Monday, August 29, 2005

Two Newish Poems!



9.
I bought 400 Liza Minelli albums and I
Keep saying “FABULOUS,” and
I’m a fireman!
She looks totally insane these days
Covered in jelly, naked, with a little bell tied
Around her scrotum and you know,
Your mood swings don’t really affect me anymore.
Not like smearing your spunk on a
Tortilla, and then leaving it around for
The housekeeper to find.
Your penis! Set it on fire!
It’ll look like a cross between Liza
And that thing she married for a while
But sadly I don’t fear the sun. I just want the
Publicity of a thousand Margaret Thatchers
As I look for a survivor to burn.



10.
Formal, conscientious, and proper,
The cheese curl lover is potent,
Cromulent--
Mork and Mindy when an innocent
Afternoon snack let all hell break loose.
Ever wonder how smart you are?
Like so smart you can see through to
The other side of stupid?
Insanity is not an option when you
Can’t get cheese and onion flavored
Crisps anymore. It’s all Bavarian cheddar
And shallot, and experts say that the smell of
Dead cicadas is just about right when choosing
A Limburger. My mother says cocks smell like cheese
And that’s why she was a lesbian
For three weeks in 1974.

Friday, August 26, 2005

Outside of Key Foods in Greenpoint, a leathery Polish man stood talking to his leathery friend in Polish as he clutched the rack that keeps you from stealing grocery carts with one weathered, meaty hand. In the fingertips of his free hand, a half-lit cigarette wobbled, spilling bits of ash to the ground with each tiny quaver. The odor of stale alcohol and unwashed flesh nearly put me off my Diet Snapple Pink Lemonade.

The Polish man wore a snug T-shirt, royal blue, the sleeves tight around his fleshy upper arms. Emblazoned across his barrel-like torso was the slogan "Everybody loves a Jewish girl."

Many questions are raised by this, questions that are best left to the ages. However, should you have any tattoos of "Hindu" or "Tibetan" symbols or such, I would do some serious research. Clearly, we can not always be trusted to know what we wear. What you think means "destiny" or "spirit" might really mean "fag" or "semen-muncher."

In the words of Eric McCormack, Whoopi Goldberg, Jason Alexander, Magic Johnson, and others:

"The More You Know..."
I don't know if you've ever done an image search on Google for "cute orphans", but here's what you'll find:









This is what you find if you do "sad orphans."



Thursday, August 25, 2005

For those of you who took my last pointless, self-absorbed quiz and thought you did pretty well, here's the extra advanced super fucking hard version. If you can handle it.

Take my Quiz on QuizYourFriends.com!
A cursory search of my blogging network has informed me that the only interests listed on my profile than anyone else shares are "England" and "Breast Reduction" (no takers for "musical theater.")

I feel so lonely. And yet so...No. Just lonely, I guess.




For some moments in life, there are no words. That said, all these guys are Dutch.
Remember how teachers would give you little tests when your were small and trusting, little trick questions from time to time to ascertain if you were a hyperactive, or hearing impaired, or going to be schizophrenic when you grew up and one of them was to figure out if you were right-brained or left-brained. The teacher would say a word, a noun, "pizza" for instance, and you were supposed to report what the suggestion of "pizza" did to your brain, inside--that little movie screen that lines the flip side of your forehead. And if you saw the word "pizza" spelled out, the way you saw "B" or "orange" marching across the screen in cartoon block letters on Sesame Street then you were left-brained and would some day turn into an accountant or my mother, but if you saw an actual pizza, if you could picture the cardboard box opening and the steam rising from the gooey cheese, or a slice with the cheese all in one piece dropping off the edge and burning your hand, then you were right-brained and would grow up to be an artist, a criminal, or a Scientologist.

I always saw both--the word spelled out in red letters, always red, and the picture of the pizza. It was always like that. Clearly, this was a sign of impending schizophrenia.

Well, I'm not a schizophrenic, except when I am convinced I smell kitty litter even when there are no cats around, to say nothing of their feces, but last night while I was dreaming there were two big red words in my head "SUNNY JACOBS" but there was no picture to go with them. The letters were very large and very red so I woke up and took my computer from underneath the pillow and Googled SUNNY JACOBS. And it turned out that she was a woman who was convicted of killing two police officers and sentenced to death but she was innocent and eventually the verdict was overturned but not until she had spent seventeen years in jail, five of them in solitary confinement on Death Row with only a Bible and a law book to read. Which is insulting, because why do people always assume you want to read the fucking Bible everywhere you are? It's the same with motel rooms. If I owned a motel, I'd put a different book in every night stand, just to keep you guessing. I like to keep things exciting. I'd put in books that I like--John Cheever's Collected Stories, I, Claudius, the Harry Potter Series--and I'd put in some that you've always meant to read but would never get around to were there absolutely nothing else to read--the Decameron, Moby Dick, the Koran--and then I'd put in a few that are guaranteed to put you to sleep, like something by Susan Sontag or An Actor Prepares. And then, if you paid extra at the front desk, you'd get a key to a special cupboard, and that cupboard would be filled with pornography and back issues of Us Weekly.

But I digress. I read the sad story of Sunny Jacobs online and then I said "oh, how terrible" to myself in my head (I heard it, I didn't see it) and then I went back to sleep. Still, all day today I've been thinking of women being executed and having terrible thoughts. Thoughts like...pink, fur-lined electric chairs. Glitter syringes of lethal poison, where the end of the plunger is shaped like a star. You can choose which color gas you'd like, Miss Tucker, poppin' pink, pretty purple, or slammin' silver sparkles! We're not just cute, we're EXE-cute!!!!

I smell kitty litter. The cat dragged in a baby mouse and tortured it. Every time she poked it with her claw, it squeaked, at least that's what Ben said. I didn't hear it because I was in the bedroom with the covers over my head.

I don't think I would last very long in prison.

Wednesday, August 24, 2005

The flu has invaded my body. It has sucked out all memory of joy, health, happiness. I feel that I have never left my apartment, nor has my apartment ever been without me. We are one. I am like Conan enslaved, chained to his wheel as snow falls and years pass and he becomes Arnold Schwarzenegger.

The flu is my enemy. I long to crush it, to sow its fields with salt. I wish to hear the lamentations of its women.

"WISH...TO....HEEYAH....DUH...LAHMENTAYSHUNTZ...OF...DEYAH...VIMUN." This is AHNOLD speaking, not me.

Arnold and I are one. We have never left each other. Our bodies melt into one, like a two giant and extremely muscular Hershey kisses. In Hell. Do M&M's melt in Hell?

Billy Graham says Hell might be a place of freezing cold. An Ice Age. I've never known Billy Graham to be wrong about anything. He said God does not hear the prayers of a Jew (although presumably He hears the lamentations of our women), and God is sure as hell not hearing my prayers right now, because I want to not have the flu anymore.

Oh, by the way, I filmed a national commercial for Chase Manhattan Bank on Sunday. I also performed at Galapagos on Monday night, along with my friend Patrick, the illustrious Mangina of song and legend. But I'll write that up when I can handle it, and not when my brain is slowly becoming a lipid.

In the meanwhile, a couple of poems for you.

Parenting

It takes a village to raise a child; but
If that village is that creepy Amish
Hippie one in the shitty movie I watched
Last night;
I think I’d just leave the kid to die
Of exposure in the Andes
Like the disfigured Inca babies of yesteryear.
I’d leave it with a small purse of cacao leaves to chew, though
To stave off the hunger pains.
I mean, I have my ideals, but
I’m not made of wood.

8.
My sweet Prince;
In the wake of separation
The victim was found with
A pentagram carved on her chest. A victim of the
Nightlife. There’s a young man far from home
In the mutilated backwoods.
Here the members
Of the cult killed the ballerina
With sarcastic language and from
That moment on, I declared myself a
Member of the reality-based community.
For no more “tragic suicides”
Or former Romanian gymnasts are going to
Interfere with my relationship.

Saturday, August 20, 2005

I wanted to take a moment to readdress the hobo presence in McCarren Park. I've been thinking about it a lot--what makes someone a hobo as opposed to a regular homeless person (or a no-bo, as I have taken to calling them) and I think the answer is that hobos have FRIENDS. Relationships. When you look at the circle of hobos sitting in the grass, sharing sandwiches and bottles of grain alcohol, it's almost cozy, like those kids high school who hung out in the park for house, sitting a in a circle, the delicate social interplay flitting between them like a live flame as joints were passed, guitars strummed, sacks were hacked. Now imagine that those sweet, spaced-out kids didn't go inside for forty years. Ever. Imagine the passing of time as skins grow rough and leathery, as toenails calcify, as the residue of sloppily performed bodily fuctions hardens into an impermeable crust; still, they remain, a circle, a clique. A family. It's a lot less lonely than wandering the subways by yourself, asking strangers to buy you crack.

I'm a little afraid of homeless people, as everyone is. In my case, it's not the proximity to poverty that bothers me, or the tangible evidence of the dark underbelly of capitalist society, its a recurring nightmare I've had since 1988 based on an actual experience. I was in a small city square--I don't remember where--but it must have been a pretty safe place because I was left to play on my own while my dad ran inside an office building to drop something off. The square was pretty, neatly planted with grass and hedges, and off to one side was a large spreading tree with branches that touched to ground, promising a cool hideaway to make believe in. I ducked beneath a branch, eager to sit at the trunk and enjoy the lush canopy of leaves above, when I heard a low, indeterminately-sexed croak--"Get out of my fucking house, you little cunt." Suddenly, the smell was overpowering.

My father returned to find a deeply shaken child trembling on a bench. I never told him what happened, mostly because I doubted my own experience. Now I revisit that terrifying moment regularly in my sleep, particularly if I have eaten Indian food.

I want to give a shout-out to Krista, who provided me with two hobo-rific quotes she has overheard walking home on Bedford from the subway--"Shut your mouth with that mouth" and "I am going to be honest with you. If I don't get a drink before 2pm I am going to have a seizure." If anyone else has any hobo quotes, I'll be happy to post them. Hurry, before the flock departs for the winter, although I don't think they move that fast, particularly not the one in the wheelchair who once told me he loved me.
The man with whom I dwell in sin is watching marathon sessions of the HBO drama "Deadwood" lately, a trap I have mostly been able to avoid. I'm told it's a very good show, but honestly, there's only so much room in my life for TV series. Besides, having grown up in a place where every fall I was forced to wear a bandana and parade through a city filled with fat people dressed as pioneers (see Roundup, River City) I have a vague distaste for all things Wild Western. I was, however, alerted to a small exchange earlier today.

"You ever get some of that Nebraska pussy?" said a craggy, unshaven man in a bolo tie to an unwashed youth, grinning with helpful menace.
"No sir, I ain't never did." said the youth.
"You get some of that Nebraska pussy. You ain't never had nothing like it. You never forget your Nebraska pussy. That there's the finest pussy in the west." said the craggy man, at which point Ricky Jay piped in with something oddly Mamet-ian, like "I still remember fucking my first pussy in Nebraska. That was some fine fucking pussy. I remember that pussy fondly. Did you, I mean, did you ever fuck a pussy you remember fucking fondly, motherfucker?"

Later that afternoon, we repaired to the bar, where at my urging Shafer developed a cocktail dubbed the "Nebraskunt" (emphasis on the Kunt) and proceeded to serve me nothing else for the remainder of the evening. I am sure it will follow the Kamikaze, the Screaming Orgasm, and the Gestapo in notoreity. I believe it contains vodka, orange juice, and Chambord, and if you add the Chambord last and watch it seep through the glass, it sort of looks like getting your period! Fun! Enjoy alone or with friends (although if you're alone, I hope you're at home because otherwise, you're going to need someone to help you get there) and pontificate on famous Nebraskan vaginas through history. Here's a list to help you get started:

1. Mine
2. Willa Cather's
3. Dorothy McGuire's
4. Bess Streeter Aldrich's
5. Adele Astaire's
6. Gerald Ford's Mom's
7. Jaime King's
8. Conor Oberst's

Have fun! Drink responsibly!

Thursday, August 18, 2005

Things We Learned in Our Sleep Last Night

1. There is one, constantly active lava volcano in North American, and it lies between the Alice Mountains and the Ricky Martin Desert in Mexico.
2. We don't speak its name out loud, as we didn't speak Uncle Henry's name out loud.
3. Uttering Henry's name meant one could expect a call from the bus station at any moment.
4. Uttering the volcano's means you and yours will soon melt away in a pool of boiling liquid magma.
5. If its a choice between Bob Dylan and you high school boyfriend, Bob Dylan all the way.
6. Bob Dylan may not stay with you forever, but Bob Dylan!
7. Torture your high school boyfriend with your new love affair. Say, "I know we said we'd stay friends, but tonight I'm dropping acid with Bobby," or "Bobby's playing a show at Town Hall tonight. I'd invite you backstage, but we'll probably be fucking."
8. Thailand is a major cheese exporter.
9. Holland also makes cheese, but not in Grand Central Station. That's only the Thai.
10. There is no life in the Ricky Martin Desert. Not a scuttling cicada. Nothing.

Tuesday, August 16, 2005

I don't know how many of you live in the little post-Iron Curtain slice of electronics stores and meat markets that is Greenpoint, Brooklyn, the Polish outpost distinctive only from its Motherland by one's ability to pre-order a Carvel ice cream cake within its borders. It's not for everybody. Indeed, it can be singularly trying for those of us genetically pre-programmed with a deep, primal fear of Poles. This fear is by no means irrational. (see II, World War). Ben, recently arrived from the green and pleasant Netherlands, is having a particularly hard time with the adjustment.

"Why do all the women in this neighborhood look like prostitutes?" he asked one day, pausing in front a lurid display case filled with foundation undergarments and sausage.
"Because, sweetheart," I explained patiently, "All the prostitutes in Amsterdam are Polish."
(This is, in fact, not strictly true. Some are Surinamese.)

So, I like Greenpoint okay, but mainly because of the dollar stores, in which one can find everything from the no-name homoeroticism of not-Ken dolls dressed as security guards to My Little Pope playsets to jigsaw puzzles of dowtown Warsaw. What makes a heart soar higher than the sight of a majestic Polish eagle on a column gray stone? Well, most things, really. Perhaps the question is, what makes a heart sink less.

However, I am cheered of late by the sudden presence of hobos in our community. Yes, hobos.

More, after the break!

Monday, August 15, 2005

NEW POEMS--

BECAUSE I'M TOO LAZY RIGHT NOW TO WRITE A REAL BLOG ENTRY! I MEAN, COME ON, THOSE THINGS TAKE TIME, PEOPLE! THEY TAKE CONSIDERATION! CONTRARY TO POPULAR BELIEF, I DON'T JUST HAMMER ANY OLD SHIT OUT. I'M A BUSY PERSON! I HAVE SOMETHING WONDERFUL PLANNED FOR TOMORROW BUT I JUST CAN'T WRITE IT WRITE NOW BECAUSE I'M TIRED! I'VE BEEN THINKING ABOUT BLOWJOBS ALL DAY, EXCEPT FOR THE 26 MINUTES I SPENT CONSUMING THE $6.50 BENTO BOX SPECIAL AT SAPPORO EAST ON MANHATTAN EVENUE, WHEN I BRIEFLY, JOYFULLY, MANAGED TO THINK ABOUT SALMON! THINKING ABOUT BLOWJOBS IS MY PROFESSION! IT'S WHAT I WAS BORN FOR, AND I'M NOT COMPLAINING...BUT...STOP LOOKING AT ME LIKE THAT! STOP IT! I HATE YOU! I HATE YOU, AND EVERYONE KNOWS YOUR BREASTS ARE FAKE! I'M TALKING TO YOU, DAVID! EVERYBODY KNOWS!



6.
I knew Crow on a first
Name basis, and she knew
Me as the guy with the Labrador
Until July 12, 1997
When he abducted nine
Forest rangers from the jungles of Southern India.
When I asked why, I was told
That at best they were unabashed perverts and lechers and
She wouldn’t stand
For them working at her company.
She didn’t mean it in the dirty sense
But Dr. Lee DeForest, inventor of the
Vacuum tube and father of television
Mentioned that we’re all sickos and psychopaths
And hiring naked women can’t solve the
Problem that there
Isn’t any mouse-flavored
Cat food. The perverts want the war to end;
But not the syphilitic perverts
That would so wantonly take her,
Just the Rump Rangers in
Germany, I fear.



7.
Angels were never meant
To feel pain, so an Angel
Can never cry. Instead,
I bleed when you cry
Whatever, I’m not all
Suicidal like when we first
Broke up, but I still sniff my
Fingers after I wipe my ass
Like you taught me
And last night I grunted and grunted
As a painful hard ball slipped
Out until I realized
It’s going to
Be fine once I
Get Ryan to beat
Your ass again and
Watch you bleed and cry
Like a bitch until you perish,
You turtle-y looking fuck.

Sunday, August 14, 2005

And Now, TWO NEW POEMS!

4.
The governor’s porcine daughter retreats from the
Moldy mansion into the
Pool accompanied by an
Enlarged, twisted sense of general self-loathing.
Was I as enlightened about the change as I had hoped?
What color is your uterus?
The problem is in the corn, for pigs
For us, it’s abortion and infertility
Fennel, and the Chinese.


5.
O God with a
Curved mouth, big
Body, refulgent
O Lord
I have done much repentance and prayer
Unto thee
But God does not hear the humble cries
Of priests; only the pleas of butches
And of Gandhi
In the banquet hall
At the Institute of the Deaf.
Kill the President
The squanderer that twisted every joint
Until they cracked like the Widow Smith fucking
America amongst the dried faggots.
You Americans are all faggots and
Still, you attack my country
And unleash the devil in me.
Rattlesnakes, maybe
But we didn’t hear no rattling
The night the blind
Guy raped you in the bathtub.
Gentle Readers,

I deeply apologize for referring to you as "fuckers" (see below.)

Please accept my deepest regrets.

Love,
Rachel
How well do you really know me, fuckers?

Take this quiz and find out!

Take my Quiz on QuizYourFriends.com!

I made a Quiz for You on QuizYourFriends.com

CLICK on the link below or PASTE it into your browser.
http://www.quizyourfriends.com/yourquiz.php?quizname=050814102131-980368


I don't know how the fuck this works.

Love, Rachel

Saturday, August 13, 2005

IMPOSTER!

It has come to my attention that there is another Rachel Shukert, somehwere in North Carolina. Clearly, this woman is dangerous, and is impersonating me in order to gain access to my many powerful, international contacts. Although the entrance turnstile at the Elders of Zion Holiday Resort, where I elect to summer, employs state of the art retinal scan security, I am sure that in light of the recent trend towards identity theft you can understand my concern. First CaCee Cobb, assistant and BFF to Jessica Simpson, then Paris Hilton, and now me. I have taken great pains over the years to keep my identity veiled in a dusky shroud of mystery, away from my public, trying to preserve some semblance of privacy. I realize I can't control people's fascination with me, but I'm not just another public figure complaining about the attention. I never asked for this, but I accept it as my cross to bear. Extraordinary ability invites extraordinary circumstance. I just wish we lived in a world free from silly contructs like "hierarchy" and "celebrity" and could live our lives as we saw fit.

I don't hate my imposter; far from it. I pity her. I pity anyone so insecure in themselves that they feel they must adopt another's identity to be worthy, important, and yes, loved. Still, if anyone contacts you asking for money or favors and drops my name, be very suspicious, and should they approach your place of business or residence, feel free to call the police. I have alerted them to the situation. If she is a blonde, make a citizen's arrest, but I would caution you not to be overzealous. Bring her to me alive.

In further news, I was somewhat disturbed at the vacation photograph of POTUS, Rumsfeld, and Condeleezza (or however you spell her name--with all its inane double consonants it must certainly be the "vaccuum" or "bookkeeping" of the Young Fascist's Annual Spelling Bee) looking windswept and almost human on the cover of the New York Times. Rumsfeld, in particular, looked almost Kennedy-esque in his deck shoes and weekend blazer. What's next? Cheney in a Left Bank café with a glass of Pernod and a well worn volume of Foucault?

Equally disquieting was the sudden realization that Condi Rice is thinner than me. I don't know why this should bother me so much. It's one of the uglier sides of my personality, the side I pretend doesn't exist when I'm awake but is all to present in the tenuous state between sleep and waking, the state in which I initially had this thought.

Last night, I attended the going away fete for Miss Maureen Thorson and fiancé Mark. She will be sorely missed--her handicrafts, her creative juices, her sardonic manner of speaking. Fare thee well, Maureen! May the sea be calm but the wind be strong! (as we say in the Nebraska harbor.) I was also tattooed in Sharpie by the venerable Mr. Amadon, and my shoulders now declaim slogans--the cryptic "GO WHALE!" and the less cryptic "HARTFORD SUCKS." He also inscribed his email address on my forearm, for future reference, and I realized that if one covers "@columbia.edu" with a free hand, the combination of letters and numbers resembles a concentration camp tattoo. We had a good laugh about that one, before we were marched to hell by a three horned giant who farted gaseous flames. Hi Sam!


Do you have a date tonight? Why not make it a Blockbuster night, and rent "Tell Me You Love Me, Junie Moon" starring Liza Minelli as a burn victim disfigured by a jealous lover. Looking for a new lease on life, she moves into an apartment with an epileptic and a wheelchair ridden homosexual and exclaims things like "Beautiful things will clash with us!" and "I HATE DANISH MODERN!" Hilarity, mischief, and yes, love ensues. Enjoy!

Friday, August 12, 2005

And Now, a Poem or Three

1.
Twat,
Crap up the pareve maw with didactic passage.
Dangerous dongs,
Deoxidize the ideal organs with quiescent semen.
Pareve phallus, kill oneself and cold-cream the Swazi hooter with sperm
Of the dishonorable cherry.
Semen, unweave!
Descrescendo the au gratin crank with non-institutional buttocks
Batik the boss crevice of uncertified slits.
You may also want to look for foods labeled “parve” or “pareve”; they
Are usually made without milk products according to kosher
Dietary law.


2.
Allow me to explain;
I don’t mind being used for sex
In Thailand with five eleven year old girls
And I understand that if my
Son is to be rich and successful, he
Must become Jewish
But Kiefer Sutherland is one goddamned fucked up
Piece of dick-sucking shit
Because he doesn’t represent me or my
Writing style anymore.


3.
It is good that you enlighten people about Harry Potter for
That doll was meant to serve the
Sexual needs of the German Fighting Man.
That’s why I wouldn’t let that kid
Invade a vampire’s anus or an
Ultra black Christian single personalized
Beer mug.
Try the Gay Man’s Ass Burgers—oh no--
It wasn’t a question. It’s no longer just a choice
Whether to have a light beer or a beer in the butt chicken
But the good news is you have your mother’s eyes.
What We Learned in Our Sleep Last Night

1. Prison camp is a lot more fun if Johnny Depp is there.
2. Prison camp is a lot more fun if you remember the beer ahead of time.
3. While prison camp isn't all bad, one must remember that still, one is in prison and not be too mouthy to the guards.
4. Johnny Depp is not omniscient.
5. However, he has very nice shoulders and hips. When he holds me, I feel very safe.
6. My Hebrew School prinicpal and fashion legend Valentino had a terrible falling out in Capri in their youth, a feud that persists to this day.
7. This war! This damned war!

Thursday, August 11, 2005

Ladies and Gentlemen, if you please, it is with the greatest delight that I welcome you to my blog on this historic occassion.

The occassion is this. I have started a blog. While I understand this is hardly a rarity in my demographic/profession/age bracket, this is for me, an event more momentous than anything else that is likely to happen in the sweltering cesspool of ennui that is a New York City August.

What, you may ask, as you pull lazily from the lukewarm bottle of Amstel Light nestled in your sweaty palm might have inspired me to such a dubious end? (By the way, throw out the beer bottles in your room. You are disgusting. Also, drinking beer left unrefrigerated and open for days at a time can give you botchulism. If this is not exactly a fact, it is close enough.)

Well, friends, today my computer broke.

For weeks, my computer, the machine that has borne silent witness to so many desperate grapplings with my lazy and frankly, overweight Muse, had hinted that all was not well in the mysterious tangle of its musculature. The screen flickered dangerously, on and off, on and off, like the amber eyes of a fickle, pugnacious gypsy. The computer was playing a dangerous game, but I played along. I followed its steps as it led its sadistic Seguedilla, winding, twisting, winking. I thought it was a phase.

I was wrong.

This morning, the screen turned off, and I knew this time it was different. There would be no compromise this time, no bribes. No cajoling, no bargaining, no magic combinations of curse words and naked aggression upon its body could bring it back. It was gone. Just...gone. So...cold. Mother, when will the spring come again?

The screen was black, but if I tilted it just so and squinted, hard, I could make out the fuzzy shadows of the world inside, its cheerful applications, its matter-of-fact questions. "Do you want to save?" "YES! YES! I DO!" They seemed trapped, jailed in a veil of darkness, or fading slowly like the faces of the dead from one's memory, as they recede into the shadowy swamp of the 90% of our brain we don't use, the part that contains things like the urge to feast on the still-warm flesh of our own species and wants to have sex with our grandfather.

The hard drive was in tact. This was important to remember. Ever predictable, I panicked. I'm sure the fine folks at Apple Care have had some training on easy stuff, like suicide or rape hotlines before they are allowed to man the phones. When I burst into tears, Gary knew just what to say.

"It's my fault. I know it. I must have done something wrong. I didn't...turn it off enough. If only..."

"Rachel," he said firmly but kindly. "You can 'what if' yourself 'til the end of time. It's not your fault. Computers are like people. Eventually, it's just their time."

"But, so soon...so soon. Why?"

"Four years is a long time for a computer, in this day and age. It had a good life. Focus on the good times. And then, you need to move on. Do you know where your nearest Apple store is?"

I did.

The man who sold me my new computer had modified his earlobes with thick cylinders of clear plastic, so that I could see through them to the neat row of monitors behind. I thought this was a good sign. Surely a person that had made solid parts of his body traversable and transparent had nothing to hide, no hidden agenda. I bought at once, though heavy with the unsettling knowledge that I could not bring myself to go an entire day without a computer, let alone the seven days of heavy morning that Jewish tradition allows. And so for the new computer, I thought, a blog. A new machine deserves a new identity.

I can't bring myself to put away the old one. As of now, it's still in my bed, looking smudged and forlorn besides its pristine replacement. Edgar Allen Poe slept with the corpse of his young bride for months, or so the story goes. I don't think it's unreasonable to hold on to my old machine for a little while, at least until a proper reliquary can be found.

Also of note today--a giant lump of frozen excrement fell from the lavatory of a plane and through the bedroom skylight of a young Austrian boy as he slept, narrowly missing his bed. I hope his father explained that as the rain is is tears and the lightning his orgasm, so God took a shit. On him. How does it feel to be the one God takes a shit on?

And so begins my blog. I shall post many things--poems, stories, mild pornography, medical test results. I will probably not post many links to things, as it is beyond my technical capabilities.

Thank you. See you tomorrow.