I'm back from my vacation, and I really do UPDATE THIS DIARY EVERY DAY! XXOO -- Rachole
Sept. 30, 2003. 12:23 am -- My Stickout Vegas Birthday
My dad took me to Vegas on my 16th birthday. Just me & him. He'd always wanted to take me to Vegas. "Oh, honey, you need to see Vegas. Don't listen to your mother; it's so exciting, you'll love it. The nightlife is just excellent... and stickout entertainment!" Stickout was a term I grew up hearing all the time, from my dad and his colleagues in the Milwaukee siding/home improvement biz. They were mostly Jews, and they almost always used stickout in reference to food: "Have you tried the ribs at Pitch's? They're a stickout!"
I've always been curious how the term "stickout" originated. My only guess was that it described how your belly sticks out after you eat way too much of a good thing.
But, as my dad demonstrated above, "stickout" can also apply to the show-stopping prowess of Wayne Newton, Al Jarreau, or Raquel Welch. "You know who was great? Raquel Welch. Boy, did she put on a show. What a stickout entertainer!" my dad would swoon. Then he'd clarify, "Not like that sourpuss bitch Diahnn Carroll."
I'd never been to Vegas before. We stayed in what was then I think the MGM Grand Hotel. We ate like pigs the whole weekend. I was leery of the glitzy showbiz thing, being an image-obsessed, rapidly-gaining, out-of-control teenage eater. I did enjoy the shows, but throughout every one of them I just couldn't stop thinking, Does this show make me look fat?
Our entertainment itinerary included Siegfried & Roy, a musical female impersonator revue, and something with showgirls in it. We might've seen other shows too, but these are the three I remember. They were all great.
Then, when we were waiting in line for tickets to the showgirls revue, my dad gave me the 411. In a voice similar to the one Homer uses for Lisa, he explained: "Now, honey, this show we're going to see has lots of very good dancers in it. And out here, sometimes they don't always wear...shirts. But it's not done as a dirty thing. It's just part of the entertainment." That was smart of him, 'cause when I actually saw the lines of skinny, g-stringed dancers in their pasties, I only freaked out a little -- not at their tits, but at how skinny they were and how not-skinny I was.
Last January, a terrific Spanish rock-n-roll magazine published an interview with me. They used a number of photos of me performing and whatnot, including one of me in a storefront window, playing the piano in pasties and a pair of my custom-made, rape-preventing panties (men's briefs, so they were really "manties"). But the piano obscured the manties. You just saw bare legs in white go-go boots, a keyboard around the pelvic area, and royal blue, star-shaped pasties. I looked pretty darned naked.
This picture was from my most decadent LA appearance, at a boutique called Filth. The owner, a dear friend of mine who was selling some of my fine products on consignment, desperately needed rent money and had decided to throw a "trashy party" to raise it. The flyer advertised tattoing services, "go-go fags and sluts" and "$5 blow jobs". A DJ, a pissed-off lez band called Smelly Roses, the notorious paraplegic crack-whore/drag queen Lady Bunny, and this future celebrity spokesperson were booked as the evening's entertainment. By the time I got out to play what turned out to be the most exhiliarating 45 minutes of my career, the audience was w-a-s-t-e-d. Just 'cause an audience is mostly gay men doesn't mean they won't shout, "Take off your pastieeeeeeeeees!" "Show it allllllll!"
Thus, in the magazine, the caption for the photo said, "Rachel performing in a Silverlake boutique for an audience of gay drunks."
Well, mom and dad were not happy with that picture. My mom said, "I don't understand why you'd give them a picture like that. Now I can't show that interview to my friends."
My dad was more charitable. "I saw the photos," he said. "I just don't understand why you'd do that, honey."
"Dad," I said, "you're the one who took me to Vegas!" Seeing his blank stare, I began again, more patiently. "It wasn't a dirty thing. It was just part of the entertainment..."
Sept. 29, 2003. 6:13 pm -- Birthday Thoughts
Today's my birthday. Last night I drank a lot and sang karaoke with my friends at the neighborhood dive, The Drawing Room. That was after they surprised me with a homemade cake with candles, onstage at Discotown! What lovely friends! I was so drunk & tired when I got home that my eyes were swimming.
This morning the birthday calls started coming at 8:45 am. I didn't even hear the phone ring, i was out cold. Dad called, brother called, I snored. I finally awoke for Mom's call. I'm lucky to have the kind of family i do. It's of utmost importance in my family to make the birthday call as soon as you can on that day. It's like a contest. Last year on my birthday, the phone rang at 7:30 am. My Uncle Bobby was on the line, shouting, "I wanted to be the first to call you on your birthday!" I got through that day with four hours' sleep just fine.
You know what? Getting birthday cards and calls are great. Let's keep that going. But I also think everyone should call their parents on their birthday and say, "Thanks for going through with it and having me, and not getting rid of me when you like totally had the chance."
Even if you have a bad relationship with your parents, or they horribly abused you, you should still thank them for not killing you in the womb, or in 2nd grade. That should be a new addition to the Birthday Ritual.
On the other hand, if you're a profoundly depressed person who truly wishes you'd never been born, then you should also call your parents on your birthday. Wait until you hear one of them pick up and say "Hello?"
Calmly and quietly, simply say: "Thanks a lot, assholes."
Then hang up.
Happy Birthday, Everybody!
Sept. 29, 2003. 4:00 am
Happy Birthday to me, Happy Birthday to me. I'mm drunk & I'mm bor-ing... Happy birthday to me.
I love my friends.
Untilll the world improves,
Rachole
Sept. 28, 2003 1:12 am -- Life: Good or Bad? Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know. I missed a day. I'm making up for it, though, with two entries. I said I update this diary every day, and I was, but then the structure of my life changed, and now I'm responsible for everything. It's hard! And I'm still trying my damndest, but darn it, sometimes life gets in the way. What life, you ask? Well, tonight I performed in Matt Besser's show, Shut Up & Sing, and then afterwards I saw a movie with my friend Kate of The Lampshades: Dirty Pretty Things by Stephen Frears. Very corny in places, but still enjoyable, with a wonderful lead actor. Oh, and a lovely song by David Byrne during the closing credits: "Glass, Concrete & Stone". I think I learned a great deal musically just listening to that song in Surround SoundTM. It's inspired me to compose more.
Anyway, in the movie, the Chinese immigrant chess player says to the Nigerian immigrant chess player, "People who are good at chess are bad at life." The same can be said for diaries. I admit: there are nights when I won't go out with my friends 'cause I'd rather write in my diary. But tonight, I was good at life.
Except when I tried to make a sharp left turn into an alleyway to get to the movie faster, and ended up smashing into the curb and taking off something big and black underneath my car. It made a horrible grinding sound when I tried to drive. I laid in the alley in my tight poly skirt & blouse like a Cindy Sherman photo and tied the black thing back up to the frame with twine. Shee-yit.
Come to think of it, this is the second time in a row that I've done a show with Kate, hung out with her afterwards and something fucked up happened. Is Kate secretly a voodoo person? The last time we hung out, I wrote about that fucked-upness too. (See Aug. 7th, "A Complicated Eve".)
Sept. 28, 2003 12:18 am -- It's either wine or whine, and tonight I'm going with the grape. I've been going easy on the drinking lately, but tonight I deserve a treat.
As a rule, wine either makes me weepy or horny. This has been proven to me many times, most recently during my visit this month to New York. Shambling home from a friendly neighborhood bar in the East 70s, veins coursing with Shiraz, I pondered: exactly how long after divorce before you stop breaking into sobs during otherwise jaunty conversations with locals you met five minutes ago who innocently ask why you're back in town? 'Cause it's going on 18 months now. Not that I mind personally. I have no shame for myself. I just feel bad for the unsuspecting stranger, who for the last ten minutes was having a perfectly pleasant, lighthearted conversation with me, before I breezily mentioned, "I'll be seeing my ex-husband for the first time since he left." Dutifully, the stranger asks, "So, how's that...goin'?" And then, a few awkward seconds later, "Aww. Aww. Gosh, don't cry. Aww. Geez. Um, is there anything I can do? Aww. Well..." before the stranger splits, leaving the bartender a twenty for an eleven dollar tab.
So, I'm asking. How long before the waterworks dry up? Instantly, my ex-husband's voice rings in my ear: "Cut the crap. You cried in front of strangers when we were together. You've always cried in front of strangers. It's what you do." It makes me smile. And that's why I cry now. What's it to you?
Sept. 26, 2003 2:54 am -- I've just returned from a lovely evening with my friend Monique at a party night called "Big Fat Dick" at Fubar, run by the fabulous Mario Diaz, where they have a Big Dick contest. (No, I didn't win, though I tried with a couple pairs of tube socks stuffed in my jeans. And Alexis Arquette, the Big Dick Contest Moderator, graciously allowed me to present the award -- a blow-up doll -- to the winner.) We danced with gorgeous fags (well, some insisted they were bi), who humped our butts and legs without ever messing up their hair or even sweating! One of my dance partners was Contestant #9, who had, according to the photo, like a 12-inch long wiener, which was hard to imagine on such a graceful, lithe frame. I clapped hard for him during the judging portion, but he lost out to #11, who was another skinny nymphet, but with I swear a 17-incher.
But enough about my love life! Ladies & gentlemen, I've decided that I am going to start a gallery exclusively of photos of my fans, for they are often so cultured and interesting-looking.
This is Ron Zimmerman. He's got a ton of dogs and writes comic books & all other kinds of crap and sometimes is on a Tee-Vee show called 7th Heaven. Many of my fans are such talented, fascinating people.
It's nice that people send me pictures of themselves. Nice pictures, too, like the one above. Not pictures of their dicks or butts, though there is certainly a use for such pictures, which is of course to advertise my stickers.
Once a gentleman from Florida found me on MP3.com and started writing me. He was nice and funny but way off the wall and, of course, a little, um, sexually inappropriate? Yeah, that's right, just 'cause I let well-hung queens hump me on a dance floor doesn't mean anyone can just fuckin' say anything. He sent me a picture of himself standing in a white doorway, which I'm very upset now that I lost. He was wearing all white, all disheveled and crazy-haired, with big square glasses. He looked like the police sketch of the Unabomber, minus the hooded sweatshirt. He dropped enough hints in his emails that eventually I realized he was a resident of a mental hospital. In fact, a couple of his letters appear in the "Nut Mail" column on the left (they're signed "Scott) --Come to think of it, his was my very first Nut Mail! I wrote him again recently, and his email ain't good no more. And now I keep imagining the last scene from "One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest" and getting sad. So if you have a cool picture of yourself, damn it, send it, before you get lobotomized, too... especially if you're from a different country. Then you too can be a Subterranean International Superstar!
Sept. 25, 2003 12:35 am - "Get it together, Bitch! Do you wanna go back to this?"
From: Cheryl Handsful, Director, Human Resources
To: **** Retirement Services Employees Home Office & Field
Now that Fall is approaching, we want to remind you of our "business casual" dress code. We appreciate your cooperation in complying with these guidelines so that we can maintain a productive business environment and project professionalism to our internal and external clients.
It is important to remember that "business casual" attire presents a professional appearance, and therefore must be clean, neatly pressed and in good repair. If you don't know whether a particular item of clothing is appropriate to wear to the office, a good rule of thumb is not to wear it.
Here are the guidelines for appropriate "business casual" attire:
For men: golf/polo shirts, sweaters, sport shirts, slacks and casual shoes and socks. Shirts must have a collar, including banded collars.
For women: casual blouses, sweaters, polo-style shirts, slacks, casual dresses and skirts, and casual shoes.
"Business casual" attire never includes:
Tight-fitting, suggestive or revealing clothing,
Leggings, shorts or jeans,
Tank tops, spaghetti straps, sundresses with open backs,
Sweatpants/sweatsuits,
T-shirts, Flip flops (or other ultra-casual sandals) or tennis shoes,
Hats or visors, or
Clothing promoting a team, product, etc.
Appropriate casual attire for Fridays includes:
Jeans, Tennis shoes, and T-shirts/collarless shirts with no logo.
Managers may set guidelines beyond these requirements for their individual work areas.
If you have any questions about what constitutes appropriate attire, please contact your manager or Human Resources representative.
This is my fucking dad. Isn't he fucking awesome?
If I don't get my shit together with this new at-home drudge job, I'm gonna wind up right back there - wearing my stinky, spaghetti-strapped, Wednesday Worst. But this time, I'd borrow some outfits from my pops.
Sept. 24, 2003 11:58 pm
It's not easy not living in hell anymore. I used to work at this giant black cheese grater downtown with poisonous air and zomboid people, had to be there at a set hour every day that was way too early for me, and be there way longer than I wanted to be, which ideally would have been around 30 seconds. Wouldn't that be great to show up to a job where you only worked one 30-second shift a day? My zit-picking routine could qualify as that sort of job, except I take way longer than that.
Now I've got this job writing absolute drivel at home, which means I can do it whenever I want, however I want. Naked, covered in ants, drunk, high, eating a plate of roasted babies -- the sky's the limit! Never stop dreaming; you can have it all, too!
I used to have to look at insipid corporate "inspirational art". Walls covered with framed glossy photos of an eagle soaring over a canyon ("T.E.A.M.: Together, Each Achieves More."). Now I can surround myself with nudie pics of Gary Coleman covered in baked beans if I want. (Does anyone know where to get such pictures? Wall of Voodoo, in their music video for "Mexican Radio", and Ann Margaret in the movie "Tommy" both utilized baked beans in a way that I know set me on an irrevocable psychosexual path.)
Well, let me amend that. I can't do whatever I want, because at some point, I actually have to do the job. And that's where I haven't been doing so good. In fact, I'm fucking it up, really fucking it up. I am supposed to complete a 77-page document on mortgage rates within a few days. Please don't fall out of your chair from the excitement. I know, it's pretty thrilling. I don't know dick about mortgages, and you know what? I never wanted to. But now I have to research this topic, somewhat, so I can pretend to talk about it on paper. However, in the last three days, when I should've been doing this, I've done nothing but traipse around town, take tap dancing lessons, make salads for my new lo-carb diet, and run around naked and screaming with my cat Mr. Tacos while the other one, a coward named Charles Van Doren, watched in terror from under my ex-husband's chair. And dammit, look at today's date! While getting out there and living life (well, not really, I know, but you know what I mean) I've totally forgotten to write in my diary! This living life thing has to stop. It's ruining my creativity, and your daily ritual of looking into someone else's life that you definitely do not want. Which I got oh-so-gentle reminder of today, from a Daily Late-Night Naughty Diary Reader:
"So all I'm sayin' is, I can't wait till you're back on an even keel, so I can swim around on the crazy pink page some more."
How's that for subtle? That's what made me check the diary and --eek! -- I'd missed a day! Shit! I deeply apologize to all of you. I know ya'll must have been holding your breath during the diary dormancy. Sorry about the resulting dain bramage. But now I resolve to make matters right. After I finish running around, screaming, and spitting out cat hairs just a little more...
Anyone notice what's so funny and weird about this pic of an airman on duty in the mideast?
Sept. 22, 2003 6:09 pm
Who Wants to Be My Brother's Girlfriend, Part 3
"You are a beeatch. I can't believe you put that up there.
However, I went to the website and it is pretty fuckin funny.
I'm going to send you another picture, a NICE one, and you're going to put it up on your website. See?"
Well, that's the latest missive from my dear, darling little brother. As offended as he is by me posting his pics in my diary, along with my commentary, he stops just short of demanding that I take them down. In fact, as you can see, he can't wait to send more! I told ya: we Arieffs are all a bunch of stage queens.
Sam & our wonderful Uncle Bobby....a looong time ago.
Again, I reiterate: if you wanna be Sam's girlfriend, write him at BridgeRun@hotmail.com.
Sept. 21, 2003 12:39 pm - Itz Great 2B Back!
Who Wants to Be My Brother's Girlfriend, Part 2
Believe it or not, my brother Sam asked me to take down his personal ad for a girlfriend in last month's diary. He was the one who told me to put it up in the first place! This is the thanks I get! The reason: he didn't write it; I did. And he was embarrassed by my constant references to him as "Captain Sam Arieff", and he didn't like the pictures I'd used. So what does he give me as a sub? This GAY MOHAWK photo. Mind you, that was his label for it: "GAY MOHAWK.jpg".
I have no objections. It is hot, and I absolutely adore the cute, round, squeaky-clean urinals in the background! But it's such a pinup-quality photo, how can he possibly think he's not gonna get an equal amount of... Whatever; it's his business. Enough of my big-sister meddling; I'm butting out from here on out. I'll just post 'em like I see 'em, and I won't ask, nor tell. If you wanna be Sam's girlfriend, write him at BridgeRun@hotmail.com.
Okay, I can't resist. He hates it when I do this!... but I just got back from my parents', with some choice old pix.
Stay tuned for Sam's next annoyed email!
WANNA READ MORE OF MY DIARY?
