Dear Ellen, Dying Is Easy, Comedy Is Hard

The only thing worse than people not in our field trying to be funny is people in our field trying to be funny and failing.

El, the moment you said that last night was all about honoring the nominees, I knew you were in trouble. Except for the chorale of Foley artists, the Dreamgirls sequence and the shadow dancers, I was walking towards the light for most of the evening. If someone had stopped by with heroin, I would have gladly tied off and continued the nod I already had going.

We at home don’t give a shit about honoring the nominees. We're all about honoring the fashion, the hairdos and the bling. We’re also all about the mocking, which you ignored to the point of me missing Whoopi, the worst host ever, and wondering if you remembered you even were a comedian. Here were some things you apparently did not notice: The number of people wearing sunglasses. Do you not want anyone to know you’re here, Jack? Are you on the lam, Djimon? This is not Judge Judy, it's okay to be seen on camera here. El, Jack was bald. BALD. And you had nothing to say about that? And the next time you go into the audience to talk to Clint Eastwood and Marty Scorsese, please take some Crest White Strips and slip them into their pockets.

Hey, could you hear the click of television sets being turned off during the time that the terrified Penelope Cruz clutched her 35,000 dollar gown to her knees in an effort to avoid you vacuuming up the hem? Ellen, you’re an out lesbian; I counted on you for something more progressive than housework. And throwing a pack of wrapping papers to the band? The band? It doesn’t get any more hack than that. Well, by now you’ve read the reviews so you know. You’re one of The Departed.

Love, Suzy

For me, the best part of the entire show was Jerry Seinfeld shamelessly auditioning for and hopefully getting to be next year's Oscar host. He had punch lines! Timing! Attitude!

I also loved the shots of Larry David looking dour as his wife got the Oscar for producing An Inconvenient Truth, Reese Witherspoon smoking the red carpet and throwing their divorce in Ryan’s face, Helen Mirren celebrating being 61 and looking 72 and the barbecue ketchup and mustard set of Nicole and Naomi. Note to Cameron Diaz, origami does not become you. Note to Jennifer Lopez, the 1950’s are over. Note to Portia, Ellen has money, have a sandwich.

I'm now submitting a list that I hope AMPAS will consider as the new de facto rules for future Oscars.

1. You cannot touch your hair and move it out of your face more than three times during any single red carpet interview, Beyonce.
2. No one’s hair color can be the same color as their skin, Nicole.
3. No more than five Scientologists in the audience. (good luck with that one)
4. Bring back Tim Robbins and Susan Sarandon to present every year so we’ll have something interesting to talk about the next day. God, please.
5. If you win, please don’t say I Love You to your wife. Seriously, if you’ve waited all this time to tell her that, you’re an asshole and she’s probably sleeping with her Pilates instructor anyway.
6. Please stop thanking your family for their support. Sure, NOW they’re supporting you but think back, way, way, way back to when they kept nagging you to get a real job and stop mooching off them. THINK HARD.
7. No more acceptance speeches by people who need translators standing by their side. Some of us have Christmas shopping to do and want to hit the stores before everything is gone.
8. Alcohol Alcohol Alcohol.

End of disappointed chat.

Waiting For The Oscars To Start

This photo is taken from the balcony of my apartment. It's the Good Year blimp taking pictures of the Kodak Theater that are then transmitted around the world. It's about ten minutes from me. Only today it's about a fourteen and a half hour ride away because of gridlock. This time last year I was in Bombay, India watching the Oscars from my hospital room. By this same time next year I hope I will have remembered to set the camera in scenery mode before I snap away. Now I'm just too lazy to redo them and Joan and Melissa are up in six minutes. Priorities.
This is the view from the back of our building. Bougainvillea in bloom up and down the street and the Hollywood sign higher up in the hills. Flowers bloom all year round in Southern California. It's sunny and warm, 59 degrees. Seriously people, when are you going to move here?

End of gloating chat.

I'm Not Bringing Sexy Back

Photo courtesy of Star Magazine, which I, sadly, buy.

The first time I heard that Justin Timberlake had a new single called I’m Bringing Sexy Back I felt sorry for him. Had he never looked in a mirror? Caught a glimpse of himself in the window of Neiman Marcus as he was walking past? Saw his reflection in the hood of his Maserati? That scraggly He Can’t Possibly Have Chest Hair face is as far from sexy as you can get. Dude, call George Clooney and ask him how to do stubble. Shit, call me, I can tell you how to do stubble based on my long history with leg hair.

Then I heard the song and liked it. So I temporarily forgot about his inability to produce decent facial hair and convex pecs. But then I saw him on the catwalk during The Victoria’s Secret Fashion Show. (I can’t watch PBS all day you know). He’s singing Sexy Back and out comes the Brazilian stomper Gisele Bundchen. And I felt sorry for him. Again. He was singing the right song for the right woman but I kept hoping that one of her wings would knock his manorexic ass off the catwalk and snap his chicken neck like a twig.

Louise McLoserstene just came back from a month in Australia visiting her friends from the band Jeapster and stealing stuff from unsuspecting Aussie homes. A few days ago she and I cruised around the part of the Hollywood Hills where all the really, really big celebrities live. She and I also live in the Hollywood Hills but the slebs on our side of the Hills are Bradley Whitford, Kathy Baker, William H. Macy and the like. Not complaining. Just saying.

A Justin song came on, What Goes Around, Comes Around and we cranked it.
“That is such a kickass song, how could it be from Timberlake?” I asked as we pulled into a Starbucks.
“Why not?”
“Because he was in a boy band.”
“It’s a great album; I have the CD.” Note to self, drop Louise as a friend.
“Really?” I thought that she had cooler taste since she listens to bands I’ve never heard of like Silverchair and Ours.

Sidebar: “Owls? That is a really stupid name for a band.” I said when she first mentioned them.
“No, OURS.”
“Hours? That’s even dumber.”
“O-U-R-S.”
“Oh.” All in all, Ours? Obviously not a great name for a band.

“Yeah, Jeapster and I listened to JT the whole time I was there.” Note to self, no really, get another friend. Preferably one who does not refer to Screech’s doppelganger as JT.
“McLoserstene, he’s not hot.”
“I know.”
“He’s not sexy.”
“I know.”
“He’s geeky and strange looking.”
“I know.”
“I can’t believe you’re not embarrassed to own a boy band singer’s CD.”
“So I guess you don’t want me to burn a copy for you.”
“Did I say that? I didn't say that.”

Buy it. Burn it. Steal it. Worth it. Shut up.

End of boy band chat.

Just Die Already

"The dog probably saved their lives" by lying across them during the cold night, said Erik Brom, a member of the Portland Mountain Rescue team. He described the wind in the canyon as "hellacious."

Apparently the dog, Velvet, is more intelligent than the morons who took him to Mount Hood. That's animal abuse. Specifically, dog abuse goes like this:


1. Designer booties on paws
2. Dressing them in pink
3. Belonging to Paris Hilton
4. Climbing Mount Fucking Hood

They never found two of the other three people lost up there. Although it is no Everest and there are not as many deaths as there are at Everest, I think that if you want to die that badly, you should get your wish. Ditto for Nascar, sky diving and driving in the rain in L.A. behind a Chinese woman. Consider yourself warned.

End of chat.

PISCES

© 2006 Clayboys

Best with: Scorpio, Capricorn, Taurus, Cancer and Pisces
Fair with: Aquarius, Leo, Sagittarius and Aries
Difficult with: Libra, Virgo and Gemini

Happy Birthday Tammy Fay Bakker, Michael Bolton and L. Ron Hubbard

The Dixie Chicks

My favorite part of the Grammy Awards was when the camera was on the Chicks and they all stood up to go get their Grammy and their husbands stayed behind. Girls Rule.

End of chat.

SINGLE, MARRIED & DIVORCED - Second Cartoon

"Marriages work better in the animal kingdom. The bald eagle mates and remains faithful for life."
"I bet if he had some hair he'd be out screwing around."

© Single, Married & Divorced

Jokes from the show Single, Married & Divorced, starring Suzy Soro and Leslie Norris. Written by Suzy Soro.
Illustration by Andre Noel

Welcome To Uploadland Baby

I have resisted buying more digital equipment since I had to beg the guys from Best Buy who brought my HD TV to hook it up for me. They said that wasn’t part of their job. So I had to drag out my Bag of Girl Tricks, which I only use when it’s absolutely necessary, which is pretty much all the time:

-Right-Side Hair Toss
-The Coy Pulling Down At The Hem Of My Tee Shirt
-If I had a boyfriend he could do it for me but we just broke up (sniffles)
-Left-Side Hair Toss.
-And the Fail-Proof, I’m a great tipper, which then they always refuse after they do what I want because I always put on The Sad Just Got Dumped Face.

Sidebar: None of this works with a traffic cop. Unless you’re wearing a bikini in your car and then possibly. Probably. And if you're in Malibu, definitely.

I then had to have the HD people come and hook that system up and I made my downstairs neighbor James come up and listen to the TUTORIAL with me because my head was orbiting Saturn. NOW NO ONE CAN WORK THE SYSTEM BUT ME. And James. Some of the remotes for the DVD/VHS/HD/Couch/Refrigerator have to be programmed twice just to make sure you get a taping in HD, and not in (shudder) regular TV. Recording a show often requires leaving an extra ten minutes in my day for that alone. I just stopped leaving my house after a while.

But then I started a blog. I upgraded to a new scanner but resisted getting a digital camera. Mainly because I never take pictures anymore. I have gillions from over the years and they sit in albums and bitch that I never take them anywhere, like out to meet my friends. But I realized I was going to have to break down and buy a camera so I did. 113 pages in the instruction book. Multiple screens, aspect ratios, scene mode, 7 language choices, burst mode? BURST mode? Thank God it doesn’t have a remote. Does it?

This is the first picture I took, of our building and pool.

Below is a picture that Brian, my upstairs neighbor, an associate producer who works in TV on shows like Buffy, the Vampire Slayer, among others, took of our building and pool. Whatever. End of chat.

The Governor Of Florida Was Mean To My Dad

I heard on the news tonight that the governor of Florida, Charlie Crist, skipped the Superbowl to survey the damage in parts of Florida that were hit by a recent tornado. I was shocked. I didn't realize that Charlie had gone that far in Florida politics. He didn't go to the Superbowl because of the tornado. He didn't go because he's gay and hates sports as much as I do. Why am I outing him? Because he screwed over my Dad. And I'm not a big fan of my Dad, now deceased. Dad was not the best or kindest father on the planet but that's another post altogether. But I am a fan of gay people and to quote my out gay friend Alan, "while Crist is less anti-gay than many, he opposes gays all day long and then wants to fuck them all night; enough of the hypocrisy." And it's not such a big secret in Florida that Charlie is gay. Except maybe to Charlie. Even Jeb and George W. know he's gay.

That is our building above. It was in the downtown part of St. Petersburg, now a haven for yuppies and according to state statistics, the place to where an ever-increasing number of Texan Richie Riches migrate. Charlie was my Dad's tenant. Dad owned two condos in that building and Charlie rented out 1409 for over ten years. Dad loved Charlie, which was discouraging since he was a Republican and Dad contributed to every campaign he ran, even though we were Democrats. After Dad died, I went through all his papers and found letters from him addressed to Charlie, giving the reasons for the hikes in rent every year. Dad was always specific in his demands, the water went up, the refrigerator needed to be replaced. Always specific.

But I also found papers from Charlie to Dad where Charlie said he couldn't afford the rent hikes. He needed to keep two residences because he was the attorney general at that time and had to have two apartments, one in the capitol where he attorney generaled and one in our building. Like that was our problem. My father acquiesced and stopped raising the rent. I begged Dad to at least raise the rent $20 a month, a nothing, a pittance, but Dad didn't, he felt sorry for Charlie because he couldn't 'afford it.' Fuck that. A rent is a rent is a rent. I didn't get to be a rich kid by ignoring that logic.

After Dad died at the age of 89 and I took over the estate, I invited Charlie over one night to discuss the matter and told him that I felt that he had used my father. I said that my Dad was old and Charlie had taken advantage of my Dad's fondness for him. He demurred and didn't offer any argument. I raised his rent. He told me he couldn't afford to pay anymore than he was paying. I evicted him. I am SO not my Dad. Buh Bye.

I sold two of my Dad's condos. The first was 1409, the one that Charlie rented. The second was the big one, the one Dad and his fourth wife lived in. During one open house for the big apartment, Charlie and his stinking filthy richer-than-we-were father came by to look at it. They didn't buy it. Soon after, Charlie's father bought him a condo on the other side of our building, with an ocean view, which cost more than ours. What is totally sick is that my Dad would be so happy that Charlie made it to the Governor's office, even though he lied to him about how much money he had.

Charlie did send lovely flowers when Dad died. Maybe from all the money he saved on rent.

End of chat.