Enough Already With The Log-Ins And The Sign-Ups And The Comment Moderations

Someone nominated me for something. This person was also nominated. I tried to vote for her and in the time it took me to locate my password (which I didn't find) get my screen name right (never happened even with an underscore) or tried to sign in via Twitter (I'm not registered as Suzy Soro) or Blogger (they said I'm not a member of blogspot (are you fucking kidding me?) or Facebook (it's only a fan page and I still hate them) I went out on my balcony and tried to decide whether to jump or move to Albania, where they probably don't have the internet. (don't write me if they do and I'd like to apologize in advance to Albania if they have the internet) (I'm mainly apologizing if you also have to do the sign-up log-in type 2 words to make sure you're not a bot thingamajig)

So where did these passwords and log-ins disappear to? They're probably in one of the millions of emails from websites (in the 16 online filing cabinets I've kept over the years AND NO I'M NOT A HOARDER PUT DOWN THE PHONE TO A & E)  where they've answered my question: WHAT THE FUCK IS MY PASSWORD LOG-IN INFORMATION?

I'm not posting a link to where you could vote for me because you'll need to sign up for an account or vote via Twitter, Blogger, Facebook or your Cap'n Crunch cereal box. And I like you too much for that.

I will never vote on a site that makes me sign up for an account and in the past I've sent the following form letter to all the bloggers who've asked me to vote for them on some variation of Make Me Famous Please I'm Desperate.com:

I don't want another password. I have over 87. I don't want another account. I have over 255. Don't reply to this form letter and admonish me for not duplicating passwords on multiple accounts BECAUSE I ALREADY DO THAT. I've been online since 1998. Please do that math. I'm sure you'll win without my vote because you're the prettiest.

I'm done.

L.A. Sign Of The Times #95

I found this painted on a wall a few blocks from where I live. Which is obviously not Beverly Hills. Times are tough, not everyone can afford to take an ad out in the newspaper.

I think the drawing of the stove is what would convince me to buy.

Top 10 Movies of 2011

Every year my comedian and film critic friend Gariana Abeyta (that's her on the left, squinting through a rifle scope taking aim at a coyote. Or an agent. Same thing) does her Top 10 Movies list. Let us know what you think of the list and direct all hostile comments to Gariana. And all compliments directly to me. Her best picture Oscar goes to The Artist.

This may shock you, but 2011 was an excellent year for films. Let me rephrase that, an excellent year for “smaller” films. Foreign and art house fare flourished while Hollywood struggled like Justin Bieber’s siblings trying to get their parents’ attention. You had to dig deep and get dirty this year, frequenting shady and neglected venues where story and substance still reign. But don’t worry, the juggernaut that is the 2012 Hollywood line-up includes, The Avengers, Brave, The Dark Knight Rises, The Hobbit, Prometheus, Django Unchained, The Hunger Games, and World War Z. By the time they’re done with you, you’re going to feel like you were an extra in Shame.

 Let me address one thing really quickly, you won’t be seeing The Descendants on this list. I’m calling shenanigans on that shit! I’ll suspend disbelief as far as you need me to when watching a film. I believed a man could fly; I believed a monkey from Skull Island could trample New York and climb the Empire State building. I watched Braveheart and believed that Mel Gibson was a good person. I will, however, only go so far: nobody would cheat on George Clooney. Nobody. You lost me at frame one, Alexander Payne.

These aren’t in any particular order and as always Suzy, thank you for having me back.

1. Bullhead – Every single one of us is given obstacles in life and not every one of us is given the tools to overcome those obstacles. For me that’s what Bullhead was about at its core. An absolutely jaw dropping performance from Matthias Schoenaerts also didn’t hurt. I’ve never seen anybody pull off being so terrifying and vulnerable at the same time. He also gained 50 pounds for the role. Which means you will also be able to find show times for Bullhead by Googling, “things Hollywood has never asked an actress to do.” Belgium’s 2011 nomination for best foreign film and you shouldn’t miss it.

2. Hugo - Let me start by telling you what Hugo isn’t, a children’s film, as a woefully bad advertising campaign would lead you to believe. Martin Scorsese sat down and wrote a love letter to his first true love… cinema. About halfway through the movie you realize that it’s a gorgeous missive not only to cinema, but also to one of it’s greatest pioneers, George Melies. Bonus points for the casting of Sacha Baron Cohen.

3. Terri – If I told you that Terri was about a High School kid that easily weighs 250 pounds, has zero friends and wears pajamas everywhere, would you still go? You’re a freaking weirdo. I love you.

4. A Separation – When I saw A Separation the old people behind me wouldn’t stop talking about bathroom tiles. What does this have to do with the film? Nothing. They sure were passionate about tile though. I imagined the guy with the bushiest mustache trying to talk everybody into going to Home Depot after the film for some senior citizen hip dysplasia rattling funzies. A Separation will win the Oscar™ for Best Foreign Film. 

5. Drive – Besides the fact that Albert Brooks was flat out robbed of an Oscar™ nomination I just realized that I have not one, but two films on my list that has a guy beating another guy to death with a hammer! You wanna hang out? No seriously, we should hang out.

 6. Midnight In Paris – The only thing Woody Allen does better than making films is making family gatherings awkward. Because let’s be honest, if he decides to make your family gathering awkward it’s going to be like watching the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel being painted.

 7. Rise of the Planet of the Apes – I’m a huge fan of the original Planet of the Apes. So much so that I was vehemently against this prequel. But I couldn’t have been more wrong. It not only honored the original, it made it better. I loved this movie.

 8. Attack the Block - If Attack The Block was a horse then Hollywood, in their infinite wisdom, would have shot it. Little did they realize they would have been killing Seabiscuit. It not only has no stars, but all of the actors are first timers who are teenagers or younger. If you add that it’s a low budget special effects film with a first time director you can watch the eyes of Hollywood agents gloss over in the same way they do when they find out someone is forty. How great is Attack The Block? It’s so good that it’s actually possible to close your eyes and pretend Joe Cornish had nothing to do with Tintin.  

 9. I Saw The Devil - What if you discovered that you were capable of far worse than the serial killer rapist who murdered someone you love? What if you had the potential to make his best efforts look like adolescent fumbling in the dark?

 10. The Artist -


Tout aussi honoré films comprennent:
Equally honored films include:


War Horse, Another Earth, Marwencol, Rango, Rubber, Moneyball, Shame, Hanna, 13 Assassins, Cave of Forgotten Dreams, The Tree of Life.

P.S. You can follow Suzy on twitter at @hotcomestodie and you can find me @garianaabeyta, unless you don’t like laughing, then you should follow @osamabinladen

 

May We All Dress This Fabulously When We're Older

UPDATE: The lady in the red and black dress with matching red and black hat, Zelda Kaplan, died yesterday. She was 95. We should all look so good when we go...

I'm crazy mad for this film. Courtesy of Advanced Style.

http://www.youtube.com/embed/nWKTfqivbRQ

"I'm between 50 and death."

"Up until 80 you lie, after 80 you brag."

Look Homeward, Angel

No one should have a local homeless man but in big cities, that's often the case. I only lived in the neighborhood a month before I saw him, sitting and leaning against a wall. His head usually lowered, a blue knit hat on his head. He didn't beg for money. If he was looking up, I said hello. He would nod back and sometimes choke out a word. I think it was Hello but I can't be sure.

One day I asked him if I could buy him breakfast at McDonald's, which was across the street. He said yes but didn't tell me what he wanted. So I asked if I could get him what I got myself and he nodded. Didn't he know what was at McDonald's? Or was he too proud to tell me what he wanted? Afraid it would be too much?

After that day, I became very aware of how often I walked by him. Was I supposed to buy him a meal each time? Coffee?  If I'd had the money, I would have bought him food every time I saw him. But I didn't. And when you're down on your luck, what do you offer someone else down on theirs? My recent financial situation had been shaky and I no longer thought my hellos were enough. So every now and then I crossed the street before I got to him. Or cut through a parking lot to avoid seeing him. I was ashamed that I couldn't help this man because I had to help myself first. It bothered me every time. I felt horrible and hated myself on the days I ignored a man so down on his luck that he sat in the same place each day, head lowered, waiting for what? My hello? Any hello? A sandwich?

And then one day a month ago I saw this:

I live in a Hispanic neighborhood and like the ancient Egyptians, they believe you need to leave food, water and light to guide the deceased to their final destination. I completely lost it when I saw this makeshift memorial. He was found by the manager of the McDonald's, who had come over to offer him a cup of coffee. The police came. The ambulance came. It was all over.

A man walked by and saw how distraught I was and he said he was too. That he passed the man for months and never said a word to him until a few days before he died. He asked him how he ended up on the street and the man replied he had come to California to better his life. I cried the entire way home.

This is what remained of his things:

 The last possessions of a man who was lost in Los Angeles. And in the world. The memorial is still there, the candles lit every night by some thoughtful people trying to guide his soul home. If he had no family, no identification, where would he be buried? Who would take care of his affairs? Or did he have any to take care of? So this memorial may be all he ever receives. All that marks his place on earth. At least until he returns in another lifetime.

I hope he sees it and knows how sorry I am, how sorry we all are. And that we hope he's at peace.

The Cool Cars Of Santa Monica, California

Santa Monica: It's all about the designer sunglasses you wear, the private schools your kids go to and how tight your jeans are. And if you don't have the black Birkin bag? Tragedy! But this is the land of the upper middle class, the rich and the very wealthy.They have stuff. LOTS of expensive stuff. Including cars.

Over Super Bowl weekend I saw these beauties standing silent on the street, waiting for instructions.


A truck from the 60's? The inside is black leather and when's the last time you saw white walls? I have no idea what that silver tank-like item is that hugs the back window. I hope it's not a nuclear bomb. I've often loitered beside the truck, hoping the owner would come out and tell me to stop breathing on it, but alas, no such luck.

I'd be scared of these people if I didn't seriously think they owned the Hello Kitty franchise.

The license plate reads MPATHY. Something no one has for a person who drives a Mercedes for the love of God. I only noticed this car because it's the same color as my 1998 Ford Contour. I was so ahead of the color curve. And way behind the Mercedes curve.

This car is sitting on Adelaide, long considered one of the wealthiest streets in all of Santa Monica. It's around the corner from my sister's building, on a one way street that is mostly used by runners, dog walkers and the people who live there. It's peaceful, quiet and has spectacular views. The houses are all architecturally different, old but fabulous and overlooking the Pacific Ocean. But how this station wagon got here tells me someone is either A. Very old   B. Very, very old.  C. Visiting from 1982.

Some of the homes on Adelaide:

The house below was so big I couldn't get it into one shot.

You can see my sister Lindy's building off to the right below.

 When the recession was in full swing, about two years ago, a family on Adelaide lost their home. They moved into a van and parked on isolated streets at night. It was the talk of the neighborhood because, ON ADELAIDE??

These are all Old Money homes. There are grander, newer homes in Brentwood or Beverly Hills but it's all Nouveau Money and you know how much we hate Nouveau Money. Although I could use some Nouveau Money right about now. Don't hate me, have MPATHY for my bank account.

L.A. Sign Of The Times #95

I'm fairly certain this resonates with a lot of people:

I know because down in the lower left hand corner, someone tried to steal it by pulling off the paper.

Santa Monica Blvd
Hollywood, California

How Cool Are These Shoes?

How badly do you want to paint the soles of these shoes and pace back and forth in front of The White House?

Picture courtesy of Advanced Style.

The Winner Of My Funny Valentine!!

I want to thank everyone who entered. I wish I could send you each a book because some of you are such loyal and obviously mentally deranged readers of mine that you deserve one.

I removed the 2 people who asked not to be included because they already owned the book. Two others also owned the book but decided to enter anyway because THEY ARE HOARDERS.

So congratulations Janie Junebug! Send me your snail mail and I'll get the book out to you.

My Funny Valentine

If you want to give someone a nice Valentine's Day gift, buy this book. I have an essay in it so I might be a little biased. A lot biased, even. But there are tons of funny essays in it by other humor writers as well. They made me write that before I got my copy.

I've had my jokes published in The Huffington Post, The New York Post, The New York Daily News, The Edmonton Sun, The Calgary Sun, The Toronto Sun, The Los Angeles Times, The Philadelphia Daily News, The International Herald Tribune and Stars and Stripes. They were also featured in the seminal book on women in comedy, Performing Marginality by Joanne Gilbert.

But this is the first time an essay of mine appears in a book with pages that turn, as opposed to a download. I have nothing against downloads so stop typing your comment. And I didn't have to self-publish!! Yet. It's so intellectually satisfying to wave it in front of my family and yell, "I'M ONLY GOING TO CHARGE YOU RETAIL!"

I wish my dad was still alive because he would have bought hundreds of copies.

He followed my comedy career with an enthusiasm he usually reserved for bourbon. He often penned a joke or two and would say "You can use that if you want." It was really endearing as Dad often lamented he didn't pursue a career in humor. But his generation had to work to support families. First his own, then ours. I always feel bad for people who can't pursue what they feel their gift is, what their heart wants. As someone who did, I know how lucky I am. Even though the money isn't always there, I won't be on my deathbed saying "If only I'd..." But I will be on my deathbed saying, "Now, who can put my funeral on their credit card?"

After I'd done Seinfeld, Dad was at a dinner party at his Yacht Club in St. Petersburg. I don't recall my Dad being on any yachts in his lifetime unless the Army used them in World War 2.  He was seated next to a woman who patiently listened as my Dad went on and on and ON about how funny I was as a child.

"How old is your daughter now?" She asked when Dad stopped talking long enough to take a sip of his Manhattan.
"I don't know; she won't tell me."

He was funny. Everything I got, I got from him.

So this book is for you, Dad.



P.S. I'm signing my copy of My Funny Valentine and giving it away. Leave a comment (or many for a better chance) and I'll pick a winner by Sunday and speed it your way in time for Valentine's Day. Did I mention I'm in it? No? Well, I'm in it.

Give Me My Words Or Give Me Death

When the Space Shuttle Challenger blew up in 1986, killing all on board including Christa McAuliffe, the first member of the Teacher in Space Project, the following joke hit the streets within minutes of the disaster:

Q: “What were Christa McAuliffe’s last words?”
A: “What does this button do?”

If that joke had made the rounds today with the Internet as our Orwellian gatekeeper, the person who first said it would be spending hours apologizing to the McAuliffe family and explaining themselves to the press. And if they were employed they probably would have been fired.

Like it or not, comedians say things others are thinking but are afraid to speak out loud. It’s brave. It’s often cringe-worthy. But mainly it’s brave.

The purpose of comedy is to make people think. Its purpose is not to make you comfortable or make you smile. Its purpose is to make you laugh. And in the pursuit of that end, there will be casualties.

What other profession combines making you think with making you laugh? Politics, but that’s probably not on purpose.

Does this mean we can’t make fun of death or tragedies but can make fun of little old ladies driving in Florida, Mexicans trying to get into the U.S. or Tiger Woods and his white mistresses? Where do you draw the line and do you draw it for everyone? Or just for yourself? The correct answer to that question should be Just For Yourself. Please leave the rest of us out of it. Don’t tell me what I can’t say and I won’t tell you how badly you need a nose job.

I was unfollowed on Twitter by an irate gentleman who took exception to this tweet of mine:

“People in Mississippi can't wear white sheets after Labor Day.”

The U.K.’s most controversial and, according to him, most fired radio personality Neal Mayhem was unfollowed for this tweet:

"Police now use an iPhone app that scans irises to ID suspects. It replaces their previous method: scanning for dark skin."

Of course both Neal and I thought our tweets were hilarious. Others did not. That’s because comedy is subjective. Not forbidden.

While she was interviewing people on the red carpet, celebrity basher Kathy Griffin said that Dakota Fanning was in rehab. Steven Spielberg’s movie War of the Worlds was coming out and insiders speculated that he insisted that the E! channel ban Kathy for saying such a "horrible" thing to the young star of his movie.

They did.

Off the wall comedian Tracy Morgan was performing in a comedy club and after a lengthy anti-gay rant ended it by saying he would not talk to his child and would stab him if that child was gay. NBC threatened 30 Rock with pulling advertisers if Tracy didn’t apologize.

Tracy apologized.

Because 75% of Aflac’s business is in Japan, well known shock comic Gilbert Gottfried was fired from being the annoying duck voice on the annoying Aflac commercial because of a series of dark but funny tweets he made about last year's Japanese tsunami.

Gilbert apologized.

The world jumps on the lone tweet, comment or sound bite from a comic while we let movies like The Hangover - which is phobic, racist and sexist – slide. The 40 year Old Virgin had an entire scene of "You're so gay because…" and it was never criticized once in the press. There appears to be selective outrage when it comes to products that make millions of dollars, like hit movies, and stand up comedians, who don't.

Stop the political correctness; I want to get off.

I don’t have to like or agree with anything anyone says but threaten me and you threaten the first amendment of the U.S. Constitution, part of the Bill of Rights:

The 1st Amendment protects the freedom of religion, speech, and the press, as well as the right to assemble and petition the government.

We have to let the Westboro Baptist Church protest at funerals of soldiers, gays and public figures like former First Lady Betty Ford because it’s their right. We wouldn’t dream of taking away someone’s religious freedoms even if it is as hateful as theirs.

Firing someone, forcing them to resign, threatening them with loss of income doesn’t work. Because people keep speaking their minds. As recently as Academy Awards producer Brett Ratner, who made a gay slur and ‘resigned’ from this year's event. Did Ratner live in a bubble so small that he was unaware of the trouble Gilbert Gottfried and Tracy Morgan got into? Did he, a movie director, not hear about Danish movie director Lars von Trier, who was ousted and banned from the Cannes Film Festival in 2011 for saying he sympathized with Hitler and was himself a Nazi? Apparently the Danish are not known for their comedic talents because Von Trier said he was trying to make a joke.

Not all of my jokes go over either.

I'm Afraid Of Water

Not when I see it like this, out the window of my friend's condo in Santa Monica,

but when I see it like this, out the window of hell.

My fear is so irrational that once in Ocean City, Maryland, a "friend" threatened to throw me in the water and I bit his arm so hard it surely had to be amputated. At least I hope it did because that's how much I hated him, especially while I screamed, "Please don't, I'm afraid of water, pleeeeeaaase don't!"

"Jean, did I kill a little boy on a water ride of motorized boats when I was 4 years old?" Jean stuttered a little. (AHA!)
"Uh, no honey, you didn't."
"Are you SURE?"

Jean, a friend of my parents, has known me since I was born. This memory of my murderous past had haunted me for years and I finally got enough courage to ask her about it. Surely there's a statute of limitations on killing someone on a motorized boat when you were a child, isn't there?

Jean was more than sure because she'd taken me to that particular street fair and no one had died. I thought she might have been lying. She probably thought I was insane.

When I was 13, my mother, sister and I took the Queen Elizabeth to Cherbourg, France, on our way to Paris to visit our grandparents, which we did every summer. On this particular voyage we met a man who took us down below, to the loading bay. It was wide open and there was a metal chain stretched across the opening. The Atlantic Ocean rushed past in a blue fury, whitecaps dotting the landscape as far as the eye could travel. The man told us to step back and be very careful.

When, many years later, I asked my mother why she let this stranger take us so close to danger she replied that IT NEVER HAPPENED. I'm pretty sure you can't get Alzheimer's at 13 but maybe I was singled out because of my bad perm and braces. Not to mention because I hated my parents.

The only time I went to sleep away camp I was in a pool that had no shallow end. It was a pool specifically designed to teach kids to swim. Terrified, I clung to the edges. Every time this one counselor walked by she'd step on my hands and make me shove off into the middle of the pool where I sputtered and took in water like the Titanic. I hope she's dead now because if I ever find her I'll make her wish she was.

A lifetime of strange water memories. It didn't appear that some of them were real. Then how did I remember them so vividly and what did they have to do with my fear of water? Like the chicken and the egg, which came first, my fear or those incidents?

I meditate and have for over 25 years. I've studied metaphysics longer. I read Shakti Gawain's Creative Visualizations in the 1980's and got in touch with my Higher Self, sometimes known as a spirit guide. It's the voice in your head that tells you what to do, or what not to do. Mine turned out to be a 7 foot tall man with a flowing white beard. His name was Raji and he WALKED TOWARDS ME ON A BEACH during my first meditation about contacting the Higher Self. A beach is next to water in case the cap locked letters weren't enough of a clue.

I depended on Raji for advice until I moved to California and he disappeared. How does a non-human form disappear? One day while I was out hiking I realized he no longer "talked" to me. The next year I had new guides, 4 or 5, depending on the day. They were very loving and encouraging, like Raji, and there was one in particular, a Scotsman, who kept calling me Laddie. And I would reply that I was a Lassie (not the dog) but he didn't seem to care and continued to call me Laddie. He spoke in a Scottish accent and in my entire acting career the Scottish accent is the one accent I could never replicate.

Everyone has a Higher Self. Everyone. You hear the voice but you may discount it as your own. It's not you. It's the voice that tells you to turn right at the stoplight but you turn left and then realize you were wrong. It's the same power that kept showing me a vision of my new apartment in June of last year. The apartment that I eventually moved into.

I worked a lot as a comic the first 10 years I lived here in L.A. I traveled to clubs all over the U.S., Canada and overseas and went to Hawaii once a year. On one trip I was on the island of Maui,  lying on a towel on the beach in front of my hotel. I went into one of my meditations and silently asked why I was so drawn to Hawaii that I cried whenever I left.

And one of my guides answered: "Because this is where you drowned."