah, it's a little redundant. But aren't most diets that way? That's what makes them so hard to stick to!
I went on this diet for my impending trip to Spain in a couple weeks. At this rate, I should get down to my bull-fighting weight in no time. As the bull. (And... rimshot!)
Item #2: How the frick did I manage to get SplendaTM in my phone? For those of you not in the know, SplendaTM is the hot new artificial sweetener that kicks EqualTMs big fat lumpy ass! SplendaTM doesn't cause cancer like EqualTM or Sweet 'n LowTM 'cause it's just genetically-modified sugar. So, while not cancer-causing, it'll probably be found to be responsible for a whole new generation of babies being born with flippers where their heads should be, but whatever...it's simply too slimmingly delicious to pass up!
Anyway, my phone was already shitty. It 's been making this sudden, horrible, electronic shrieking sound, much like my mother would make if she ever read this diary. But now it's been extra fuzzy and crackly. So tonight I took it away from my ear and looked at the keypad. The cracks between the buttons? Filled solid with SplendaTM. How do I know it was SplendaTM? 'Cause I licked it, dummy! I don't make sloppy claims that I can't back up. Who d'ya think I am, George W. Bush? And when I see a strange foreign substance on one of my appliances, you can bet yo' ass that I'm gonna get to the bottom of this mystery and taste it.
Are you sick of my incessant italics and superscripted TMTMTMTM signs? Well tough tittyTM; it's my Damn DiaryTM . If you don't like my stylistic flourishes, start your own!
But back to the SplendaTM in my phone (SplendaTM in My Phone... Doesn't that sound like a good title for a parody album of The Police's Ghost in the Machine?).
But back to the SplendaTM in my phone...But back to the SplendaTM in my phone...
But back to the SplendaTM in my phone: Does my phone have a sweet tooth? Or is it some binge-eating problem that I didn't know about? As soon as I walk out the door, does my 5-year-old V-Tech 900 MHz jump off the cradle, hop into the kitchen and stuff its face? Is everything in my household -- not just me & the cats, but now even the appliances -- dysfunctional? Has the piano been drinking? Is my necktie asleep? --Hey, some bums are screaming obscenities at each other in my parking lot. One bum's stalking the other bum around the parking lot like a panther, only a little more drunk than panthers normally are, and growling, "Fuck you, ya dirty motherfucker. Fuck you, ya dirty motherfucker. Fuck you!!!" And the other bum's just taking it. He must know he's been outta line. I know what it feels like.
Ahh. Seems like there's trouble everywhere in paradise these days. I gotta wonder why the bums, nutjobs and crack-heads always pick my parking lot to settle their scores. Maybe they sense all the cosmic confusion up here and want to let me know that they're going through similar shit. I've got my problems with SplendaTM- eating phones, incestuous homo cats, drinking pianos... and they've got theirs.
I guess, in a way, we're all "telling a friend about Splenda." Thanks, fellas. 'Preciate it.
Oct. 12, 2003 1:22 am -- My First L.A. Recital
Tonight I played a show in someone's house. It was real cool. The people were photographer Robert Peate & his wife Robin Cole, for their "Cloverdale Music" in-home concert series. It was really cool. I dragged my piano & amp & pictures of my cat, Mr. Tacos (essential for set decoration). I shared the bill with a funny singer/songwriter named Chris Valenti. We each did an hour. Real people came and watched, and real food and alcoholic beverages were served. We even walked away with $$ in our pockets. (We went through some lady's purse.)
Me & Chris Valenti (middle) with our gracious hosts, Robert & Robin.
Robin made these awesome snacks that put me on a food bender for the night. (Not to blame her; I've been that way lately. And by the way, how cute does she look holding that baby so...maternally?) I've still got a sweet tooth, but for the last hour I've been on a drinking bender. Do you ever get that way? "I wanna get lit, and eat ice cream." I've got it under control, though, for my special diet. Know how? White Russians with soy milk instead of cream. Try it sometime. And be on your way to a New YouTM!
Oct. 11, 2003 1:40 am -- Sam Got Screwed!
Goddammit, I totally fucked up my little brother's "mail to" link on his last personal ad! To all the hordes of you on the planet who've sent him romantic emails that were all returned... here's why: I'm an idiot! I've corrected the email link on that archived diary entry whoring him out to the world, but also want to publish it once more, with another flattering picture. Do you wanna be my brother's girlfriend? Or just shoot the shit with him? Write Sam Arieff at bridgerun@hotmail.com.
Me & Sam.
By the way, I've glanced over the entry below and realize I need to make a correction. The first word of the entry is "Shit". I meant for it to be "This". It's a typo I occasionally make; as you can see, "shit" and "this" have the same exact letters. Sometimes my fingers get confused, they mix up the order of "this", and "shit" happens. My apologies for the sloppy typemanship. In the future, I will work harder to ensure better quality control for my faithful readers.
Oct. 10, 2003 1:23 am -- Greyt expetbactoions
Shit was one of those inghts when ou thought, "I been writing pretty challengintg yostuffl. how am I gonna meausre to up to it tonights? I got no big edeep insights and i gotta complete another diary entry beofre I go to bed." so what doc you do to cope wtih the pressure? You go out and you buy wa few stupid chocolate martini drinks. and then you get home and you make a cuple whtei Russians. (It's all 'case of your diet. It's tgoo much pressure. It makes you GO CRAZY awith a suger./drunmk binge... "TONIGHT, I'm gonna get drunk & eat a lot of sugar... not 'cuase I'm fliping out from my dumb diet, but 'cause it'll be good for my ART." ) Uejk. oops hand's in the wrong sport on the keyobard. Yeah, you ain't foolin' no one. Be a total pig, but don't do it in the "name of art", you're an asshole & you'd be laughing your ass off yourself right now if you wasn't so damn drunk & sugarified. It really wlas 1:23 am when I started writing this, just like last night. As of to make the quality comparison between the two nights even more obvious. Is that a cruel joke or what? Well, shit, it's not about trying to get the Presidential physical Fitness badge. It's about showigng what can happen to a person from day to day. Shit it ain't pretty that's fur shure.
Hey, who can help me hook up my damn DVE player? I got "Mulholland dRvie " that I bowrorowed from my firend Jeff, siting in my room goin on 2 months now. And wlaaoso aslo also getw my PUR water filter hook3ed on to the fauce right.
I had emn ineteresting things ato say, about ____ and ))______ but now I've olost the nerve 'cause the buzzi s wearing off. I can't talk bout them now.
Look at the "NUt Mail" section & see another drunk pserosn typing, if you didn't get enough of this goodnes.s. t"night. XXOO r?chl.
Oct. 9, 2003 1:23 am -- How to Be Late to a Buddhist Wedding
1. The invitation says "2:00 pm". Leave the apartment at 1:55. You now have five minutes to travel over 100 blocks, from 93rd Street down to Canal. Good going, jackass.
2. Arrive in Chinatown at exactly 2:30 pm. Swim through thousands of people who are all in your way, in the gritty, hot September mist that's accepted as breathable air in New York.
3. Spot the big red boxy Buddhist temple adjacent to the Manhattan bridge. Sprint up the steps and inside, past throngs of neighborhood people watching the ceremony who weren't invited, but are welcome to be there anyway. (No exclusivity here; it's a lovely, community-minded affair.)
4. Enter the cavernous main chapel. Try to quiet your panting and stem your sweating. Giant golden Buddhas built into niches in the walls. Incense burning, shaved-headed, saffron-robed monks chanting in Chinese, gongs ringing. Bride and groom standing at the altar, backs to the audience. Sweet! They never saw you come in late.
5. Look for empty seat in the full room. Spot the one empty seat in the back, next to ex-husband, who's turned to look at you and laugh because, even after not seeing you for a year and a half, you're still always fucking late.
6. Make your way toward ex-husband, scrutinizing his face for expressions that say, "Oh, Jesus Christ! Why, out of the whole damn temple, does she have to sit here?" .
7. Sit down next to your ex. Whisper, "Is it okay if I sit here?"
Watch him roll his eyes at what a dork you are. "Yes," he whispers back.
Wait 60 seconds. Lean in and whisper, "Do you want me to move?"
"No!" he says.
Wait 105 seconds. With excessive mugging that's totally anxiety-based, whisper, "Are you sure?"
"Yes!" he hisses. A couple in front of you turns and looks.
8. Worry that you'll start to remember your wedding. Force yourself to concentrate on the details of this wedding happening before you. Determine not to upset yourself by comparing the thoughtfulness of their wedding to the impulsive, Romper Room atmosphere of yours.
9. Notice for the first time the 4 videocameras taping the event from opposite corners of the room. Great. You're busted. Your late arrival's been documented on film.
10. The groom begins his vows. "Lisa, my heart bursts with love for you." He's interrupted by the sudden intrusion of Beethoven's Ode to Joy. Someone's fucking cell phone. The congregation titters ruefully. What unfortunate timing, right in the middle of the groom's vows! Several people lean forward, making sure their phones are turned off. An ancient Chinese man videotaping the event is discovered to be the culprit. He keeps filming, stone faced, never once looking embarrassed or cracking a smile.
11. Ten minutes later, Ode to Joy rings out again. The congregation shake their heads this time. How could you not turn your cell phone off after the first time? The cameraman remains stone-faced...and still makes no move to turn his phone off.
12. Five minutes later, in the middle of a chanting-gonging portion by the monks, a tinny version of Wagner's Flight of the Valkyries rings out. Someone else's phone! What the hell? Watch in astonishment as one of the monks reaches in his robe and answers his Motorola V66.
13. Enjoy the rest of the ceremony. Her family's Jewish. His family's from India, and they're either Hindu or Christian. But no one in the wedding party is Buddhist. They've thrown in some Jewish rituals, like breaking the wine glass, along with the Buddhist stuff, like the bride kicking over a bowl of rice (a good-luck thing for the bride's fertility). You see why the Buddhist ceremony works so well. It's spiritual but non-specific, meaningful but not formal.
14. Later find out you hadn't missed as much as you thought, 'cause the ceremony had started late. Something had gone wrong, someone wasn't ready, and the first ten minutes of the ceremony was crackling dead air.
The bride and groom's reactions to the way things went was perfect Buddhism. Even with the fucked-up beginning and the phones ringing, they just accepted it as part of the overall scheme of things. It wasn't about clinging to formality or rituals, or clinging to what should be. It was about working with what was. To harp on what should or shouldn't have happened would've created unhappiness.
After the ceremony, everyone walks over to a neighborhood Chinese restaurant for Dim Sum. There's a big dance floor awaiting, and the worst DJ in the world. The waiters begin to bring the food out, which is breathtakingly delicious. The music starts. People begin dancing, and they'll dance all night long. Beer and wine are unlimited. Your ex has hit bottom about 4 times and has recently given up drinking and smoking. You're impressed as he sips club soda all evening. You keep getting up from your table to talk to him (he's not socializing all that well with his group, and keeps shooting you pleading looks to rescue him). You talk to him more than anyone else that night, even more than the two high school classmates sitting next to you at your table who you haven't seen since you were kids. Your ex tells you that, a few times this evening, he's gone over to the tub of beer and caressed the bottles. This last time, a waiter ran up with a bottle opener and your ex backed away, shaking his head apologetically, into the men's room, and just stood there for a few minutes.
The DJ plays "Hava Negilah" and the bride and groom are raised up in their chairs for the Chair Dance. All the guests form two huge concentric circles and dance, grasping each others' hands, around the bride and groom. His Indian relatives from Bombay are dancing and singing to "Hava Negilah". Later they'll dance to disco. It's the most beautiful thing in the world. For some reason, this is the moment you explode into tears. You don't know what to do 'cause your hands are being held while dancing to the "Hava Negilah" and you can't wipe them away and the mascara's running down your face and snot's running from your nose, but you're smiling through it and everyone graciously smiles back at you.
The bride and groom were both at your wedding. Now you're at theirs, and it's a rich evening, much more than you could have imagined. You and your ex even dance -- playfully, apart -- for one song. It feels good just to stand next to him.
Oct. 8, 2003 2:06 am -- Schwartzenegger's Lonely Heart's Club Hand
I don't really wanna stop the show
but I thought you would like to know
Schwartzenegger's gonna sing a song
that he didn't know that groping's wrong.
So may I introduce to you,
the new governor of C-A:
Schwartzenegger's Lonely Heart's Club Hand!
I just don't understand. How can someone lead a state when they don't know that sexual assault is, um, illegal? Yeah, yeah, yeah. I know the answer: It's America, stupid. Lots of people don't know lots of things.
But still, I thought I'd ask. And I know there's other things wrong too -- like the fact that he's a narcissistic nincompoop who'll totally Thelma-and-Louise this state right off a fucking cliff... but come on, I wasn't born yesterday. Even I know that American voters aren't ever gonna object to that.
"What's that you're bitching about? An utter lack of qualifications or a plan? Blah, blah, blah. You with your big words. [Yawn.] Hey, pass the remote! Blind Date is on!"
You'd think, though, that they'd respond to something as lurid as sexual assault. But you know what? They did. My mistake was expecting them to react negatively against alleged sexual assault, not in favor of it. Yes, alleged; I am fair. (Though he did vaguely admit to it, blaming "rowdy movie sets". The tone of which is never set by the star. Oh no. It's all just peer pressure from the crew. Those people are animals. If the highest-paid A-list star in Hollywood doesn't fall in line with the sexually aggressive culture of the grips, best boys and craft servers, his name'll be dirt!)
And yes, sexual assault. You wouldn't know that, from the way the papers utterly neglected to ever publish that fact. But indeed, grabbing someone's tits, twat, wad, balls, or ass without their consent is legally defined as sexual assault.
Though I suspect that if some dicks and balls had been grabbed, Arnold wouldn't have had a chance in hell. 'Cause let's face it: men can't stand unwanted sexual advances from other dudes. It drives them batshit! I mean, it's just totally fucked-up to have some fuckin' dude grab your fuckin' junk. Why should I even have to explain it?
Women, on the other hand, love it. It's like totally flattering; it makes them feel special.
So anyway, in Arnold's case, it would be what, more than a dozen cases of alleged sexual assault.
(Whistle) Whew, Gov. That's quite a handful. High five!
Oh, I know. I gotta accept that this was the Will of Das People. I've gotta get out of my narrow way of thinking and broaden my mind to the endless possibilities of American "democrazy". (That was a typo - "democrazy" - but wow! Maybe there really is a God up there, laughing its ass off.) Yep, that's right. Gotta broaden my mind.
Heh-heh. Broad.
Lift your skirts, Ladies; the future President of the United States comin' through -- your panties!
To paraphrase the words of another brilliant gubernatorial candidate, Clayton Williams (aka "Blatant Millions", who lost the Texas Governor's race to Ann Richards in the early '90s, partially 'cause of the following comment):
"Having Arnold for Governor is a lot like rape: you might as well just lay back and enjoy it!"
Still clueless what you're gonna wear for Hallowe'en? Get your Scary Maria Shriver and Arnold MasksTM today!
Oct. 7, 2003 2:40 am - The Texas ExactoTM Massacre
It was summertime in Austin, Texas. I was 22 and living with my boyfriend Pete, a kindhearted 20-year-old peckerwood (his word, not mine). I was fresh out of college. He was fresh out of prison.
"B & E," he'd say in his Fort Hood drawl, between drags on the cigarette he was always smoking. "Breakin' and enterin'. Got a rough start. But I've learned my lesson. I'm straight as an arrow now."
And he was. He'd been and out of mental institutions, court houses, and juvie jails before he was out of his teens. When I met him, he was 19 and all slimmed down from his year in boot camp. "Boot camp made me a man," he'd say. And he'd straightened out, for real. As long as I knew him, he was never dishonest or violent. He was delivering pizzas for a living. Before that, he'd mopped the floors at SizzlerTM. He was working his way up. And he was too good for me.
My best friend from college, Clara, had come all the way across the country to move in with us. Pete didn't mind at all. "The more the merrier," he'd said.
My younger brother Sam was a student at UT and also living in Austin. He was going away to Houston for the summer, so I asked him if Clara could borrow his bed while he was away, 'til she could afford to buy her own.
"I don't know, dude," Sam said. "You have some pretty skeevy friends. Remember when I visited you in college and I caught crabs from your nasty-ass couch?"
"Don't be an asshole!" I said. "She's fine. You're not gonna be using it all summer; let her borrow your bed!"
He finally acquiesed, but not without saying, "Well, she better not get her period on it or anything. I better not see one drop of blood on that mattress when I get back, or you're dead."
"Jesus!" I said. "Of course she's not gonna get her period on your bed! Asshole."
Clara was a great painter. She turned her bedroom into a studio and was churning out a lot of work. She and Pete got along well, too. We were like a little family. It was fun.
Halfway through the summer, though, Clara started having a rough time. I'm still not sure what exactly the problem was, but it probably had to do with her drinking, her depression, and the fact that she hated everything. When you examined things up close, you got a clue why.
Clara was too smart, perceptive, and thin-skinned. She didn't have a car, so she took the bus to her job, working the graveyard shift at Pleasureland Adult Video Store. Besides the undocumented Mexican Indian man who came to wipe the cum off the walls in the arcade, Clara was the only employee on duty. And she was getting bummed out by the customers. One night, a guy walked in at 3 am and asked, "Where are your extreme videos?" She pointed him to the poop/bestiality/rape-and-every-other-kind-of-icky-fetish section. He came back to the counter, irritated. "The problem with the chicks in these videos," he said, "is that they're still alive."
Clara quit Pleasureland shortly after that.
Clara had gotten famous at our tiny midwest college when someone found her in her dorm room with her wrists slashed. She was taken to the hospital and sewn up. I didn't know her then. She was just the quiet girl with dyed-black hair from my German class. We became friends a year or two after that. She'd let her hair go back to its natural, strawberry-blonde color, and her beautiful, full face shone underneath. She was into alcohol, and I was into eating and sex. We'd go to seedy bars in town, where I'd watch her sip free drinks from the ancient, raisin-faced owner while he hit on her relentlessly, right in front of his wife. She'd ignore his advances, and watch me pick up seedy guys.
But this summer, everything was different. I didn't go to dive bars with Clara 'cause I had Pete now. And neither Pete nor I really drank. So Clara was the odd man out. She'd go to the Poodle Dog Lounge nearby, and drink with scores of guys she couldn't stand who were all absolutely enfatuated with her.
The guys from the Poodle Dog would call her up, 'cause she'd invariably give them her number or sometimes go home with them while drunk. One or two of them even came over to visit. They seemed nice enough, but Clara loathed them. After a few days of arctic breeze from her, they'd usually blow away. She started to lock herself in her room for evenings at a time, painting or punching on her typewriter, while Pete and I watched TV.
She was a helluva painter.
One night, Pete was in the living room watching TV. I was in the kitchen fixing dinner, and Clara was locked in her room. She'd taken the phone in there to talk to Chris, the latest guy from the Poodle Dog Lounge to worship her. I was slicing some mushrooms when I heard Clara's door open and then Pete exclaim, "What the hell happened to you?"
I leaned out of the kitchen to look. Clara was standing in the living room in a tank top, the bare skin on her neck and chest covered in red paint. The paint was smeared all over her arms, her wrists, dripping from her hands, one of which held a rocks glass, empty save for some melting ice cubes. Her eyes were bleary with vodka and blazing with something more toxic. Through a twisted smile, she hissed, "I think you'd better take me to the hospital."
I started screaming about 911 and looking for the phone. "Just drive me there," Clara said, looking, I swear, the teeniest-bit entertained. "I don't need an ambulance, it costs too much anyway." On the way there, she muttered, "This is my third half-assed attempt." Then she told me how she'd done it: laying on her bed, with one of her ExactoTM knives, while talking to Chris on the phone. "He said he liked me. I said, You bore me. He said, what are you doing now? I said, I'm mutilating myself. I'm so bored talking to you that I have to mutilate myself to deal with it ."
When we got to the emergency room, Clara was belligerant. "Have you been drinking tonight, miss?" an ER worker asked her. "Am I a drunk? Yes, I'm a drunk. There, don't you feel much better than me now?"
They weren't amused. After closing up her neck and wrists with thick staples like Frankenstein, they closed her up, too -- in a mental ward for 30 days. She had no say in the matter, because they'd declared her to be a danger to herself. When I visited her, she was simmering with rage. She wanted out. She had to wait. She had no power, and she hated them.
When she finally got home, the first thing she did was pour herself a vodka on the rocks. She stopped pretending to look for a job. When I got home from work, she'd be sitting in front of the TV, vodka in hand, complaining how everything on TV sucked, everything sucked, period, today sucked, life sucked. Pete was more compassionate toward her than I was. When I told her to leave, I knew Pete was disappointed in me. But I didn't know what to do for her. She wasn't getting any better, and she didn't seem to want to. I'll be honest; I was damn sick of her.
She did leave, after a few weeks. She moved back east. A few years later, I heard a rumor that she was doing junk in New Orleans, but I hope that's bullshit. She was a great painter and wrote lovely letters on her typewriter. And I wish I'd admired her a little less and been more of a friend.
Sam got back from Houston and came for his bed. I watched his face as he stood over his once-pristine mattress, now sporting a smeared, manhole-sized bloodstain. His eyes blinked. His mouth opened to speak.
"I know, I know. I'll buy you a new bed tomorrow, okay?"
"Your fuckin' friends..."
"I know, asshole, you're right. Just not now, okay?"
"All right. But later, asshole..."
"Fine, asshole. Later."
Oct. 6, 2003 10:19 pm -- The Sexiness Never Stops!
I'm trying to lose weight before me & Smokin' Grandma do our big show in Spain, so I went on a low-carb diet.
I have to say, if anything else, I'm impressed with my efforts. Like tonight, when I got home, I cleaned out my fridge. I took all the food in the fridge... and put it in my stomach. I'm not stressed out about it 'cause, like I've said before, I can always throw it up. And now the fridge is clean.
Sometimes it's really worth it to get a healthy, fresh start.
Anyway, so I've had these little chocolate-covered orange sticks from Trader Joe's in my fridge for about two years. Seriously, I remember buying those candies when I was still married and living in that unbearable neighborhood near the $cientology Celebrity Center! Anyway, for the last 6 months, the same 8 orange sticks have been in there. I didn't tend to eat them except when binge-eating under exceptional Subterranean Superstar Circumstances.
Well, tonight was the big night. I tried one and couldn't stop. Then, as I was reaching for the second-to-last one, I saw against the clear plastic of the container, resting next to one of the sticks... a pube. Yeah. A big, black, curled-up-into-a-perfect circle pube. Probably my ex-husband's. God, I hope it was. Right next to the orange stick I was just about to go for.
If you're guessing what happened next, you're right. Careful not to bring the pube with it, I caaaarefully lifted the orange stick out of there with a tweezers -- just like in the game "Operation"! -- and popped it into my mouth. Then finished off the remaining one.
Whew, that was close. If I'd ended up pulling that pube from my mouth, that would've been a trip down memory lane I'm just not ready to take.
Oct. 5, 2003 12:49 am -- Grief: The Great Confidence-Builder!
I love life. I feel the need to say this at the top, lest some people misinterpret the following statements to infer that I'm not "happy". And by "happy", I shall use the popular definition:
"Under the influence of a narcotic-like illusion permeating American culture, fueled by the fleeting euphoria that results from obtaining consumer goods, social status, and shit."
Until recently, I'd always been terrified of singing. Not singing itself, which I've always loved, but of others hearing me sing. Why? Because this was the form of expression where I felt most vulnerable. I grew up in a family that expressed itself through humor, but not heartfelt emotion. (Wisconsin, anybody? A Jewish dad and a Norwegian-German-Christian mother? There, now you understand.) Opening yourself up like that was fucking embarrassing. No one did that. So I'd sing along to my Who, Zeppelin, ABC, Fun Boy Three (yep), and X albums in the safety of my bedroom, with the door locked. 'Cause if anyone walked in, I'd totally die.
I was terrified to sing in front of people because I was worried they'd think I was horrible. I was worried what they'd think because I was young and protected and I had nothing else to worry about.
At some point, though, in the course of doing standup, I realized that the best stuff came from being real. But though I wanted to, I couldn't strip away the mask. My psychological defenses would spring up when I was on stage and separate me from the audience. I wasn't ready.
This is where the beautiful brutality of life comes in (though depression helps, too). The more shite rains down on you, the more you become too tired to care. You just don't have the energy to worry about what people think. And then, suddenly, you just do it. You're singing. Or painting, or speaking plainly and clearly in a way that you haven't before. You laugh and cry. You are.
Once you stop examining everyone's faces around you to see what they think of you, you're free. Then you become the wound, and the seepage becomes your performance.
If this sounds depressing to you, maybe it's because, in this culture, achievement is always framed in terms of happiness, progress, and winning -- not failure, decay, or death. But those are just as much a part of life as the first three, so why not acknowledge them too?
Isn't it more depressing to be a prisoner of your own hangups, frozen in fear, afraid to open your mouth? Refusing to move forward, backwards, or even sideways? Stationary things rot. And rotting's a form of moving anyway, so there's no holding on to anything, baby. Bottom line: we're all drifting towards that big doorway at the end of the hall. To paraphrase David Letterman after his heart attack, "Suddenly, you realize there's no U-turn."
All the more reason to cut the crap and let it go. You don't
have forever, fool. Fuckin' sing.
Oct. 4, 2003 2:22 am --
Just got in from a going-away party for Cheryl, the lovely Ramada bartender, at the Escape Room in Koreatown. Had some alcholol, not much. Thought it didn't affect me, but look how I spelled "alcholol". "Alcholol. Alcohol that makes you Laugh Out Loud. Alcholol." There. I just updated next year's spelling bee. You don't have to thank me. It was nothing, really.
One more bit of info I'm sure you'd wanna know:
Tonight when I got home, as I walked through the doorway, I announced to my cats: "Hiiiiiii Faggots. Mommy's feelin' weird... just so you know."
You see, I don't like to ambush them with my mood swings. Besides, they're cats, fer chrissakes... so it's not like they don't understand.
Oct. 3, 2003 2:02 am -- Rite O' Passage
You know you're finally started taking care of yourself when you ask the bartender, "What kind of vodka is best for my skin?"
Oct. 1, 2003 10:55 pm -- The Power Pee
I realized tonight -- kind of a repressed memory -- that one of the things that made office jobs so unbearably depressing was having to listen to the women pee. These women had personalities that ranged from the horrible to the passable, but it wasn't about that. It was the way they peed that got to me. And the stunning universality of it, which my friend Skipp cleverly dubbed "the power pee".
Here's the thing. When it comes to peeing, everyone's got their own style. My style is, unless the bathroom's revolting or there's a fire, I take my damn time. This goes for when I'm at a job, too. Relax, kick back. Daydream. Take a pen and notebook with me and scribble some poetry, a song arrangement, or stream-of-consciousness notes in the privacy of the stall, under the hypnotic hum of the fluorescents. I was certainly never in a hurry to get back to the grey holding pen that was my cubicle. So I'd sink into the quiet anonymity of the Ladies' Room and enjoy my little study hall.
Until the door bangs open and curt heels slap the hard tiled floor at a clip. Making a beeline for the stall next to me. The stall door groans as the armored body hurls itself into the stall. Door bangs shut. The whole unit of stalls, including mine, recoils. I hear hands pawing frantically at that silly, bullshit ring of paper you yank out of the dispenser to protect yourself from toilet seat germs. I never use those damn things since I've never figured out how to do so without it somehow catching my stream, making me urinate all over myself. I prefer the old-fashioned way: cover the seat with 2 neat strips of toilet paper. There. Was that so hard?
But back to the frantic pawing. The frantic pawing is followed by the one and only pause you'll hear during this whole episode. Then, the BLAST of urine. I mean, angry, out-of-control, Hoover Dam-Just-Broke-Run-For-Your-Life, beastly gushing that has to make a dent in the toilet bowl when it hits, it just has to! I look down and see perfect, manicured toes cradled in impossible pumps. I look down at my own feet and see my dad's. More frantic pawing at the toilet paper roll. It sounds like someone's being murdered, like when John Lithgow strangles that lady in the bathroom stall at Grand Central Station in De Palma's Blowout. I've ceased to breathe and start drawing my feet up, worried I'll be discovered and snuffed next. Then the starchy sounds of pleated pants being pulled up with one yank, the clink of a designer belt buckle, and a deafening flush.
This whole thing has taken less time than it takes me to get my pants down. The question screams in my mind: How can anyone be so eager to get back to the job that made them that way in the first place? Well, that question just kind of answered itself, didn't it? The heels clip across the tile again with the velocity of self-loathing. Water blasts from the sink for just a second, more frantic pawing at paper towels, then the heels tick-tick-tick across the floor 'til I hear the door shut with a sigh.
So do I. I know I'm not gonna write anymore today. How the hell can you hear the music through all that gunfire?
WANNA READ MORE OF MY DIARY?
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