When I was 15, there was an urban legend going around that Revlon would pay you $50.00 if you could grow one of your fingernails an inch long. I was almost there until one day the ¾ of an inch pinky nail I had carefully clucked over broke off and fell into my lap. I sat in my father’s armchair near tears. I had been counting on that money to run away from home and go to a place where I would be loved and appreciated. Like a penitentiary.
I picked up the broken nail and inserted it into my right ear canal. Which is why I had trouble growing up in the suburbs. I was so abnormal it hurt.
I tried to get the nail out but with no luck. I tried a Q-tip but was afraid it would push it in further and then it would rupture my gray matter and I’d do even worse in Geometry than I was currently doing. By now I was tired of the daily lecture, You’ll need it one day and then you’ll be sorry. Yeah, I’m sorry all right, sorry that I believed that my parents knew what they were talking about. Bisect this, motherfuckers.
About 10 days later my inner ear itched and when I stuck my finger in to scratch it, the lost nail came out.
The same thing also happens with wood splinters. The body will eventually reject them.
The eye of a human can distinguish 500 shades of gray.
Our skeletons renew themselves every 7 years. Not all at the same time, but still, after 7 years you will have a brand new set of bones. A new skeleton.
Humans shed and re-grow outer skin cells roughly every 27 days. That’s almost 1,000 new skins in a lifetime unless of course you stick a fingernail in your ear canal at the age of 15 and puncture your brain and die.
Sidebar: Please don't bother commenting that a fingernail in the ear canal couldn't reach the brain. Some people need to start reading this blog after they've ordered a sense of humor from Amazon.com
So why, if you sleep 8 hours a night every night for 27 years and on the day after the 27 years you only sleep 4 hours, why are you so wiped out that you can’t remember how to inhale much less make coffee? 500 shades of gray and no extra space for some stored sleep? Ridiculous.
End of chat.
Friday, August 31, 2007
Thursday, August 30, 2007
Tuesday, August 28, 2007
Stop Spelling Your Name The Wrong Way
I was over at Blogography and Dave was mentioning one of his favorite blogs, Ajooja. I took a look and found this on the banner:
Ajooja
(pronounced ‘ah zoo zah’)
Little things like that (I’m lying, I think that’s a big thing) can put me over the edge in no time flat. Just do me a solid and spell it that way to begin with so I don’t have to, I don’t know, take time out from my very busy schedule of staring into space and try it out in my head forty-five times until it makes sense. Uh Zoo ZUH? A Jew Yahweh? What? I don’t want to have to learn how to pronounce the name of a blog anymore than I want to have sex with Jack Black. Yes, he’s funny but good grief, lay off the Ben and Jerry’s for a minute or a lifetime.
Which brings me to the concept of names in general. My parents gave me the totally boring name Susan, which is constantly shortened to Suzy, Susie, Suzi, Susi ad nauseum. In a vain attempt to divorce myself from such a pedestrian moniker I became Suzy Cue, then for a while became Olive Blue. When Gwennie named her child Apple and Julia named her daughter Hazel, I was envious. Those names sucked but who is going to shorten them to Appie and Hazeli?
Recently I drooled over the couple in New Zealand who were fighting to name their newborn child 4Real and when that name was rejected by their registrar of birth decided to call him Superman instead. Superman! His parents fought for two completely ridiculous names and my parents wouldn’t have fought to take me to the dentist while I had a molar hanging out and was begging for Vicodin.
As a drama major at one of the top 60 universities in the U.S., (how scary is it that my college is in the top 60 and all I talk about is stupid show biz shit?) I had to study phonetics. Once you study phonetics, you can never look at a word again and not know how to pronounce it correctly. There are RULES.
I once met a girl who introduced herself like this, “I’m Debi, with one B and an I.” (Spell check grabbed it as Debit, Debby, Debbie, Deli and Debt) I longed to say, “Oh you mean DEEbye because that’s how it should be pronounced.” But I didn’t because anyone who spells their name like that is in the bottom half of people I really am never going to get along with. Even if they pay me.
Men aren’t troubled with this affliction. You never meet a guy who says, “I’m Markk, with two K’s”, or “Hi, Steave, with two E’s and an A.”
End of chatt.
Ajooja
(pronounced ‘ah zoo zah’)
Little things like that (I’m lying, I think that’s a big thing) can put me over the edge in no time flat. Just do me a solid and spell it that way to begin with so I don’t have to, I don’t know, take time out from my very busy schedule of staring into space and try it out in my head forty-five times until it makes sense. Uh Zoo ZUH? A Jew Yahweh? What? I don’t want to have to learn how to pronounce the name of a blog anymore than I want to have sex with Jack Black. Yes, he’s funny but good grief, lay off the Ben and Jerry’s for a minute or a lifetime.
Which brings me to the concept of names in general. My parents gave me the totally boring name Susan, which is constantly shortened to Suzy, Susie, Suzi, Susi ad nauseum. In a vain attempt to divorce myself from such a pedestrian moniker I became Suzy Cue, then for a while became Olive Blue. When Gwennie named her child Apple and Julia named her daughter Hazel, I was envious. Those names sucked but who is going to shorten them to Appie and Hazeli?
Recently I drooled over the couple in New Zealand who were fighting to name their newborn child 4Real and when that name was rejected by their registrar of birth decided to call him Superman instead. Superman! His parents fought for two completely ridiculous names and my parents wouldn’t have fought to take me to the dentist while I had a molar hanging out and was begging for Vicodin.
As a drama major at one of the top 60 universities in the U.S., (how scary is it that my college is in the top 60 and all I talk about is stupid show biz shit?) I had to study phonetics. Once you study phonetics, you can never look at a word again and not know how to pronounce it correctly. There are RULES.
I once met a girl who introduced herself like this, “I’m Debi, with one B and an I.” (Spell check grabbed it as Debit, Debby, Debbie, Deli and Debt) I longed to say, “Oh you mean DEEbye because that’s how it should be pronounced.” But I didn’t because anyone who spells their name like that is in the bottom half of people I really am never going to get along with. Even if they pay me.
Men aren’t troubled with this affliction. You never meet a guy who says, “I’m Markk, with two K’s”, or “Hi, Steave, with two E’s and an A.”
End of chatt.
Monday, August 27, 2007
Mr. Movie Star
One of my readers bribed her extremely cute son and then sent me this. Seriously, if kids didn't eat, wear clothes, destroy furniture and want expensive shit, I'd get one myself.
I don't see the rest of you fools sending me things. Let's step it up people.
End of video chat.
I don't see the rest of you fools sending me things. Let's step it up people.
End of video chat.
Friday, August 24, 2007
BOB SAGET Interview
Bob recently took time out from his busy schedule and answered some questions for me.SUZY: Most people know you from Full House and America’s Funniest Home Videos but may not know that you are one of the funniest stand-ups who ever stepped on a stage. Are you back doing standup or did you really never go away and I’m just not observant?
BOB: First I'd like to say how honored I am to be on a site whose byline has anything to do with 'comics going somewhere to die...' A lot of my favorite comedians have passed on and I truly look forward to seeing them all in open mic purgatory in the afterlife. I just hope I don't go on too early.
Your above question is a compliment, right? Yeah, I just reread it... Yeah people do know me from those two shows, but ya hope, through tragedy plus time, that people see, it was just great family gigs I had, but that wasn't my only comedy sensibilities. Who knew when left to my own facilities, I would be such a dirty bastard. It wasn't premeditated. I love the standup and always have—I started doing it when I was 17 and my stuff was always odd-- or 'edgy' as people say. I've never really stopped doing standup and never will in some form or another. Hosting a quiz show like "1 VS 100" is what it is, and it employs some of the craft of just doing standup. But the shows I've been doing this year, colleges, theaters, larger venues than I've ever played on a regular basis-- truly invigorate me. So I've never gone away, but I'd like to think I've grown to be whatever this spin-art is now that I do, and the audience I've always wanted to see my stuff and relate to it has somehow found me. Incredibly nice yet sick bastards that I love performing for.
SUZY: You wrote and directed the 2006 movie, The Farce of the Penguins, which is hilarious. As I read the end credits I saw that you used more funny people in one movie than anyone since Mel Brooks. A lot of comics and ‘comedic’ actors in Hollywood are afraid to surround themselves with funny people; why aren’t you?
BOB: First, thanks for even mentioning my name near Mel Brooks. I love that man. Yeah that penguin film I did was conceived as obviously as one may expect. I had watched the "March of the Penguins" at a friend of mine's screening and called my buddy David Permut the next day and said, "I couldn't stop voicing over this thing." He said, "Let's make a voice-over R-rated comedy out of it." It was kind of like what I did on that video show, voicing over cats and dogs who’d just been hit in the nuts, except there would be a 'story' and it would have to be completely made out of stock documentary footage since we weren't allowed to us one frame of National Geographic films. With our editor, Michael Miller, I'd cut together a twenty minute truncated version of the film with temporary voices on it, and Samuel L. Jackson read the script I'd written and saw the first twenty minutes and decided he'd like to be the narrator. Just before that, Lewis Black, Tracy Morgan, Mo'Nique and then Christina Applegate signed on to be the lead cast. And it kind of snowballed after that...A silly dirty penguin movie made completely out of stock footage where the eyes don't move...Friends of mine who did me the solid by being in the film, wanted to be part of the stoner movie of the moment. It’s exactly what I did in my early twenties....Sitting around with comedians, up all night, maybe a bit high on something or another and dubbing the TV with the sound off. Sounds pathetic, and it was, but it was also funny. And it's a gift to be surrounded by so many funny people. On this one, I got to do it in out-of-control voice-over form. I hope I didn't poach all my favors. ("I'd love you to be in my new film." "Oh sorry, you used me as the 'Bitch Slapped Penguin," and now my children won't speak to me anymore...Sorry, Bob, you’ve used up your favor of this life.”)
SUZY: Many people thought your part in The Aristocrats was the most twisted and the best. Anyone ask you out as a result of that movie?
BOB: I was asked out by an entire family. Much like the Aristocrats themselves. They brought me over and wanted to show me the act they were working on. I told them I'd seen it and ran away before they started dancing with their poo. I have a girlfriend, but did not at the time of "The Aristocrats" release. I don't think that performance secures a new relationship, but actually, yes, I did meet a couple of intriguing women who simply liked my cameo in that film and wanted to talk to me about it. But I don't think I've been 'asked out' technically, for twenty years. Does your girlfriend count?
SUZY: If I printed out your IMDb.com list of credits, it would take 3 people to lift it. Here are some comments people left for you:
- He’s a hottie
- The same as Stephen Colbert
- Do people really worship him?
Do you agree with any of those statements and why?
BOB: I'm a hottie? Weird right? I'm flattered. Some people call me a DILF. I guess women and men who dig my work may like (cause I've heard this) that I don't really work with a net. That I'm hopefully a nice guy, saying terrible things sometimes, because they're funny. Anyone who calls me a hottie I want to thank. They're really gonna think I'm cute when I get a full plastic surgery do-over in a few years. I'm going to put my ears where my eyebrows are. It's gonna be so friggin' hot!
Steven Colbert is immensely talented. I guess some people think we’re similar, 'cause we're both tall, (he's thinner) and maybe we look like we could be related or something, but our comedy isn't that similar. I'm not as smart as he is, but I do appreciate his work immensely. He's really great at what he does, so again, being compared to someone as good as he is flatters me.
In answer to your last thought-- Yeah there's this website that says it worships me and I am that holy guy people pray to. I get a little scared of that, 'cause we all know, 'I'm just a man,' but I met this guy who runs the site a few years back when I was out doing standup and he really seemed like a nice guy. Just a fan that makes a joke saying that I am to be worshipped. In my bedroom I do have a shrine of myself where you can light incense and hear the rap song "Rollin' with Saget" on a loop, while my girlfriend anoints me with Frankincense.
SUZY: One thing I picked up from your IMDb.com listing was that there is a Student Academy Awards and in 1977 you won with your film Through Adam’s Eyes. Were you contemplating standup back then or did you want to be a director?
BOB: I started making student movies when I was nine. All 8mm and then Super 8mm. By the time I got to college at Temple University in Philadelphia, I was shooting 16mm. I'd made like sixty hours of student films. Mostly terrible...A movie called "Beach Blanket Blintzes" where a fifty foot blintz turned people into sour cream. "Through Adam's Eyes" was a documentary I made in 1978 about a young boy who underwent facial reconstructive surgery and he narrated it. I'm very proud of it to this day. I always wanted to be a director, and throughout my career I have directed and produced projects that attracted me. I've got quite a few movies as director still in me. Maybe I should have them removed 'cause they really are impacting my bowel. Maybe I shouldn’t have wedged those DVDs so far up my ass. See I could've stopped on that train of thought sentences ago, but why deny millions of bloggers such “A” material… Sarcasm never reads well. Sorry.
SUZY: You’re also the champion of a cause that is dear to your heart. You lost your sister Gay to scleroderma and in 1996 directed the touching film, For Hope, for her. That must have been a very difficult part of your life. How does a person as funny as you cope with such a loss?
BOB: Yes, that was a crazy tough time for my family. My sister Gay was 47 when she passed away from complications of scleroderma. And we didn't know what we now know about the disease. I am certain her medical care should have taken a different path, but at the time, when those things happen to people, the family puts their faith in the practitioners. They just wouldn't treat her today with the techniques they were guinea pigging her with thirteen years ago. And my whole family, heralded by my late dad, Ben, would use humor as a mechanism to help us all deal with the horror of the situation. Even my sister Gay knew that sadly, it was her time, and chimed in with her own beautiful self-effacing gallows humor. She was an amazing, smart, wonderful person. In the movie "For Hope," the family joked about bringing Hope (played by Dana Delany) out to breakfast once she had passed, ALA "Weekend at Bernie's." ABC let us air it, and the script, written by Susan Rice, had so much more impact due to the sick comedic tone throughout what they would call in the day, a "disease of the week" TV movie. It was obviously horrific to go through the loss of my sister (I'd lost another sister, Andi, to a brain aneurysm ten years earlier) and that further motivates me to continue working for the Scleroderma Research Foundation. We put on three events within two years, called "Cool Comedy Hot Cuisine" where we raise as much as we can for the scleroderma research centers we fund throughout the country. The one at Johns Hopkins, funded by Dr. Fredrick Wigley, is one of the most impressive. Our next fund raiser event is November 6, at Caroline's Comedy Club in New York. This past year we raised almost $700,000 at the event in San Francisco with Dana Carvey and Lily Tomlin performing. This November’s at Caroline’s will definitely be an incredible event, with the food by Susan Feniger of the Border Grill restaurants and some of the best comedians alive. For more details check out the Scleroderma Research Foundation.
SUZY: One of the best things about you is that you look like the priest next door but then you open your mouth and you’re irreverent and dirty. In the beginning of your career as a standup, did anyone try to tell you to clean it up?
BOB: Yes, the Church. I guess as I've done standup for thirty years, it was always a voice that had a weird quirky sick humor instilled in it. No one has told me to stop anything. When I've done a theater or event and I see little kids or conservative adults in the audience, there's no reason for me to work blue. It'd be silly. What I do in my standup that I love, 'cause there's no censor except the one I police myself with, is just let my mind be open to what crazy assemblage of material is going to spew itself onto the audience. I guess I do look clean cut like people's friend, dentist, priest, although I'm Jewish...and maybe that serves the 'opposite day' of what the standup persona is. All I know is its fun. And also, I think we've all learned that analyzing comedy is the death of comedy. Soon as I talk about how and why I say things, it ceases to be funny to me. So this Q & A could be dangerous. Do not operate heavy powered machinery while reading this. It could put you to sleep and you could lose a foot.
SUZY: You have an HBO special airing tomorrow night called That Ain't Right. Anything you want to say about that except Watch It and Buy It?
BOB: I shot it at NYU in the Skirball Theater. It really was an exciting fun thing for me to do personally, taking seven years that I'd been skirting around the same hour or so, finding different ways to tell the same stories, jokes, and then let myself tirade off on my weird rants. When stuff really does come to my mind the first time and it's injected into that hour and in this case, on an HBO special, it's just organically rewarding as an artist. The name of the special is "That Ain't Right," because it really isn't. The things I talk about are silly-- I'm basically a nine year old boy speaking of perversion where the punch line may be, "Hey don't have sex with a goat..." But that should be a given-- which is why I sometimes feel the need to lecture my young audience on the rights and wrongs of nature and the incorrectness of trying to mate with a tiny animal just because you think you could overpower it. It's not natural. HBO's promo department came up with the byline: "Good Guy Gone Wrong," which could have also been the title of the special. But it's not. “That Ain't Right” is. I'm very proud of it, and just hope no one is offended by it and young kids don't see it. It's about what a lot of comedians’ standup is about-- relationships, kids, parents, the flip side of fame-- all laced with organic profanity and some music, 'cause, at the end of the day, that soothes the savage beast.
Thursday, August 23, 2007
VIRGO
© Clayboys 2006Best with: Scorpio, Capricorn, Leo, Taurus, Cancer
Fair with: Libra, Aquarius, Gemini, Virgo
Difficult with: Pisces, Aries, Saggitarius
Happy Birthday Pee Wee Herman, Michael Jackson and Dr. Phil
Wednesday, August 22, 2007
Tuesday, August 21, 2007
The Accident
A week ago today I was hit by a car. While I was walking.
It was the guy’s fault; he wasn't looking and caught me when I was halfway across his front end. I backed up as quickly as possible while placing my hands on the hood of his car since apparently I thought I had super powers and imagined I could stop a car with a hot pink manicure.
I also screamed. And no, not because I was afraid I'd chipped a nail. But in all fairness I was sort of busy trying to save my own life so I didn't get a good look until later. I was surprised that I screamed. Sometimes when I watch horror movies I wonder when, in real life, you would be forced into a scream. Apparently when you’re being mowed down by a 2001 Lexus.
I remember falling backwards but didn’t anticipate how my head would hit. I know from watching Jonathan Lipnicki in Jerry McGuire that the human head weighs 8 pounds. As I fell I was aware of my head still in mid-air while my butt touched down first. (And a lovely bruise it is, thank you for asking) I had a metal clip in my hair. The impact crushed it. The head hits hard, I know that now.
Jake, the guy who hit me, took full responsibility, gave me all his insurance info and kept repeating how mortified he was and that it was his fault. I think he'll look both ways about a million times before he pulls out into traffic again. And he forever answered my question as to whether men or women are the worst drivers.
I was worried about two things: a concussion and all the metal parts in my body. I am practically bionic, held together by titanium and steel. I could have gone to the hospital for MRI's and Cat Scans and x-rays. I would have used Jake's Farmer's insurance to cover it. However I have learned one thing about hospitals. Nobody's insurance will cover everything. They will ALWAYS find something to bill you for.
Sidebar: Someone in the health insurance business told me how to beat the system if you don't have insurance. I've used it three times and each time it has worked. Would you be surprised to know it has something to do with the government and the corruptness of hospital administrations? Didn't think so.
I don't have health insurance. Which is why I went to India. The experimental surgery I needed had not been approved in this country and wasn't until almost a year after I returned from Mumbai. So even if I had had insurance, it would not have been covered. There were other Americans there when I arrived. One was a school teacher from Arizona, a guy named Jeff. He had the best health insurance you can get. He told me he found one doctor in the U.S. doing the surgery he and I needed and he was at Cedars Sinai here in L.A. Even though the government had not yet approved it, this doctor was doing the procedure anyway! He told Jeff that his fee for the surgery was $20,000. That did not count the hospital stay, anesthesiology, rehab etc. And since the surgery wasn't covered by insurance, Jeff would have had to pay it all out of pocket. A whopping $65,000.
Jeff took his wife to India with him for the two week stay in a private suite of rooms and the total cost for them both, including airfares, his surgery, his rehab, and his wife getting some stomach flu while she was there and requiring her own private room, was $18,000.
My total was $12,000 but that's because I went into a 4 star hotel for 3 days before I checked into the hospital. I was in so much pain by then and so angry that I was going to India by myself that I hired a Canadian company to take care of all the details and they tacked on their profit.
Six months after I returned I went to my internist in Beverly Hills. I had an infected finger and I'd always heard that if you're full of metal, one of those infections can kill you. I'm probably exaggerating but I went in anyway. I told my doctor about my trip to India.
"Yeah, Medical Tourism is huge these days but I'm not surprised. All the money that people pay into our insurance system goes to administrative costs, raises, new equipment etc. None of it, NONE of it goes to helping the patient. Let's say you paid $300 a month over the last 20 years. That would come out to $72,000. And you spent $12,000 going to India for a surgery no insurance would have covered anyway. You're a genius. And you got to see India."
Because all my surgeries resulted from getting scoliosis at 13, any insurance carrier could have rejected anything I submitted by saying that it was all pre-existing. And I can't prove it isn't. They can't prove it is but who's going to win that battle?
My internist also said the biggest losers were the people who took the highest deductibles. Who uses up $5000 a year in doctor's services? My sister has never met one deductible in over 20 years. Not. One. I paid my doctor $350.00 for a comprehensive checkup. That's a little over what I could be paying for health care every single month. If I had a high deductible, I would have still had to pay for that visit.
My internist told me a story about his son. He had to have an emergency appendectomy so my doctor took him to Cedars Sinai, one of the best hospitals in California. The doctor who performed the surgery did not charge his peer a fee. The boy spent one night in the hospital because that's all the insurance and the hospital allowed on that particular surgery. My internist submitted his insurance for the stay.
He got a bill for over $20,000 with a note saying that this was the amount the insurance did not cover. He canceled his insurance on the spot and now discounts all his services for those with no health insurance. And gives me a $50.00 off coupon for everyone I refer.
And I don't have a concussion and all the metal parts are still working. So far.
End of chat.
It was the guy’s fault; he wasn't looking and caught me when I was halfway across his front end. I backed up as quickly as possible while placing my hands on the hood of his car since apparently I thought I had super powers and imagined I could stop a car with a hot pink manicure.
I also screamed. And no, not because I was afraid I'd chipped a nail. But in all fairness I was sort of busy trying to save my own life so I didn't get a good look until later. I was surprised that I screamed. Sometimes when I watch horror movies I wonder when, in real life, you would be forced into a scream. Apparently when you’re being mowed down by a 2001 Lexus.
I remember falling backwards but didn’t anticipate how my head would hit. I know from watching Jonathan Lipnicki in Jerry McGuire that the human head weighs 8 pounds. As I fell I was aware of my head still in mid-air while my butt touched down first. (And a lovely bruise it is, thank you for asking) I had a metal clip in my hair. The impact crushed it. The head hits hard, I know that now.
Jake, the guy who hit me, took full responsibility, gave me all his insurance info and kept repeating how mortified he was and that it was his fault. I think he'll look both ways about a million times before he pulls out into traffic again. And he forever answered my question as to whether men or women are the worst drivers.
I was worried about two things: a concussion and all the metal parts in my body. I am practically bionic, held together by titanium and steel. I could have gone to the hospital for MRI's and Cat Scans and x-rays. I would have used Jake's Farmer's insurance to cover it. However I have learned one thing about hospitals. Nobody's insurance will cover everything. They will ALWAYS find something to bill you for.
Sidebar: Someone in the health insurance business told me how to beat the system if you don't have insurance. I've used it three times and each time it has worked. Would you be surprised to know it has something to do with the government and the corruptness of hospital administrations? Didn't think so.
I don't have health insurance. Which is why I went to India. The experimental surgery I needed had not been approved in this country and wasn't until almost a year after I returned from Mumbai. So even if I had had insurance, it would not have been covered. There were other Americans there when I arrived. One was a school teacher from Arizona, a guy named Jeff. He had the best health insurance you can get. He told me he found one doctor in the U.S. doing the surgery he and I needed and he was at Cedars Sinai here in L.A. Even though the government had not yet approved it, this doctor was doing the procedure anyway! He told Jeff that his fee for the surgery was $20,000. That did not count the hospital stay, anesthesiology, rehab etc. And since the surgery wasn't covered by insurance, Jeff would have had to pay it all out of pocket. A whopping $65,000.
Jeff took his wife to India with him for the two week stay in a private suite of rooms and the total cost for them both, including airfares, his surgery, his rehab, and his wife getting some stomach flu while she was there and requiring her own private room, was $18,000.
My total was $12,000 but that's because I went into a 4 star hotel for 3 days before I checked into the hospital. I was in so much pain by then and so angry that I was going to India by myself that I hired a Canadian company to take care of all the details and they tacked on their profit.
Six months after I returned I went to my internist in Beverly Hills. I had an infected finger and I'd always heard that if you're full of metal, one of those infections can kill you. I'm probably exaggerating but I went in anyway. I told my doctor about my trip to India.
"Yeah, Medical Tourism is huge these days but I'm not surprised. All the money that people pay into our insurance system goes to administrative costs, raises, new equipment etc. None of it, NONE of it goes to helping the patient. Let's say you paid $300 a month over the last 20 years. That would come out to $72,000. And you spent $12,000 going to India for a surgery no insurance would have covered anyway. You're a genius. And you got to see India."
Because all my surgeries resulted from getting scoliosis at 13, any insurance carrier could have rejected anything I submitted by saying that it was all pre-existing. And I can't prove it isn't. They can't prove it is but who's going to win that battle?
My internist also said the biggest losers were the people who took the highest deductibles. Who uses up $5000 a year in doctor's services? My sister has never met one deductible in over 20 years. Not. One. I paid my doctor $350.00 for a comprehensive checkup. That's a little over what I could be paying for health care every single month. If I had a high deductible, I would have still had to pay for that visit.
My internist told me a story about his son. He had to have an emergency appendectomy so my doctor took him to Cedars Sinai, one of the best hospitals in California. The doctor who performed the surgery did not charge his peer a fee. The boy spent one night in the hospital because that's all the insurance and the hospital allowed on that particular surgery. My internist submitted his insurance for the stay.
He got a bill for over $20,000 with a note saying that this was the amount the insurance did not cover. He canceled his insurance on the spot and now discounts all his services for those with no health insurance. And gives me a $50.00 off coupon for everyone I refer.
And I don't have a concussion and all the metal parts are still working. So far.
End of chat.
Thursday, August 16, 2007
Wednesday, August 15, 2007
The Sorostine Prophecy
I always hear David Byrne's voice in my head. 'How did I get here?'
Just like in The Celestine Prophecy, I believe everyone we meet and everything we do has purpose. Even if the person or the situation is making us suicidal, as it often does, if we look hard and put down the gun, we can find a chain reaction of reasons that lead us to our next obvious point in time. Even though in that moment we have no idea that it's so obvious.
'Water flowing underground.'
1. I was engaged to be married to a guy I met in Paris, France but who was from San Francisco.
2. We broke up.
3. So I decided to move to San Francisco on the off chance that we might get back together.
4. We did not.
5. While in S.F. I had a relationship with another man who turned out to be a junkie and a felon.
6. We broke up.
7. So I moved back to Paris.
8. I stayed there for 3 years during which time I starred in a musical review.
9. When that ended I couldn’t find another job.
10. So I moved to New York.
11. I started doing standup in New York.
12. I got engaged again.
13. We broke up.
14. So I moved to Los Angeles.
15. I got 6 television shows my first year in L.A.
16. I started my road show, Single, Married & Divorced, and we toured the U.S. for 8 years.
17. I entertained the troops overseas in 6 different countries for three years.
18. During all of this was the Seven Years of Stupid with The Impotentate.
19. We broke up.
20. I then met Elvis, the love of my life.
21. We broke up.
22. So based on the only good sex I’d ever had, with him, I wrote a novel called All the Bad Sex I’ve had, a very, very, very long book.
23. Then I got hired to write for a website.
24. The editor was insane and I wanted to quit after a month.
25. Baby on Bored told me to forget the website and start a blog.
26. I had sworn I would never do a blog.
27. So I quit the website.
28. And started a blog.
So everything that looked like a bump in the road was just a ladder to the next….bump in the road. Would any of those incidents have occurred in a vacuum? Or did one knowingly lead to the next?
'Letting the days go by.'
Most of my bumps were about men. Even though I regret many of those hook-ups, they moved me along to the creative life I was supposed to lead. Since I was 15 years old and fronted my own band, I’ve always been all about my career. And all those failed relationships kept shoving me back onto the yellow brick road. So yes, I know how I got here.
End of Talking Heads chat.
Just like in The Celestine Prophecy, I believe everyone we meet and everything we do has purpose. Even if the person or the situation is making us suicidal, as it often does, if we look hard and put down the gun, we can find a chain reaction of reasons that lead us to our next obvious point in time. Even though in that moment we have no idea that it's so obvious.
'Water flowing underground.'
1. I was engaged to be married to a guy I met in Paris, France but who was from San Francisco.
2. We broke up.
3. So I decided to move to San Francisco on the off chance that we might get back together.
4. We did not.
5. While in S.F. I had a relationship with another man who turned out to be a junkie and a felon.
6. We broke up.
7. So I moved back to Paris.
8. I stayed there for 3 years during which time I starred in a musical review.
9. When that ended I couldn’t find another job.
10. So I moved to New York.
11. I started doing standup in New York.
12. I got engaged again.
13. We broke up.
14. So I moved to Los Angeles.
15. I got 6 television shows my first year in L.A.
16. I started my road show, Single, Married & Divorced, and we toured the U.S. for 8 years.
17. I entertained the troops overseas in 6 different countries for three years.
18. During all of this was the Seven Years of Stupid with The Impotentate.
19. We broke up.
20. I then met Elvis, the love of my life.
21. We broke up.
22. So based on the only good sex I’d ever had, with him, I wrote a novel called All the Bad Sex I’ve had, a very, very, very long book.
23. Then I got hired to write for a website.
24. The editor was insane and I wanted to quit after a month.
25. Baby on Bored told me to forget the website and start a blog.
26. I had sworn I would never do a blog.
27. So I quit the website.
28. And started a blog.
So everything that looked like a bump in the road was just a ladder to the next….bump in the road. Would any of those incidents have occurred in a vacuum? Or did one knowingly lead to the next?
'Letting the days go by.'
Most of my bumps were about men. Even though I regret many of those hook-ups, they moved me along to the creative life I was supposed to lead. Since I was 15 years old and fronted my own band, I’ve always been all about my career. And all those failed relationships kept shoving me back onto the yellow brick road. So yes, I know how I got here.
End of Talking Heads chat.
Tuesday, August 14, 2007
SINGLE, MARRIED & DIVORCED - Sixth Cartoon
I don't think people should break up. I think the man should just die.
© Single, Married & Divorced
Jokes from the show Single, Married & Divorced starring Suzy Soro and Leslie Norris.
Written by Suzy Soro.
Illustration by Andre Noel.
Monday, August 13, 2007
Honest Liars
I live in the only town in the world where you can’t reveal your real age. Well, you can, but people just add seven years to whatever you say. Then they forget what you said and you forget what you told them so if they ask you again you give another age and the next thing you know they think you’re 87.
Hollywood practices the most egregious form of ageism and yes, it’s against the law and no one can ask you how old you are yet they get around it by asking your representative. When I was with Bruce, my first L.A. agent, he was talking on the phone to a casting director.
“How old is Suzy?” She enquired.
“Mid 30’s.” He replied.
“Still?”
Individuals who tell you how old they are usually do so because they think they look great. The minute they stop hearing, “You look fantastic,” and instead are met with an incredulous, stricken look, that’s the last time they make that information public. As we all know, the only people who love aging are pre-teens and the elderly. Wow! You’re 12 and a half! Amazing! You’re 102 years young. Not so impressive when you realize neither of these groups can drive you to the airport nor lend you money. And you're not young dumb ass; Methuselah is your grandchild, okay? You're old. Own it and stop getting on my nerves.
One person I know went through my wallet and looked at my license. Then she told other people how old I was and it got back to me. Subsequent to her nosiness, I disclosed some choice things about her and she had no idea. Still doesn’t. I would never have revealed one thing about her had she not been such an asshole. This is a very competitive town and I’m a very competitive person. If you end up costing me work, I will go after you. In a big way.
Which brings me to the topic of women and gossiping. Never tell a woman anything you don’t want passed around for the next twenty years. Men are much less complicated. They don’t remember what you told them five minutes ago. Which is why they should get sex on demand.
Instead of giving out our ages, I think we should disclose our IQ’s. Not so many people would be blabbing. Especially in Hollywood.
End of chat.
Hollywood practices the most egregious form of ageism and yes, it’s against the law and no one can ask you how old you are yet they get around it by asking your representative. When I was with Bruce, my first L.A. agent, he was talking on the phone to a casting director.
“How old is Suzy?” She enquired.
“Mid 30’s.” He replied.
“Still?”
Individuals who tell you how old they are usually do so because they think they look great. The minute they stop hearing, “You look fantastic,” and instead are met with an incredulous, stricken look, that’s the last time they make that information public. As we all know, the only people who love aging are pre-teens and the elderly. Wow! You’re 12 and a half! Amazing! You’re 102 years young. Not so impressive when you realize neither of these groups can drive you to the airport nor lend you money. And you're not young dumb ass; Methuselah is your grandchild, okay? You're old. Own it and stop getting on my nerves.
One person I know went through my wallet and looked at my license. Then she told other people how old I was and it got back to me. Subsequent to her nosiness, I disclosed some choice things about her and she had no idea. Still doesn’t. I would never have revealed one thing about her had she not been such an asshole. This is a very competitive town and I’m a very competitive person. If you end up costing me work, I will go after you. In a big way.
Which brings me to the topic of women and gossiping. Never tell a woman anything you don’t want passed around for the next twenty years. Men are much less complicated. They don’t remember what you told them five minutes ago. Which is why they should get sex on demand.
Instead of giving out our ages, I think we should disclose our IQ’s. Not so many people would be blabbing. Especially in Hollywood.
End of chat.
Friday, August 10, 2007
Thursday, August 09, 2007
Men Fake Foreplay
When Mike Dugan and I were both doing standup back in N.Y. he somehow ended up crashing at my place even though I can’t remember why. He used to take two showers a day and when I recently reminded him of that he had no recollection of it. When he left New York he gave me his IBM Selectric II. That machine took up so much room it should have paid me rent.
Mike wrote a show called Men Fake Foreplay, directed by character actress Frances Fisher. (ER, Grey’s Anatomy, Boston Legal) It’s running Thursdays and Fridays in August at The Hayworth Theatre here in Los Angeles. It’s a really hilarious show in spite of the fact that I'm not in it.
I asked him if he remembered the name of my show, which toured the U.S. for 8 years. He came up with these titles just to piss me off:
‘God, this is Suzy calling. Fuck off’
‘Breast Size Story’
‘Your Dick’s Too Short to Box with Soro’
‘The Miracle Whip Worker’
‘The Diarrhea of Anne Frank’
In spite of this, we’re still friends. Or at least he still thinks so.
End of chat.
Tuesday, August 07, 2007
Flipping Out
I’ve never been a fan of The Apprentice, Survivor, The Amazing Race, or any of the countless shows that require participants to do ludicrous things like blow a bubble out of their left nostril only to be voted off because they couldn’t hail a cab in Uzbekistan or made a bad alliance in the wrong jungle setting. I went to high school and would rather not relive those years thank you very much.
I also hated The Real World, The Bachelor, (somebody club me over the head) The Bachelorette, (keep clubbing) and Big Brother. I don’t care I don’t care I don’t care. I like Design Star, American Idol (I’m an uncloseted fan), So You Think You Can Dance, Top Chef, and Project Runway, shows where you uh, actually uh, need this crazy little thing called TALENT to compete. If your only gift is having the ability to stand on a metal 2 by 4 over a body of water to see who can last the longest then seriously, your life has derailed. And I’m not going to enter a twilight coma watching your caboose crash land into Nowheresville, U.S.A.
But give me a larger than life personality with OCD and control issues and now we’re talking reality TV. I was a fan of the crazies like Real Housewives of the O.C., Blowout, Gastineau Girls, and My Life on the D List.
The NY Times wrote this about Bravo’s new reality show Flipping Out:
“Jeff Lewis is a very scary man, and he isn't scary solely because he treats his employees like dust mites or consults a psychic to assist him in the running of his business or sends his cat, Monkey, to an acupuncturist. No, Jeff Lewis, a Los Angeles real estate speculator, evokes a chill because he is so leveraged, a man balancing multiple mortgages like bricks on a noodle.”
In Episode One perfectionist extraordinaire Jeff does all of the above plus gets into a vicious fight with an employee, cries, and puts up little signs next to the phones which instruct his staff what to say when they answer a business call. It's Martha Stewart voyeurism.
But his talent is unmistakable. He’s gay, because Bravo knows no one wants to see a straight guy do anything to a home except mow the lawn, and they also know that no one wants to see a heterosexual male decorate, unless you’re a fan of empty pizza boxes on a wagon wheel coffee table and hanging art work too close to the ceiling.
Not to be missed are the multiple Los Angeles homes Jeff demos, re-vamps and then flips with a vengeance. And is that too much collagen in his upper lip?
It's on Tuesdays on Bravo, 10 pm Pacific. Tonight! Episode Two!
End of real chat.
I also hated The Real World, The Bachelor, (somebody club me over the head) The Bachelorette, (keep clubbing) and Big Brother. I don’t care I don’t care I don’t care. I like Design Star, American Idol (I’m an uncloseted fan), So You Think You Can Dance, Top Chef, and Project Runway, shows where you uh, actually uh, need this crazy little thing called TALENT to compete. If your only gift is having the ability to stand on a metal 2 by 4 over a body of water to see who can last the longest then seriously, your life has derailed. And I’m not going to enter a twilight coma watching your caboose crash land into Nowheresville, U.S.A.
But give me a larger than life personality with OCD and control issues and now we’re talking reality TV. I was a fan of the crazies like Real Housewives of the O.C., Blowout, Gastineau Girls, and My Life on the D List.
The NY Times wrote this about Bravo’s new reality show Flipping Out:
“Jeff Lewis is a very scary man, and he isn't scary solely because he treats his employees like dust mites or consults a psychic to assist him in the running of his business or sends his cat, Monkey, to an acupuncturist. No, Jeff Lewis, a Los Angeles real estate speculator, evokes a chill because he is so leveraged, a man balancing multiple mortgages like bricks on a noodle.”
In Episode One perfectionist extraordinaire Jeff does all of the above plus gets into a vicious fight with an employee, cries, and puts up little signs next to the phones which instruct his staff what to say when they answer a business call. It's Martha Stewart voyeurism.
But his talent is unmistakable. He’s gay, because Bravo knows no one wants to see a straight guy do anything to a home except mow the lawn, and they also know that no one wants to see a heterosexual male decorate, unless you’re a fan of empty pizza boxes on a wagon wheel coffee table and hanging art work too close to the ceiling.
Not to be missed are the multiple Los Angeles homes Jeff demos, re-vamps and then flips with a vengeance. And is that too much collagen in his upper lip?
It's on Tuesdays on Bravo, 10 pm Pacific. Tonight! Episode Two!
End of real chat.
Monday, August 06, 2007
Remembrances Of Things WAY Past
Here’s how I spent another big Hollywood weekend: I went to Best Buy to see if they could price-match a 160 gig external hard-drive that Costco was selling for $109 minus $20 off on a coupon. The best they could do was $99 on a 120 gig. So long suckers. But I couldn’t just leave the store. It’s Best Buy! They have gadgets! And toys! And bears! Oh my!
So I started wandering around the surge protector aisle because I like to party hard. I remembered that of the 4, or is it 127, surge protectors I have; one was from my Dad’s place in Florida. Every time I looked at it I remembered how fond he was of ordering from the Harriet Carter Catalog, distinctive gifts since 1958. My downstairs neighbor James, a film director who is all things electronic and computer was in my apartment one day.
“Holy cow, what is that?”
“Uhhh...a Harriet Carter Powermax Coax surge protector?”
So I needed to upgrade, just to keep James from laughing every time he saw it. I settled on a $40 15 amp 1875 watts one because it had 10 plugs, and not the paltry 8 that the $28 one had. I didn't read the package. Reading is for girls.
At home, I unwrapped all the parts and was surprised to find three cables for all the extra protection ports: Broadband, fax/modem/phone, and my toaster oven. This was not your Daddy's surge protector. There was also a GOLD Dual Coax DSS/Cable Modem communication protection port because that particular metal improves the signal. Any woman could have told them that gold always improves a signal.
So I hooked up the lines to the new protector but the air/con plug wouldn’t fit. So instead of being able to toss the 157 year-old artifact my Dad bought off a T-Rex, I was now obligated to keep them both.
In unhooking and re-hooking all the lines I ended up with a plug to nowhere. I had apparently pulled it out of the port in my ass and now couldn’t figure out where to put it. That's my red flashlight in the middle of all those wires because I had to get down on my knees - and not in the good way - and look for an empty port.
I decided to ignore the problem and ten minutes later tried logging on. I couldn’t connect and in a panic I rushed downstairs to James’s place and begged him to come upstairs and fix whatever it was that I’d done. He did. I had just pulled the cord from the broadband port that was lying on the floor. The one place I hadn't looked.
He saw the two surge protectors lying side by side and asked me why the old one had the air/con plug in it and was not in the new device. I informed him that it wouldn’t fit into the new surge. He told me that wasn't possible and grabbed the plug and rammed it, crammed it, pushed it, and hammered it into the new surge protector. James turned to me and said, “See, it just needed a little push.” This is why mothers look on horrified when fathers toss their kids into the air with reckless abandon. Men play rough.
On to the next relic. My iron. I remembered taking (stealing) the iron out of our home after my parents divorced and dad was moving in his third wife. (Her life will be ruined; she won’t have an iron and then she’ll force Dad to get her a maid and …oh shit) I dragged it to NY and then on to LA, where it lived in a bottom shelf of a cabinet and never saw the light of day because I dry-clean cotton shirts to avoid ironing.
Sidebar: When Meryl Streep and Cher were shooting the movie Silkwood, Streep ironed her own everyday clothes. Cher asked Meryl why she was doing that since there were ‘people’ who could do that for her. And La Streep answered that she’d rather do it herself since it kept her grounded, normal. Fool.
I had a million coupons from Bed, Bath & I Can Never Get Out Of That Store For Under $5,000 Worth Of Crap I Don't Need so I bought some things that I had up until now not been missing. A knife sharpener. A rubber spatula. A giant drum of Oxi-Clean. I thought of my Mom's 45-pound iron that I never used and just pushed around a cabinet so that I could get to the other vampire items I had hidden away from daylight.
So of course I bought a new one. With a cord that automatically winds itself up in the base of the iron so I won’t have to take an extra 16 seconds out of my very busy life of watching HGTV to do this arduous task.
I took it home, pulled out the offending old iron and since the new iron had no resting plate, I sat it upright in the shelf only to discover it wouldn’t fit. Not on any shelf anywhere in my kitchen. And I wasn’t about to give up the cord roll-up option, I can tell you that right now. I’M A BUSY PERSON.
I was resigning myself to the fact that I’d have to put it under a sink. Either in the kitchen or in the bathroom. But under the sink in anyone’s place is always disgusting. I don’t know what goes on under sinks while we sleep but it’s always rusty and creepy down there.
So I put my shiny new iron in with my towels, where it is resting comfortably and will never see an ironing board in its entire life.
End of I Warned You I Would Talk About My New Iron chat.
So I started wandering around the surge protector aisle because I like to party hard. I remembered that of the 4, or is it 127, surge protectors I have; one was from my Dad’s place in Florida. Every time I looked at it I remembered how fond he was of ordering from the Harriet Carter Catalog, distinctive gifts since 1958. My downstairs neighbor James, a film director who is all things electronic and computer was in my apartment one day.
“Holy cow, what is that?”
“Uhhh...a Harriet Carter Powermax Coax surge protector?”
So I needed to upgrade, just to keep James from laughing every time he saw it. I settled on a $40 15 amp 1875 watts one because it had 10 plugs, and not the paltry 8 that the $28 one had. I didn't read the package. Reading is for girls.
At home, I unwrapped all the parts and was surprised to find three cables for all the extra protection ports: Broadband, fax/modem/phone, and my toaster oven. This was not your Daddy's surge protector. There was also a GOLD Dual Coax DSS/Cable Modem communication protection port because that particular metal improves the signal. Any woman could have told them that gold always improves a signal.
So I hooked up the lines to the new protector but the air/con plug wouldn’t fit. So instead of being able to toss the 157 year-old artifact my Dad bought off a T-Rex, I was now obligated to keep them both.
In unhooking and re-hooking all the lines I ended up with a plug to nowhere. I had apparently pulled it out of the port in my ass and now couldn’t figure out where to put it. That's my red flashlight in the middle of all those wires because I had to get down on my knees - and not in the good way - and look for an empty port.
I decided to ignore the problem and ten minutes later tried logging on. I couldn’t connect and in a panic I rushed downstairs to James’s place and begged him to come upstairs and fix whatever it was that I’d done. He did. I had just pulled the cord from the broadband port that was lying on the floor. The one place I hadn't looked.
He saw the two surge protectors lying side by side and asked me why the old one had the air/con plug in it and was not in the new device. I informed him that it wouldn’t fit into the new surge. He told me that wasn't possible and grabbed the plug and rammed it, crammed it, pushed it, and hammered it into the new surge protector. James turned to me and said, “See, it just needed a little push.” This is why mothers look on horrified when fathers toss their kids into the air with reckless abandon. Men play rough.
On to the next relic. My iron. I remembered taking (stealing) the iron out of our home after my parents divorced and dad was moving in his third wife. (Her life will be ruined; she won’t have an iron and then she’ll force Dad to get her a maid and …oh shit) I dragged it to NY and then on to LA, where it lived in a bottom shelf of a cabinet and never saw the light of day because I dry-clean cotton shirts to avoid ironing.
Sidebar: When Meryl Streep and Cher were shooting the movie Silkwood, Streep ironed her own everyday clothes. Cher asked Meryl why she was doing that since there were ‘people’ who could do that for her. And La Streep answered that she’d rather do it herself since it kept her grounded, normal. Fool.
I had a million coupons from Bed, Bath & I Can Never Get Out Of That Store For Under $5,000 Worth Of Crap I Don't Need so I bought some things that I had up until now not been missing. A knife sharpener. A rubber spatula. A giant drum of Oxi-Clean. I thought of my Mom's 45-pound iron that I never used and just pushed around a cabinet so that I could get to the other vampire items I had hidden away from daylight.
So of course I bought a new one. With a cord that automatically winds itself up in the base of the iron so I won’t have to take an extra 16 seconds out of my very busy life of watching HGTV to do this arduous task.
I took it home, pulled out the offending old iron and since the new iron had no resting plate, I sat it upright in the shelf only to discover it wouldn’t fit. Not on any shelf anywhere in my kitchen. And I wasn’t about to give up the cord roll-up option, I can tell you that right now. I’M A BUSY PERSON.
I was resigning myself to the fact that I’d have to put it under a sink. Either in the kitchen or in the bathroom. But under the sink in anyone’s place is always disgusting. I don’t know what goes on under sinks while we sleep but it’s always rusty and creepy down there.
So I put my shiny new iron in with my towels, where it is resting comfortably and will never see an ironing board in its entire life.
End of I Warned You I Would Talk About My New Iron chat.
Friday, August 03, 2007
The Experiment
I blogged Monday-Friday every week in July, just to see if it could be done without me going crazy. I think we all know the inevitable outcome of that although to be fair I didn't have far to go.
I really don’t do enough to justify five days a week of boring people to death. Unless you want to hear about the new Rowenta iron I bought yesterday. After all, you read through the torturously mind-numbing acquisition of my Ralph Lauren sunglasses in Malibu, where I couldn’t get a fucking bag to save my life. Maybe in my second year of blogging I'll be spilling my personal drama on a daily basis but so far I'm as closeted as Tom Cruise.
I’m also an anal-retentive, hyper-vigilant person who re-writes a post about a thousand times before I upload it to Blogger. I am always working on anywhere from 15-20 pieces at any given time. And yet I refuse to make my bed every day because I just mess it up every night and what kind of a waste of my precious sitting-around time is that?
I always go back into my blog and rewrite. Sometimes weeks later. I’ll find a more concise word, a funnier tag. While I’m working on one piece, I’ll look something up in Strunk and White’s The Elements of Style and will go back into my archives because it has suddenly dawned on me that I used an incorrect word back in October of 2006, a word like meaningful, which S&W defines as a ‘bankrupt adjective.’ And like Monica on Friends, who can’t sleep knowing there’s a pair of sneakers in the living room that haven’t been put away, I will rush back into my archives to fix it. This could be why I don’t have a boyfriend.
The most legendary example of this syndrome is Larry Gelbart, the writer of practically the entire TV series M.A.S.H., which was on the air from 1972 to 1983. He was at a comedy conference in Aspen in the early part of the 00's and Bill Maher asked him if he could relate to the renowned ‘A writer doesn’t write; he re-writes.’ And Gelbart responded without missing a beat, “I’m still re-writing episodes of M.A.S.H.”
He made me feel less dirty.
Sidebar: Main Entry: side·bar Function: noun
1 a: a short news story or graphic accompanying and presenting sidelights of a major story b: something incidental: SIDELIGHT.
2: a conference between the judge, the lawyers, and sometimes the parties to a case that the jury does not hear.
In the world of Blogs I have no idea why that list over there on the right (or sometimes left) is referred to as a sidebar. It is used INCORRECTLY. I’ve been writing for twenty years and shit like that makes me crazy. And don’t get me started on spell check. I’ll go right out a window and take you with me.
I'm not a perfect writer. My spell check is constantly reminding me that I write in fragments and wouldn't recognize a comma if it French-kissed me. Whatever, dude.
I'm going back to my normal posting schedule which p.s. I never had.
End of rewritten-at-least-30-times chat.
I really don’t do enough to justify five days a week of boring people to death. Unless you want to hear about the new Rowenta iron I bought yesterday. After all, you read through the torturously mind-numbing acquisition of my Ralph Lauren sunglasses in Malibu, where I couldn’t get a fucking bag to save my life. Maybe in my second year of blogging I'll be spilling my personal drama on a daily basis but so far I'm as closeted as Tom Cruise.
I’m also an anal-retentive, hyper-vigilant person who re-writes a post about a thousand times before I upload it to Blogger. I am always working on anywhere from 15-20 pieces at any given time. And yet I refuse to make my bed every day because I just mess it up every night and what kind of a waste of my precious sitting-around time is that?
I always go back into my blog and rewrite. Sometimes weeks later. I’ll find a more concise word, a funnier tag. While I’m working on one piece, I’ll look something up in Strunk and White’s The Elements of Style and will go back into my archives because it has suddenly dawned on me that I used an incorrect word back in October of 2006, a word like meaningful, which S&W defines as a ‘bankrupt adjective.’ And like Monica on Friends, who can’t sleep knowing there’s a pair of sneakers in the living room that haven’t been put away, I will rush back into my archives to fix it. This could be why I don’t have a boyfriend.
The most legendary example of this syndrome is Larry Gelbart, the writer of practically the entire TV series M.A.S.H., which was on the air from 1972 to 1983. He was at a comedy conference in Aspen in the early part of the 00's and Bill Maher asked him if he could relate to the renowned ‘A writer doesn’t write; he re-writes.’ And Gelbart responded without missing a beat, “I’m still re-writing episodes of M.A.S.H.”
He made me feel less dirty.
Sidebar: Main Entry: side·bar Function: noun
1 a: a short news story or graphic accompanying and presenting sidelights of a major story b: something incidental: SIDELIGHT.
2: a conference between the judge, the lawyers, and sometimes the parties to a case that the jury does not hear.
In the world of Blogs I have no idea why that list over there on the right (or sometimes left) is referred to as a sidebar. It is used INCORRECTLY. I’ve been writing for twenty years and shit like that makes me crazy. And don’t get me started on spell check. I’ll go right out a window and take you with me.
I'm not a perfect writer. My spell check is constantly reminding me that I write in fragments and wouldn't recognize a comma if it French-kissed me. Whatever, dude.
I'm going back to my normal posting schedule which p.s. I never had.
End of rewritten-at-least-30-times chat.
Thursday, August 02, 2007
Wednesday, August 01, 2007
Mailbag # 2
More anonymous snippets from emails I’ve received:
My second favorite family activity is we all sit around and take our blood pressures.
I love being a mom, even though sometimes I cry a lot.
As my ex used to tell me -- sometimes he thought I looked like Ava Gardner--and other days he thought I looked a lot more like Ava Gardner's maid.
I am feeling very sensitive this week as some local bitch moms hurt my feelings. I know, who cares about local bitch moms, I guess sometimes I do.
So I took a pair of his Italian 300.00 pants and ripped the ass seam a little- not where he can see it but enough so that when he sits it will continue to rip.
I've never seen such huge nipples in my life!!
You're like some kind of twisted Mother Teresa of stand-up - keeping all the bent motherfuckers in touch - very sweet...
I once called a suicide hotline for a friend and they suggested an intervention. By the time I reached anyone else to participate, my suicidal friend had taken apart his gun and couldn't figure how to put it back together.
I got overwhelmed by her kids. They were cute, but they were kids. I don't do kids very well.
I remember being with my sister and her friends at Wellesley and one of them wanting to know if anybody else was interesting in going over to a party at MIT for some “sport fucking.”
I can't remember the faces of all the guys I’ve slept with. Oh my god, I wouldn't want to. Who would? Wouldn’t that be a scary poster? All those faces? We could each have one. The bad part would be being on someone else's poster.
My problem is that I wish I DIDN'T remember half of the people I slept with.
My second favorite family activity is we all sit around and take our blood pressures.
I love being a mom, even though sometimes I cry a lot.
As my ex used to tell me -- sometimes he thought I looked like Ava Gardner--and other days he thought I looked a lot more like Ava Gardner's maid.
I am feeling very sensitive this week as some local bitch moms hurt my feelings. I know, who cares about local bitch moms, I guess sometimes I do.
So I took a pair of his Italian 300.00 pants and ripped the ass seam a little- not where he can see it but enough so that when he sits it will continue to rip.
I've never seen such huge nipples in my life!!
You're like some kind of twisted Mother Teresa of stand-up - keeping all the bent motherfuckers in touch - very sweet...
I once called a suicide hotline for a friend and they suggested an intervention. By the time I reached anyone else to participate, my suicidal friend had taken apart his gun and couldn't figure how to put it back together.
I got overwhelmed by her kids. They were cute, but they were kids. I don't do kids very well.
I remember being with my sister and her friends at Wellesley and one of them wanting to know if anybody else was interesting in going over to a party at MIT for some “sport fucking.”
I can't remember the faces of all the guys I’ve slept with. Oh my god, I wouldn't want to. Who would? Wouldn’t that be a scary poster? All those faces? We could each have one. The bad part would be being on someone else's poster.
My problem is that I wish I DIDN'T remember half of the people I slept with.
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