The Bushwick Hotel

2006-04-27T14:59:00.000-07:00

Don't you love how this is formatted to resemble a Very Meaningful Poem?

Excuse
Me a Very
Meaning-
Ful
Poem.

Come to the show! Kom! Venez!

Join us Friday Night, April 28 at 11PM
at
The Delancey
(Up on the roof!)
168 Delancey
between Clinton and Attorney

to celebrate the opening of
"Bloody Mary"

Third Man Productions presents

BLOODY MARY: A Comedy of Tragic Proportions

written by Rachel Shukert
directed by Stephen Brackett
produced by Cormac Bluestone, Ian Unterman
and Third Man Productions

WHERE:
Clemente Soto Velez Cultural Center
107 Suffolk Street
J, M, F, Z Trains to Delancey St.

Opening Night
April 28th @ 8pm

Runs Wednesday through Sunday @ 8pm
April 28th to May 13th

Ticket price: $18
Tickets available online at www.smarttix.com or (212) 868-4444

Check out Bloody Mary at www.myspace.com/BloodyMarytheplay for teaser!

Cast:
Jeff Addiss, Adam Arian, James Caldwell, Sam Forman, Edi Gathegi, Colin Gilroy,
Chris Hale, Van Hansis, Jo Hudson, Madeline Maby, Benjamin Pelteson, Evan
Shafran, Kristin Slaysman, Danie Streisand, Allison Tigard, Ian Unterman,
Reginald Veneziano, Audrey Lynn Weston and Raina Wildenberg.

Scenic Design --- Drew Boyce
Lighting Design --- Anjeanette Stokes
Costume Designer --- Jacob A. Climer
Production Stage Manager --- Alaina Taylor
Stage Manager --- Betty Hong Yiu Tung
Graphic Designer --- Michael Solomon
Webdesign --- Joseph Varca, Speakvolume
Marketing and PR --- Katie Rosin, Kampfire Films Marketing

2006-04-13T12:12:00.000-07:00

Hey guys!

Come to a very very fun fundraiser for my new play Bloody
Mary. All you can drink Pravda vodka and...it's only 12
dollars. Cheap!

THIRD MAN PRODUCTIONS & the cast and crew of
BLOODY MARY
Location: LoveJulien Studio
95 Ave. B (bet. 5th & 6th st.), New York, NY View Map
When: Saturday, April 15, 9:00pm -
Sunday, April 16, 12:30am
THIRD MAN PRODUCTIONS, PRAVDA VODKA, and the
cast and crew of BLOODY MARY, A Comedy of Tragic
Proportions, want to give you FREE DRINKS. Join us on
Saturday April 15th at LoveJulien Studio at 95 Ave. B for an
OPEN BAR from 10pm to 12:30am. PRAVDA VODKA will
provide complimentary cocktails and we'll provide the
music, friends and fun. $12 donation at the door.

the teaser...
While we all enjoy a lazy afternoon setting insects on fire
with a
magnifying glass, only one monarch loved to do it again.
And again. Except
to people. And all in the name of love.

Her name was Mary--Bloody Mary.

Henry VIII, Anne Boleyn, Elizabeth I, Katharine of Aragon
and thousands of
Whores, Princes, Monks, Jews, Heretics, Doctors, and
even his Holiness in
Rome gather in a dizzying blend of epic history and genuine
smut, the likes
of which hasn't been seen since Bob Guccione's Caligula.
Except funnier,
and with slightly less live sex.

Bloody Mary...live the magic.

BLOODY MARY, A Comedy of Tragic Proportions, is a
brilliantly funny historical comedy written by RACHEL
SHUKERT, directed by STEPHEN BRACKETT, performed
by JEFFREY ADDISS, ADAM ARIAN, JAMES RYAN
CALDWELL, SAM FORMAN, EDI GATHEGI, COLIN
GILROY, CHRIS HALE, VAN HANSIS, JO HUDSON,
MADELEINE MABY, EVAN SHAFRAN, KRISTIN
SLAYSMAN, DANIELLE STREISAND, ALLISON TIGARD,
IAN UNTERMAN, REGINALD VENEZIANO, AUDREY
LYNN WESON, RAINA WILDENBERG
Produced by CORMAC BLUESTONE IAN UNTERMAN and
THIRD MAN PRODUCTIONS at:

**CLEMENTE SOTO VELEZ CULTURAL CENTER 107
SUFFOLK STREET from APRIL 21-MAY 13 WED-SUN
8PM.
++++Buy your tickets before April 15th with the smarttix
code "bm15" for $15 at $& or
212-868-4444!!!!!
See you Saturday!

2006-04-04T14:43:00.000-07:00

2006-03-12T10:07:00.000-08:00

EXCELLENCE IN PARTYING ALERT!

Reginald Veneziano, Ian Unterman, Rachel Shukert, Stephen Brackett, Cormac Bluestone, Lauren Kincheloe and the entire cast and crew invite you to celebrate and support the upcoming production of Rachel Shukert's comic masterpiece "BLOODY MARY". Join us MONDAY MARCH 20th starting at 9pm at MANNAHATTA LOUNGE, 316 BOWERY @ BLEEKER, for cocktails and hors d'oeuvres.
The play that rocked the Williamstown Theatre Festival's workshop in the summer of '04 is back and better than ever. Bloody Mary is a hilariously twisted play about Princess Mary, Daughter of Henry VIII, and her rise to power. This epic historical comedy by RACHEL SHUKERT, directed by STEPHEN BRACKETT, will be produced by THIRD MAN PRODUCTIONS at the CLEMENTE SOTO VELEZ CULTURAL CENTER, 107 SUFFOLK ST. WED-SUN 8PM APRIL 21- MAY 13 (no show Sun. April 23). The cast includes some of the most exciting young actors in New York including: IAN UNTERMAN, AUDREY LYNN WESTON, VAN HANSIS, REGINALD VENEZIANO, JEFF ADDIS, EDI GATHEGI, MADELINE MABY, JAMES RYAN CALDWELL, MAGGIE LAUREN, COLIN GILROY, REINA WILDENBURG, EVAN SHAFRAN, CHRIS HALE, JOELLEN WILLIAMSON AND SAM FORMAN.
This incredibly talented group of theatre artists are producing a truly original piece of theatre but they need your support!! We are suggesting a $12 donation from our guests. We will provide hours d'oeuvres and drink specials as well as music, dancing and all around fabulous, attractive, charming, talented young theatre types who will no doubt grow more wonderful with each drink you buy them.
I know that this message will reach many people who cannot make it on March 20. We would still love to have your support. If you can, please send a contribution or contribute online by going to www.thefield.org/ctaa.htm and entering Third Man Productions and Ian Unterman as the sponsored Artist. Every little bit helps. ALL CONTRIBUTIONS THROUGH THE FIELD ARE TAX DEDUCTIBLE.
BUY YOUR TICKETS AT smarttix.com FORWARD THIS INVITE FAR AND WIDE, WE REALLY WANT TO SE YOU THERE!!

2006-03-08T08:48:00.000-08:00

I have a new story up on Nerve.com if anybody is bored.

It's called "I MARRIED AN ALIEN"!!!

Check it out www.nerve.com

2006-03-01T06:10:00.000-08:00

Alert to the incomparable Shaun Fillion!!! Have received your message, Shaun Fillion!!! Cannot contact you! Please send email, Shaun Fillion!! Shaun Fillion!!!

2006-03-01T06:05:00.000-08:00

In case you missed them, here are some of my favorite press quotes from our recent production of "Sequins For Satan"!!!

"fundamentally very, very, odd--in a good way"
---NY Blade

"enjoyable...demonic divatude"
---Gridskipper

"wild, hilarious, uncategorizable"
---L Magazine

"always reliable"*
---New York

*to do what, we wonder?

In other news, I will be performing at SMUT at Galapagos on Monday, March 6th, hosted this time by the very able Michael Cyril Creighton.

Stay tuned for BLOODY MARY!!!!! COMING SOON!!!!

2006-02-09T06:37:00.000-08:00

Hallowed friends--

It's possible to have an all-Rachel weekend this weekend, if you think you can take it. Can you? You tell me.

Friday night, at 8pm, catch a performance of my world-famous critical smash Sequins for Satan at Galapagos at 8pm.

Saturday night, catch me in CATCH, a performance series featuring many emerging and fully lucid artist at 7pm OR 9pm.

also at Galapagos. I can't leave.

And where is this place, I hear you cry. Weep no more, fair ones. I shall tell you.

Galapagos is located at 70 N.6th Street, between Wythe and Kent. Simply take the L train to Bedford Avenue, take a right on N.6th, and walk until you're there. There are drinks and friends and even and ATM machine. Just come.

2006-02-07T12:48:00.000-08:00

Sequins For Satan when quite well on Friday.

We're in New York Magazine, and L magazine calls us "wild, sprawling, irreverent, politically charged, and uncategorizable." Stephen says I can't use that, because it's what the press agent wrote, but who cares? They're the ones who printed it!

Check it out this Friday, February 10, 8pm, Galapagos

galapagosartspace.com/theater.html for more details, or just scroll down, lazy!

2006-02-01T12:30:00.000-08:00

FROM THE SELF PROMOTION DEPARTMENT

Hello dear ones!

Well, it's about that time!

my latest play, the new and improved "Sequins for Satan" is
opening Friday night! i am sure that champagne will be
flowing afterwards as we retire to our posh hotel suite to
anxiously await our fate the morning newspapers. and when
it is proclaimed a hit, oh how we shall rejoice! we shall
leave our spouses and run off with the leading actors. we
shall buy aston-martins. and more importantly, we shall
spend our evenings at sardi's, posing for our portraits and
receiving our well-wishers as richard rodgers looks on
enviously.

don't you want to be a part of that?

Sequins for Satan is part of the new EVOLVE series at
Galapagos.

Galapagos is located at 70 N.6th, between Wythe and Kent,
in the Burg of William.

the show shall commence at 8 in the evening, and can be
enjoyed on the 3, 10, 17, and 24 of february, which from
now on shall be known not as "Black History Month" but
"Rachel Shukert/Black History Month."

It is directed by the incomprable Stephen Brackett and is a
co-production with the Fetty.

It stars many attractive people who may or may not sleep
with you.

Here is what you can expect:
Deranged children, Tenessee Williams' Grandmas, Hasidic
Landlords, Ancient Men of Wisdom, Possessed Woodland
Creatures, Pop Stars, and yes, the one and only Liza
Minnelli gather but once a year.
In the Dark Forest. And there they face an evil so deep, so
dangerous, so disturbing. that to look directly in its face is
to see the face of.... SATAN.

And he's wearing Bob Mackie.

Plus new songs and dances!

Please be there! It would make me so happy

2006-02-01T12:22:00.000-08:00

Oh, and also, we have decided that Paris Latsis is attractive.

"PARIS LATSIS!!!!" we hear you cry. "Why he's OVER! DEFUNCT! FORSAKEN! ABANDONED! That isn't even his last name! He probably isn't even rich!"

Yes. That is all true. But we need our B. to come back. Go easy on us. And anyway, I'm pretty sure it was he who did the leaving. I don't think they were even engaged. I don't even think they know each other. Just as I don't think Paris Hilton was friends with Nicole Richie before "The Simple Life." Paris has no history. Paris was not a child. Paris was created fully formed in a laboratory by a couple of nerdy yet horny scientists, a la Kelly LeBrock in weird science. You can tell because they fucked up her eyes. Nobody with organs has weird assymetrical glass eyes like that. Throw a baseball at her face and see what happens. I know this is old news, but distance gives us perspective.

2006-02-01T10:52:00.000-08:00

I was eating my salmon teriyaki bento box for luncheon, and was surprised to hear the usual Japanese power pop ballads (and if you haven't heard Ayumi Hamasaki, you really owe it to yourself) replaced with fellow Jewess and gay icon Bette Midler's "From a Distance."

I have fond memories of singing that song as a child, accompanied by my father playing on the "Electric Piano" setting of his Clavinova, and I always imagined it as a sort of idealistic bastardization of John Lennon's "Imagine", that is if John Lennon impregnated Diane Warren; she had an abortion and smeared the blood across a sheet of composition paper and then played the smudges on a Clavinova, but to my surprise, IT'S NOT!

Maybe it's just the mood I'm in. But I don't think so. Here are the lyrics, just to refresh you memory.

From a distance, the world looks blue and green
and the snow-capped mountains white.
From a distance the ocean meets the stream
and the eagle takes to flight.
From a distance there is harmony
and it echoes through the land.
It's the voice of hope, it's the voice of peace,
it's the voice of every man.
From a distance, we all have enough
And no one is in need.
There are no guns, no bombs, no diseases,
No hungry mouths to feed.
From a distance we are instruments
Marching in a common band
Playing songs of hope, playing songs of peace
They're the songs of every man.
God is watching us
God is watching us
God is watching us from a distance.
From a distance, you look like my friend
Even though we are at war.
From a distance I cannot comprehend
What all the fighting is for.
From a distance there is harmony
And it echoes through the land.
It's the hope of hopes, it's the love of loves.
It's the heart of every man.
God is watching us
God is watching us
God is watching us from a distance.

So basically, this song is saying--everything is absolute shit, what with people dying of horrible diseases and starvation and killing each other for no reason. But like so many people you wind up going home with at bars out of politeness, everything looks fine from a distance. And since this is the favorable vantage point from which God is watching us, because apparently God, unlike the paparazzi, does not have a zoom function, there is nothing that He will ever do about it. Therefore, what is the point of God even existing? Or astronauts?

So what I had always thought was a sort of feel-good, swing choir friendly, baby-boomer, just because I have a Clavinova doesn't mean I'm not still a hippie anthem is actually a existential, atheist screed on the irrelevance of religion! Good on you, Bette Midler!

Tomorrow: "Wind Beneath My Wings"--wistful song of friendship, or Ayn Randian paean to selfishness? YOU BE THE JUDGE!

2006-01-31T22:52:00.000-08:00

Beyond depressed about Alito, global warming, my eroding reproductive rights, the sudden realization that SAM BROWNBACK is probably going to run for president.

Am seriously considering leaving for good in the next few years, but where to go? Canada is too close, Australia too inconvenient, England is too expensive.

Assuming language is a surmountable barrier, I'm thinking Spain or Scotland. Although when Europe plunges into an ice age, this won't be much help. South Africa is a logical choice. Maybe Australia doesn't seem so bad after all.

I hate feeling this way. I hate what is happening to my country. I hate feeling angry and helpless all the time.

2006-01-26T14:51:00.000-08:00

MY SESTINA IS IN MCSWEENEY'S!!!!! CHECK IT OUT!!!

www.mcsweeneys.net (go to the sestina page)

How terribly exciting! I am now part of the literati!

2006-01-19T13:03:00.001-08:00

And now, just days after the mysterious boob bruise, a MYSTERIOUS FOREARM BRUISE, roughly the size of one of those big grapes with the seeds inside that are always cheap and available at bodegas with cats that run around.

IT'S LEUKEMIA FOR SURE.

Will be drawing up a will this week, if I last that long. If anyone has any requests, please let me know. I've seen several of you eyeing my white chain-link handbag, while others might prefer my working model of the guillotine. Please, friends, don't be shy. I don't want to leave anyone out.

PS: If any of you are doctors that would like to tell me I am not dying of leukemia, this will also be welcome.

2006-01-19T13:03:00.000-08:00

2006-01-17T09:03:00.000-08:00

EXCITING NEWS ABOUT MY PLAY!!! KEEP READING

Oh, and for those of you that have not yet seen my engagement ring--it's real, and it's FABULOUS. (This has also been said of my left breast, although not my right, which is ungainly and misshapen.)

SEQUINS FOR SATAN is back and bigger than ever!
With more
> songs, more dances, more danger and more
woodland
> creatures!
>
> We've been named Miss February in
Galapagos's new
> EVOLVE series--it's a very cool thing. If you
missed it last
> time, now''s your chance and if you saw it last
time, come
> back. you won't be bored, i promise. and
besides, studies
> have shown my work has real effectiveness
towards treating
> and preventing most known cancers.
>
> remember: Rachel Shukert: You don't have to
have
> cancer, but it helps.
>
> Rachel Shukert:
> SEQUINS FOR SATAN
>
> Fridays February 4, 11, 18, 25 @ 8pm
> $10 in advance/ $12 at door
>
> Produced by fettY productions
> Directed by Stephen Brackett
> Featuring Reginald Veneziano, Paige Colette,
Michael Cyril
> Creighton, Jake Margolin, Rachel Shukert, Lacey
Langston,
> Justin Tranter and Ben Abramowitz
> Music by Gerri Beckenhauer & Rachel Shukert
> Costumes by This Old Thing?
>
> "Sequins for Satan" is playwright Rachel
Shukert's loose
> adaptation of the Dybbuk legend; a Jewish
folktale about a
> young girl who is possessed by the spirit of her
deceased
> lover. In Shukert's version we meet Frankie, a
young boy
> who is abandoned in the woods. Lost, Frankie
stumbles
> upon a persistent little squirrel who leads him to
his
> grandmother. Grandma and her new best friend,
the curious
> burn victim Junie Moon, set off with Frankie
deeper into the
> woods to find Jews powerful enough to exorcise
the boy.
> "Sequins for Satan" is their story.
>
> sequins for satan...live the magic....

2006-01-14T02:24:00.000-08:00

I'm BACK! Finally. From South Africa.

After a 36 hour journey, including an overnight stay in the lobby of London's Heathrow airport where a homeless man squeezed my leg and attempted to share my pillow/computer case, my mental agility has lost some of its frothy texture and tangy bite. So I won't write much now.

But keep posted.

In good news, my play, Sequins for Satan, shall be enjoying a triumphant return to the New York Stage as part of the new theater series at Galapagos! We open February 3rd, with the original cast and then some. Plus new songs and dances. Rejoice, for He has come!

I expect to see you all there. Even if you saw it already. Because remember this about my plays--medical studies have shown them to drastically retard the spread and metastization of various forms of cancer.

The collected works of Rachel Shukert: you don't have to have cancer, but it helps.

I have a strange bruise on my breast I am convinced is a sign of leukemia. I don't remember where it came from. It might have been from flailing wildly against the toilet bowl as I vomited pieces of herring last Friday, but I couldn't say.

2005-12-19T01:34:00.000-08:00

I haven't been blogging lately because I am in Africa! South Africa, to be exact, and despite the many lovely things about this country, its main drawback (besides poverty, epidemics, etc.) is its lack of DSL! I am nothing if not impatient (and slightly lazy, and on vacation) and so unable to write much.

However, I have found a fairly fast connection at a nearby internet cafe and will do my intermittent best.

In other news, after burning my knee on a R10c piece left in the sun, the coin's tasteful foilage imprint seared into my flesh, the area has swollen into a small, dime-shaped cushion that appears to be filled with a clear fluid. Just what is going to come out? Guesses and a prize for the winner!!!!

2005-12-05T11:07:00.000-08:00

Upon being alerted by our Mr. Creighton about the new subway restrictions going into effect today, i.e. no leg spreading, I should like to recount a particularly disturbing incident on the uptown 6 train a couple of years ago.

It wasn't crowded. I was seated. The man across from me was wearing rather abbreviated jogging shorts, but as it was warm and he looked the running type, I thought nothing of it. Nothing, until I noticed that one of his testicles was clearly visible. I went back to my paper, wondering if he'd notice. Looked up again and there was the testicle, clear as day. At this point I made eye contact with him. I realize this was foolish, but I thought that maybe ful eye contact from a stranger on the train would instill a kind of "check yourself before you wreck yourself" mentality and this, combined with the air conditioning stroking his exposed scrotal skin might make him tuck his ball in his shorts, cross his legs, and red-facedly get off at the next stop. I smiled at him helpfully. He smiled back. I went back to my paper.

I peeked again. Ball still there.

Again. 77th street! Balls! 77th Street is where you get off for the Whitney or the Vera Wang bridal salon (now a part of my world.) There should be no testicles on 77th street, unless they are dipped in gold.

I looked up again and his ENTIRE PENIS WAS OUT OF HIS JOGGING SHORTS AND LYING STILL ON THE BENCH, LIKE A SLEEPING LARVAE!!!!! He smiled at me, more broadly.

This was when I realized that this man was an exhibitionist, and I was his prey. Oddly, I felt no anger, only bemusement and slight embarrassment. I got off at 86th street, went to my aunt's house, and took a shower.

I'm not sure what is the most disturbing part of the incident, the fact that I experienced what some people would call a form of sexual assault (however, in its most passive, non-invasive, almost friendly incarnation) or that fact that even today, I can recall this man's genitals more clearly than the faces of some relatives.

Thoughts?

2005-12-03T07:57:00.000-08:00

Watched "Mr. & Mrs. Smith" last night, with Miss Marks, and Mr. Abramowitz. It's amazing how some work can simply exist without dialogue. "Mr. & Mrs. Smith" is one of these. I think of it not so much as a movie than a ludicrously budgeted dance theater piece produced by the N.R.A.

Angelina Jolie is ridiculously beautiful of couse, and looking more like a CGI effect then ever. Brad at least has acne scars to mar his perfection. Both of them appear to be constructed out of the sort of silky, pliant plastic that Barbie dolls are fashioned from, the kind that is almost warm to the touch and grows sticky in the sun. Throughout the movie, I expected a giant dog to descend from the heavens and scoop up one of our stars in its mouth, only to discard them later with, feet a mangled carcass of bite marks and slobber.

We amused ourselves in the dialogue-free wilderness by dubbing in what they may have said:

BRAD: (upon retrieving some weaponry from a concealed cabinet) This is where Jennifer hides her doughnuts. And her laxatives. And the coke.

ANGELINA: That's so sad. Poor soul. I pity her. No, Brad. You don't want me. You want your idea of me. I'm not going to save you.

BRAD: Jen cries. All the time.

ANGELINA: Of couse. She leads an essentially shallow existence. Where are the knives?

A BABY, UPON BEING HANDED TO ANGELINA JOLIE: Oh, pretty. Pretty lady. Infant syphillis. So cold...and then the fever comes. Hungry. Ugly. Please save me, pretty lady, pretty...mommy?

A bright spot was Vince Vaughan, playing Vince Vaughan and wearing, hilariously, a Ferrara's t-shirt emblazoned with a giant cannoli. I'm willing to bet a million, trillion dollars that this shirt is part of Vaughan's personal wardrobe.

VINCE: What? It's a cannoli. It's a pastry, it's a sweet treat. It's decadent. I'm a decadent guy. You got to live on the edge sometimes--sometime you're looking for a little pure pleasure. I like them, they make me happy. Jennifer likes them, I buy them for Jennifer. She likes them. She doesn't eat them very often, you know, she thinks she's fat. To me, she's beautiful. I don't have a problem with her weight. She's a beautiful, beautiful, girl, but she's a worrier, that one. I tell her, sweetheart, don't worry so much. You're a beautiful girl. I tell her she could even be bigger. Ten, twenty, maybe thirty pounds even, I mean, come on, give a man something to grab on to, she'd still be a beautiful girl. You been to Veneiro's? It's shit, it's dreck, they produce facile pastries for provincial palates. Ferrara's is where it's at my brother, you with me?

(The above should be spoken in 17.3 seconds.)

My favorite part of the movie is when Brad sings along to "Making Love Out of Nothing At All" by Air Supply in the car, and a panoply of emotions play across the enormous face of Angelina Jolie. Disgust. Fear. Confusion. The realization that Brad will probably not make deep cuts in her legs, suck out the blood, and then fuck the laceration. Relief? And, well, with his shiny lips, he's kind of cute.

I love Air Supply.

2005-12-02T09:02:00.001-08:00

It came to me last night in a dream, but since I've been alerted to the fairy tale transcendence of "Trading Spouses" by my colleague Mr. Creighton, I've had it on my mind.

What we really need is "Trading Spouses: Africa" in which a horrible American woman who votes Republican, is a rabid bigot, etc, etc, (actually someone like Lynne Cheney, okay so let's just say Lynne Cheney) trades places with an African woman with several children in an impoverished village in Zambia/Uganda/Congo/Malawi/Liberia etc. There she can be infected with HIV by her migrant worker husband, haul sticks, and watch her children die of malaria while receiving intermittant radio broadcasts about tax cuts for the wealthy and the importance of abstienence only education in the War on AIDS.

Lynne Cheney is good, but maybe the indomitable Marguerite Perrin is better. It's certainly an effective, non-invasive weight loss method. Why spend all that money for a gastric bypass when you can raise your Q factor and lose the body mass of four teenagers at the same time?

In my dream, alas, it was I who had traded spouses. My favorite part was when I went by donkey to a neighboring town to hock my engagement ring for the equivalent of thirty american dollars, that we might purchase antibiotics and dressing to threat the flesh-eating bacteria that had infested the tiny, malnourished body of my young son.

And after a dream like that, it takes a very special person to figure a new slant for a popular reality series. Simon Fuller, watch your back!!!!

2005-12-01T12:35:00.000-08:00

It's been a long time since I blogged. I'm sorry. I'm lazy, and it seems somehow that the more you actually have to do, the less inclination you have to write about it. It's like when you cook all day and then mysteriously lose your appetite.

That's a favorite anorexic hobby, by the way, cooking up a storm to fatten others, then as they chow down on the deliciousness, looking faraway and virtuous, like a Pilgrim woman on the deck of the Mayflower, surveying the sea with the faith of a thousand martyrs.

I once wanted to write a book that I was going to call---wait, I still want to write it. I'll tell you about it once it's been COPYRIGHTED. THIEVES. EVERYWHERE. THIEVES, RUFFIANS AND CRIMINALS.

My darling husband-to-be just flicked water on my neck. It felt oddly warm...like urine. I reallly hope it was water, or I may have gotten myself into more than I bargained for.

Here are some things I learned from the movie RENT, which I saw with my good friend Mr. Creighton a week or two ago.

1. Trannies are kind to homeless people.
2. Trannies are kind in general.
3. Jewish boys with nice families in Scarsdale who care about them desperately want to live in poverty with no heat, even though their parents would totally help them out.
4. Just because your girlfriend killed herself and you have AIDS and so do all your friends, doesn't mean you have anything to write a song about. The Muse is a fickle mistress.
5. When you're trying to stay off smack, the best way is to sleep with the junkie stripper that broke into your house.
6. There were tons of black, female, out lesbians lawyers working in high powered corporate law firms in the 1980's. Tons. Nothing to comment on.
7. If you are remotely creative, it is completely out of the question to pay rent for your apartment.
8. Or any bills of any other kind.
9. Or to attempt to make even the slightest amount of money, even if someone offers it to your for WHAT YOU LIKE TO DO!
10. "Will I lose my dignity, will someone care?" is musical theater code for "Will I lose control of my bowel movements? Will someone wipe?"

The problem is that all of the above statements are FALSE. Except the last one.

2005-11-09T11:52:00.000-08:00

I'm not sure how I came to deserve such an honor, but I received tickets to a taping of the brand new Isaac Mizrahi show. I chose my friend and business associate Stephen Brackett to accompany me.

We stood outside the studio in line behind three middle-aged women from Long Island, the sort that consider themselves fashion MAVENS because they have Chanel bags and a gay friend. Not the tacky kind of overpriveleged housewife--those are in New Jersey--but the kind that wear Burberry raincoats and mink on the High Holidays and even though they go to Europe every year and maybe have a friend that is planning a 60th birthday adventure outing to Antarctica they still speak with that accent the one that involutarily makes me say "What? I didn't do it!" These children, along with the lawyers and stockbrokers they are married to, have raised some of the most repellent children on earth. That however, is a story for another time.

Before long, we were joined by a 6'4" black transvestite in an ankle length leather coat with leopard accents and a wig that appeared to have been recently salvaged from Ricky's of Baghdad the day after Halloween. Interestingly, she wasn't the sort of the solitary trannie that makes me feel sad and lonely, much in the way I empathize with people forced to hand out fliers for cell phone stores on the street as the freemen swim around them, but accompanied by several non-trannie companions. Relatives, it seemed like, from the familiarity in the group.

A producer came along and asked if we had any questions for Isaac's "Sketches and Answers" section, where he fields challenging style questions from hapless, dumpy audience members and normally I would have kept my mouth shut. I like to be an observer, not a participant. It's much more difficult to muster scorn for something of which you are a part. But the strange new appendage to my personality that my grandmother calls "MY LITTLE RACHEL, A BRIDE!!!!!!!" spoke through my mouth like a satin crazed dybbuk.

"I have a question! I want to know what to wear to my wedding!"
"I LOVE IT!" shouted the producer, sensing Middle American appeal written all over me, despite the cut-off biker t-shirt under my ladylike tweed suit.
"You know what I see you in?" said one of the Long Island Ladies appraisingly, when she had gone. "Beachy. Something, beachy and gauzy."
"Bohemian," said another, "like you're barefoot on the beach."
I am not a beachy person. I wear fisherman's sweaters in summer. Nor do I go barefoot, if I can help. One of the many traits I share with George Costanza's father is self-consciousness about my foot odor. His smelly feet cost him the love of his life. Mine have simple made a hundred yoga classes very unpleasant, but still. I'm not going barefoot at my wedding. In public, nice people wear shoes.
"You should call up the producer from the O.C. and find out where they buy their clothes," said the final woman. "I think you need something very Californian. Something summery."

I'm getting married in October. Whatever. Far be it from me to contradict a pushy woman in a pantsuit, and really, who's it going to help?

As we were ushered inside with out assigned elevator group, one of the PAs announced to us with no little pride that we would be receiving VIP tickets to the Daily Show as a special gift. This was the first of many promises to be broken. Isaac Mizrahi dashes dreams. He's a dream dasher. He turn you into a big, gay, Technicolor balloon, and then he takes one of his cuff links and he pops you, just as you're about to fly up to the sky to freedom. Unless you're Mandy Moore.

Isaac loves Mandy Moore. Isaac loves Mandy so much that he has his servant make her a cappucino with a smiley face drawn in the foam. Mandy Moore is seven feet tall. Maybe he thinks she's a man, that's why he loves her so much. I think he's totally one of those gay men who goes on and on about how much he loves women, but he's lying, I think. Because he's a dream dasher. He is kind of weirdly handsome though. I don't generally lust after gay men, for the same reason I don't freebase cocaine. It's self-destructive and tacky, but still, I caught myself attracted to him several times during the taping. Especially during this exchange.

NUTRITIONIST EXTOLLING THE VIRTUES OF MIRACLE FOODS LIKE OLIVE OIL, GARLIC, POMEGRANATES AND GREEN TEA: Now, you know you should stay away from sugar substitutes whenever you can.
ISAAC MIZRAHI: Oh, I know. Because of the anal leakage.

Anal leakage. Anal leakage. I wanted to kiss him on the mouth, even though he seemed like a control freak nightmare with major contempt for people who shop at Target. Of which I am one. Because Target is AWESOME.

Mandy Moore talks with a sort of affected lisp, and very, very slowly, as though she chooses her words carefully in an attempt to sound smart. I know what this is, because I did it myself when I was her age, before I embraced my inner redneck. Maybe she's smart. Who am I to judge. I'm not so smart either. It took me four tries to correctly add up the total of the checks I was depositing at the bank this morning. Besides, I've always kind of liked Mandy Moore. I like that song "Candy"

Another broken promise at the Isaac show--the filler comedian who had been torturing us during the commercial breaks with movie trivia questions--which were all about Chris Rock and Eddie Murphy, and thus baffling to the entirely white audience promised a special prize to the audience member who could name a sitcom he did not know the theme song to. We were quiet a moment, until I shouted "BLOSSOM!"

He was stumped. Did I receive a prize? I think we all know the answer to that one.

Finally, I was called upon to ask my question of Isaac. He bullshitted.

ISAAC: Well, the second I saw you, I pictured you in a halter dress. I'm drawing a sketch, okay? A halter dress. Something sexy. Sexy. Sexy."

He dashed off a sketch in Sharpie, signed it, and handed it to me. The show was over.

As soon as they yelled cut, he called back. "Promise me you won't wear that dress. That's a fucked up dress. I don't know what I was thinking."

The lyrics to "Blossom" coincidentally, are these.

Don't know about the future
That's anybody's guess
Ain't no good reason
For getting all depressed
Buy up your pad and pencil
I'll give you a piece of my mind
In my opinionation
The sun is gonna surely shine.

Stop all your fussin',
Slap on a smile
Come out and walk
In the sun for awhile.

Don't fight the feeling
You know you want to have a good time
And in my opinionation
The sun is gonna surely shine.

Remember when Mayim Bialik wore a sequined frock coat and tap danced on a piano? Those were the days.

2005-11-06T14:44:00.000-08:00

HOW I LOVE THE NEW YORK CITY MARATHON! AND NOW, A POEM.

Blind Item

I’m the Queen of Sheba!
I’m a catfish!
I’m an alcoholic!
I’m the President of the Clean Plate Club!
I’m a Vietnam vet!
I’m a voyager on the Starship Enterprise!
I’m an alien slave girl in a fur bikini dancing for a shackled William Shatner!
I’m a prostitute!
I’m a crystal meth dealer!
I’m a lady-in-waiting to her Most Serene and Royal Majesty!
I’m the Grand Vizier!
I’m a person who gets perms!
I’m your grandma’s ceramics instructor!
I’m a rapist!
I’m the guy who killed your Lord!
I’m the Nobel Peace Prize!
I’m Zip the Pinhead!
I’m a deeply sensual woman!
I’m fucking your dad and your husband!
I’m Nancy Reagan!
I’m the World’s Fattest Man!
I’m masturbating!
I’m a leprous beggar swathed in robes woven from my own filth!
I’m a pop-star sibling with a show on Nickelodeon!
I’m a murderer of children!
I’m a child who murders!
I’m sorry, but I’m just on my way out the door!
I’m contagious!
I’m a paid companion with poor personal hygiene!
I’m missing two fingers on my left hand!
I’m the Avon lady!
I’m a shipwrecked sailor, dragging what’s left back to shore!

2005-10-27T13:03:00.000-07:00

So here's what someone on the web has to say about my sunny half-sister Tina Dreamworld.

"Tina Dream World is a Far East dream shop for the lady that wants just that little extra. Payable elegant evening dresses descanted from India, mostly manufactured by hand, finished pearls and brilliants, everything is available in big sizes. But Tina Dream World is absolutely not a traditional sari shop – the collection is for everybody who is in for chic and glamour."

This person is not a native English speaker.

Tina Dreamworld and Tina Hellhole are half-sisters. Tina Hellhole's mother is Liza Minelli, and Tina Dreamworld's mother was Karen Carpenter. We aren't sure who our father was, but we have it narrowed down to three: Truman Capote, Ed Koch, or Fidel Castro. They're all dead now, except for Koch and Castro. As yet, none have consented to a paternity test, except poor Truman, but when they extracted human tissue from his remains, the alcohol/drug content was so high as to render it unusable.

Here is a picture of Tina Dreamworld:

Here is a picture of Tina Hellhole, aged seven, enjoying a refreshing beverage with Auntie Joan and Uncle Spiro:

Here is Tina Hellhole today:

Tina Hellhole and Tina Dreamworld are also the lead singers of The Autists, a band that is about to change everything. Check here for more details, at the Bushwick Hotel, their official hospitality and prostitution venue.
The Autists love the Bushwick Hotel!

2005-10-26T08:19:00.000-07:00

After filing a complaint against Verizon DSL with the New York State Attorney General's office, I FINALLY HAVE MY INTERNET BACK ON!!!! Oh, the magic of civics!

I have a new story up at Nerve.com, should any of you wish to read it. It is called "Europe, Ho!". Feel free to leave lots of nice compliments.

Also, Shafer Hall and I are embarking on a new poetry collaboration--poems about people listed that day in the obituaries! A wonderful way to combine High Art and one of my more morbid habits. (that is, reading the obituaries. I know you aren't supposed to do that until you are in your fifties, but I've always been precocious.)

On a happy note--Ben has asked me to marry him, and I have accepted. So now we are engaged people. It's a new world, a world full of place cards, guest lists, and mind-boggling expense.

But it is a very happy time indeed.

2005-10-25T11:29:00.000-07:00

MY DEAREST FRIENDS--

I have two very thrilling things to inform you of!

1. The world-premiere of my BRAND-NEW play, SEQUINS FOR SATAN, will be open for your viewing pleasure on November 15 and 16 at 8pm!

you must come oh yes you must! it has chasidim and deranged little boys, tennessee williams' grandmas and Cabalists, songs and dances and squirrels and the one and only LIZA MINELLLI, playing a burn victim! if you don't see this play you will be sorry forever, and the secrets of the universe will never be unlocked for you, no matter how much you pray and listen to Madonna. never, never, never. and i for one, can't wait to see you there!

SEQUINS FOR SATAN
by Rachel Shukert
directed by Mr. Stephen Brackett
gowns by This Old Thing?

November 15 and 16 at 8pm
Under St. Mark's Theater
94 St. Mark's Place (between 1st and A)

featuring: Mr. Reginald Veneziano, Mr. Michael Crichton, Mr. Justin Tranter, Miss Lacey Langston, Miss Rachel Shukert, Mr. Benjamin Abramowitz, Mr. Jake Margolin, Mr. Joe McCanta, Miss Vanessa Sparling, and you!

2. My very exciting story about the oral sex habits of the Jewess is featured in the latest issue of Heeb magazine! check out the website at www.heebmagazine.com and buy it, wherever you buy magazines! Miss Sarah Silverman is featured on the cover!

I hope you will take it upon yourself to participate in at least one of these wonderful things. see you soon!

bye for now!

love,
rachel Shukert

2005-09-29T09:37:00.001-07:00

Hi.

I haven't posted for a long time, because my internet has been shut down. Hopefully goes back up today, and you can look forward to all sorts of new news about why corporations are evil.

Please keep checking in! I'm sorry!

2005-09-12T15:38:00.000-07:00

So, this Friday, we embark to the Ha of Oma to STAR in the Omaha Lit Fest!

www.omahalitfest.com

I shall read, and a play of mine shall be read. It's very exciting. What SHALL I WEAR?

If you happen to be hurdling around the Midwest, looking for a good time, come on down!

Also, my two chapbooks, "Kitschmenschen" and "When I am Poor" are ready to go. Would you like one? For the low price of seven American dollars, 20 minutes of pure poetic joy can be yours.

Check out my profile and e-mail me, should this be something you cannot live without.

Busy, busy, busy!

2005-09-09T09:16:00.000-07:00

This courtesy of our dear Ben:

2005-09-08T20:32:00.000-07:00

So,

My burlesque name is TINA HELLHOLE.

Just wanted to get that up, in case any of my FANS google it and want to know the maid behind the mystery. Or, MISSTERY. Miss Terry. Also not a bad name, if you're into that kind of thing. I'm not. My pasties were just two crosses of masking tape, little x's over my nipples like a stick figure drawing of someone drunk or dead or dead drunk.

Remember, TINA HELLHOLE. Keep the name in mind, and she's not to be confused with her younger, sunnier sister, TINA DREAMWORLD.

2005-09-07T14:17:00.000-07:00

I'M A POET. DID YOU KNOW IT?

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.

11.
Despite Brett’s inquiries about what
Emma and Mary Percival had seen in the spacecraft
No bandage can cover my scars
It’s hard living a life behind bars.
Every bean, every
Bullet, every bare, dark shin and
Ornate walking cane is infinitely more expensive.
That’s what I hate about
This child-worship thing going on right now.
Remember a fella called Martin Luther? His
Skin was dry and scaly like a crocodile and
On his poultice someone had written
“VIVE LA PAIX for I am the Queen of the Succubi!”
But between the snake-handlers, thinly veiled atheists
And people who pray to fire hydrants
No one knows how they
Turned him into Martin Sheen.

12.
He didn’t have a favorite girl band, but
Tristan’s a dirty boy when it comes to sand dunes.
We went and got some Wendy’s
Before the newspaper article came out
Linking us directly to the spread of AIDS in Oahu, then
We headed over to the Make Out Club in
Britt, Iowa, where our
English was fluent and eroticism a dark and shadowy thing.
Man, that boy has a lot of shit.
But while he may be goofy,
Nasty, and powerfully retarded, this Japanese
Film clip will explain it all.
His name was Jesus Christ
And he died a 33-year-old virgin.

2005-09-05T15:38:00.000-07:00

My cat hates it when you scratch her belly.

Well, that makes two of us.

Today, I discovered that I can take my bra off using only two fingers. I am so excited to be a stripper! I'm living my "Gypsy" fantasy, except my personal "Gypsy" fantasy is singing Rose's Turn at the last Presidential Inagural Ball, only to slowly peel off my clothes and guess what! I have a penis!

And then Donald Rumsfeld stands up and says..."I'd know that foreskin anywhere. Gary? Is that you?"

I can't say anything else about the disaster that hasn't been said already. My main hope is that the press will start doing their job again and hang these fucking rimjobs out to dry. (ha ha...DRY!) There's no excuse for this kind of blatant incompetence/indifference/evil in any country, anywhere. Here's my plan--anybody that voted for Bush has to pay a special tax that will go to hurricane relief, administered by the UN and led by Canadian task forces. That's my plan, and I'm sticking by it. Voters that knew Bush fully knew that Bush was a talking flake of diarrhea and voted for him anyway, because "Republicans are good for business" will be called upon to be the primary blood donors, if needed, and are also required to hire Katrina refugees and provide full benefits.

As for the fundies who "cherish life", as long as its unborn/brain dead and not if its gay/foreign/functionally alive, I don't know what to say. I don't understand them well enough to think of a proper punishment, and I can't pretend to. Any ideas?

2005-09-01T11:12:00.000-07:00

If there are any among you who have not yet seen me take my clothes off (and I imagine that number to be relatively few) I shall be dishabilling in style at the "Galapagos Monday Burlesque Night"

Monday, September 5
Galapagos
N.6th between Berry and Wythe in the burg of William.
10pm
FREE NAKED PEOPLE!

I expect I shall be the least naked of those performing. I don't drink scotch in the summers. However, this leads us to our next order of business, THE FABULOUS NAKED CHALLENGE.

To which song shall I gratuitiously expose my flesh for the titillation of German tourists and middle-aged lesbians that comprise the bulk of this audience? Thoughts?

Also, if you come, and clap loud enough for me, I can win money. Thus, I alone have filled the empty threat made by generations of women in my family (or at least one, that I know of, and it isn't me)--"If you don't pay for ______, I'll just run off and become a stripper!"

And so the prophecy comes to pass. And so, I die.

2005-08-29T09:02:00.000-07:00

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.

2005-08-26T17:13:00.000-07:00

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..."

2005-08-26T06:33:00.000-07:00

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."

2005-08-25T20:01:00.000-07:00

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!

2005-08-25T19:32:00.000-07:00

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.

2005-08-25T19:28:00.000-07:00

For some moments in life, there are no words. That said, all these guys are Dutch.

2005-08-25T18:41:00.000-07:00

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.

2005-08-24T17:40:00.000-07:00

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.

2005-08-20T01:05:00.000-07:00

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.

2005-08-20T00:44:00.000-07:00

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!

2005-08-18T05:24:00.000-07:00

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.

2005-08-16T07:12:00.000-07:00

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!

2005-08-15T15:49:00.000-07:00

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.

2005-08-14T14:50:00.000-07:00

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.

2005-08-14T07:25:00.000-07:00

Gentle Readers,

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

Please accept my deepest regrets.

Love,
Rachel

2005-08-14T07:22:00.000-07:00

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

2005-08-13T12:03:00.000-07:00

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!

2005-08-12T10:30:00.000-07:00

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.

2005-08-12T05:34:00.000-07:00

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!

2005-08-11T23:46:00.000-07:00

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.