Saturday, August 13, 2005


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 "" 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!


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