Monthly Archives: July 2008

Stinks…stinks, I tell you!

So I’ve been writing and writing and writing and gosh-dammit, I want some instant gratification!  Not that I don’t love writing and not that I don’t totally go crazy everytime I check my readership numbers (I do…I’m addicted), but how about a check in the mail people?  Hello, publishers?  Are you listening to me?  I’m ranting.  I’m raving.  I’m ranting and raving and chewing gum at the same time.  Can you write me a six-figure check now?

The update is this: I must either be completely messed in the head (true) or a masochist (didn’t think this was true, but am not wondering now if I should buy a leather mask and some whips just to be sure) or maybe I really do love writing about nothing to a captive audience (uh, what audience???) because the conference has proven ineffective.  All of those agents who were screaming like Beatles fans and trying to tear my clothes off…never heard a word again.  It must’ve been something I said?  Anyway, at least I have you guys.  And by you guys I mean me.  I’m not sure anybody else really reads this crap.

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The Jerry Sprigger Show

Jerry:  Why are you here today, Sara?

Sara:  I’m going crazy and it’s not my fault.

Jerry:  Not your fault?  How’s that?

Sara:  Well Jerry, I’m not one to point fingers, but Sam, my boyfriend is slowly driving me to an early grave.

Jerry:  But I thought you just said you were going crazy.  Could this be an illusion?  A fabrication of your crazy imagination?

Sara:  I wish it were, Jerry.  I wish it were, but no.  It’s him.  He’s driving me to drink.

Jerry:  So you’re an alcoholic too?

Sara:  You’re not listening to me.

Jerry:  You sound as if you’re starting to get angry, Sara.  Is this normal or is this part of your disease?

Sara:  I don’t have a disease!  I’m simply going nuts because you men are driving me crazy.  There.  Is that clear enough for you?  Can you understand that?

Jerry:  Let’s go to the audience.  <walks over to a large woman with ‘Chinegro’ emblazoned across her chest’>  Hello, ma’am.

Ma’am:  Hello, Jerry.  Lady, you need to get a massage, take a bath, hell, take a lover if you have to, but don’t take it out on your man.  Men are crazy.  That’s the Lord’s way.  Now get over it and move on.  Hell-lo!

<the room is full of catcalls – people stand up with their arms raised like telephone poles and begin ‘lifting the roof’ as they cheer and dance>

Jerry:  It sounds to me like the audience is for once, in agreement, Sara.  You need to accept that your man is crazy and move on.

Sara: I should have gone on Oprah.

<Tyra Banks pops out of the audience and runs down to the stage.  She grabs the microphone from Jerry and faces the camera.>

Tyra:  Tomorrow on the Tyra Banks show, How to Stop Your Man From Driving You Nuts AND Seven Things You Can Eat To Drown Your Sorrows Without Gaining Weight.  Plus, assassin and voodoo priestess, Elizabeth Taylor will be there to show you some last resorts.  All tomorrow at 2 on Fox!

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A lawyer walks into a bar…

Everyone has a joke about a lawyer, a priest, a rabbi or a blonde.  All three have much fodder for poking fun at, I get it.  The joke I’m thinking of however, is bitter-sweet.

To protect the innocent I’ll name my friend, Gloria.  Gloria left Los Angeles almost a month ago for the exciting hills of Westchester, New York.  When she’ll be back, none of us know – she’s there to take care of her grandmother.  Where are the rest of her family, you might ask.  Good question. 

Grandma’s a lawyer.  Has been for about 60years.  She’s still practicing in between hiding her meds in the oven and confusing Gloria with her father, the King of England.  Gloria has recently found out that Grandma has two trials pending.  If Grandma would stop calling 911 or trying to go to the circus at 2am, these trials might even make it to court.  How’s that for a due process? 

Gloria, stuck in New York and juggling Grandma on no sleep (who can sleep when Grandma is always convinced that it’s time to hop out of bed and go to church/work/Batman’s birthday party), has recently learned something exciting.  Grandma is playing matchmaker!  Grandma thinks that Gloria should marry her 67year old cousin.  Gloria finds this repugnant and not because he has Asperser’s or because he’s old enough to be her father.  No, it was the ‘he’s my relative’ part that did Gloria in.

Wily and headstrong Grandma refuses to stop taking matters into her own hands and therefore still employs a full-time secretary.  According to Gloria, the secretary’s been with Grandma forever and has always helped with the day-in, day-out responsibilities of being a lawyer.  The thing is, the secretary’s almost as old as Grandma is and well, she’s down to only one leg.  You have no idea how hard it is for a one-legged, septuagenarian to get much accomplished in the way of errands and depositions.  This leaves Gloria with the bulk of the duties and Gloria’s pretty much maxed out as it is. 

Grandma also has two part-time housekeepers whom she holds to a high bar of cleaning standards.  Gloria says that the young one (73 years old with Emphysema) is often put to shame by her elder compatriot who’s 85 years old, but who walks around with a bird on her shoulder that chirps encouragingly.  I told Gloria that she should stop helping the one-legged secretary and start concentrating on making sure that no one slips on a vacuum chord and breaks a hip.

Gloria has also learned that Grandma loves to call 911, but that after a soothing ambulance ride and a smooth hospital check-in, Grandma’s fine.  When moments before she wasn’t going to make it, at the sight of her doctors, Grandma will jump out of bed and start marching like a head drum majorette.  Luckily, Grandma’s neighbors, a short, Irish couple who wear only green (Gloria suspects they might be leprechauns) brought over some homemade Irish stout to help Grandma.  “One cup of milk with one cup of stout keeps Grandma hearty and the doctors out.”  Gloria’s decided to skip the milk part and is happily guzzling down the stout herself.  It’s keeping her from being litigious as she lives through her own personal lawyer joke.  It’s a doozey.

   Two Bears and A Kiki Walk Into A Bar…




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The Best Intentions

Yesterday I met a woman who rented an apartment in Santa Monica so she could live near the beach…but she never goes to the beach.  She bought a convertible to enjoy the California sunshine…but she doesn’t put the top down.  And this got me to thinking.  How many things do we plan on doing that we never do?

The first thing that popped into my mind was my membership to the Los Angeles County Museum of Art (LACMA).  When I joined LACMA I had a whole new life imagined for myself.  Suddenly I was thin, bohemian, and artsy – like a young Audrey Hepburn.  I wore a beret, and striped shirts, and I always carried a drawing pad.  I talked politics and ran for Congress.  In my free time I wrote letters to the United Nations and organizations that saved wildlife while fighting world domination (kind of a two-in-one deal).  But everyday, no matter how busy I was, I always carved out enough time to make a trip to the museum.  I would sit with Picasso and Cezanne, Pollock and Koons, and allow myself to be inspired.  Then, with hidden talents I didn’t even know I had, I would begin to sketch. 

One day a famous art collector peered over my shoulder.

“You…you are fantastic!  Superb!”  He gasps.  “Where is your work sold?  I will buy all of it!” 

“Me?”  I look up confused.  “I’m not an artist.  I’m just here to admire the greats.”

My favorite guard, Buddy walks over to join us.  “Hello, Mr. Francois.  This here’s Sara Morris.  We’ve been telling the girl she’s got a gift, but she won’t believe us.  How much you think you could get for a drawing like this in one of your art galleries?”

“Millions!”  Mr. Francois gushes.  “But I would never sell.  They are too precious.”  He gets down on his knees in front of me and grabs onto my thighs.  I try not to notice that his hands are really far up there.  “Please, Sara Morris, please let me give you my entire fortune for just one of these astonishing drawings of yours!  I’m worth billions.”

“It’s true.”  Buddy nods.

It was same old story when I joined KCRW, the local public radio station.  At the time, I just knew that my membership would lead me to greater things.  I could just imagine…

One day KCRW calls me.  They’re looking for volunteer members to help out at the station because all of the disc jockeys are sick with a curable form of Ebola.  When I get there, the station is in pandemonium.  It’s time for Morning Become Eclectic and no will go on the air to do it.  I raise my voice above the ruckus.  “I’ll do it.”

Naturally, I’m great at it and even when everyone at KCRW recovers from their minor cases of Ebola, I stay on.  Soon I’m one of the best talk show hosts in the world.  Oprah calls in regularly to have her show and mine broadcast simultaneously.  Eventually I go on to write books, host award shows, and even star in my own movies.  In my movies, I get to act against some the hottest men in Hollywood.  They all have crushes on me and there are gladiator fights between them for the honor of who gets to act against me in the steamy, love scenes.  As I told Vanity Fair in my 14th cover story, “Life is good.” 

Vanity Fair August 2009 Issue IVXV, Disc Jockeys to Silver Screen Divas: How did they get there?  Who can we trust?  PLUS!  The behind the scenes exspose on Hollywood’s Gladiator Fighting!  (who uses grease and who doesn’t on page 67)

So far, I haven’t really taken advantage of these opportunites that my memberships might allow me.  I’m thinking maybe tomorrow…tomorrow will be the start of something big.  In the meantime, I’m going to get a pedicure because I’ve intending to do that for a few weeks now and I’m starting to look like a tree monkey.

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Gotta Run, Gotta Run!

Good Morning, Everyone! 

Good Morning, Ms. Morris.


Today you’ll get some free time to diddle about on your own… I’m rushing out the door to get ready for a fabulous day and there’s just no time to write!


Brunch at the Bel Air Hotel, facials at Kate Summerville, cocktails with friends moving to Nashville, and dinner at the Getty with my favorite family of 7 from London.  I know!  That’s what I said too when I heard about my day.


I’ll let you know how it turns out…in the meantime, my thanks go out to Zazzy Brennan for making the first part of this glorious day possible.  You’re a jewel, Zazzzy.  Over and out!




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Fun, A Four-Letter Word

Platform heels – check

White, summer dress – check

Fab, eccentric accessories – check

Neat, combed hair – no check (still working on that one)


Dressed up and feeling good, Sam and I drove into Westwood last night, land of co-eds and all things hip.  We were there to see The Afternoons play at The Hammer Museum.  We arrived at 8:30pm and the line of little Lolita’s and boys with no facial hair, wrapped around the block.  I dropped Sam off to get the scoop.  It turned out that the fire chief was giving the heave-ho.  Even a museum couldn’t handle the numbers who’d turned out for this show.  Sam and I’d pretty much given up when I got the green light to try my charm.  I won’t brag, but….the show was fantastic.  Our friend Aaron rocked the keyboards like Jerry Lee.


After we got our groove on (ie: bobbed our heads in place – who can dance in platform heels?) we went over to the Napa Valley Grill to see Andy, Stephanie, and their five children.  This original Pitt-Jolie family (they made theirs the old-fashioned way) had just arrived from London and the kids were zonked.  Regardless, my heart melted at the first hint of their little, British accents.  I looked at Sam.  Would they notice if we stole one?  They had five after-all.  Who would blame them if they got confused and “lost” one in America? 


Eventually the little’uns got exasperated with mummy and daddy having wine with the strange Americans and it was time to go.  I slipped a fiver to the one I liked the most and told him there was more where that came from.  He told me he didn’t do windows.  Damn kids these days – no work ethic.  Sam must’ve noticed my rebuff because he reminded me how many pairs of shoes would need to go by the wayside once we had another mouth to feed .  For a minute there I honestly didn’t mind.  Those miniature British accents had done me in.  I’m definitely sending my children to grow up in England.  Maybe they can live with Stephanie and Andy?  Obviously they know what they’re doing and by the time I have kids, theirs will be old enough to drive.  We could do an exchange program.  Think of how great those accents will be by the time they’re sixteen.  In the meantime, I’ll just teach Kiki to bark in British.  She’s so smart, already I can hear the diffrence.

   <Bahk. Bahk>

(  The Afternoons

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Forrest Gump


Yesterday I started walking and never stopped.  I think I’ve got some kind of Toxic Shock Syndrome from being in Europe.  Los Angeles is not, I repeat not a walking city and I must of walked at least 10 miles yesterday.  The thing is, I like walking – it’s probably my favorite part of being in a big city.


Example Day In Big City: 

You wake up, you walk to get your croissant.  You eat your 1,000 calorie slab of butter (disguised as bread) and walk it off on your way to the museum.  You walk through the museum for several hours.  You stop outside the museum and purchase three scoops of gelato.  You walk it off on the way to meet friends for lunch.  At lunch you have salad and fries and cheese and bread and way too much wine…and then you walk to the main shopping street where you spend the next three hours walking into stores.  (Extra cardio points for trying on clothes.)  You walk back to your hotel and change for dinner, which (you guessed it) you walk to.  You eat enough food at dinner for a 6’9, 300 lb wrestler, but somehow as you’re walking home at 1am, you realize your jeans are loose.  How did that happen?  I’ll tell you how it happened – all that damn walking!


In Los Angeles I lead a very sedentary life.  I sit on my sofa and write.  I sit in my car and drive.  I sit in the library and teach.  I sit on my sofa again and watch movies with Sam.  I squeeze in 30minutes to an hour of exercise a few times a week.  That’s pretty much the only time by body moves.


Well no longer!  From now on just call me Forrest Gump.  No more cars for me.  Granted, yesterday got a little bit crazy and I had to call a friend to pick me up when most of the skin peeled off the bottoms of my feet.  (I was walking in bejeweled sandals…I know.)  Other than that small, but excrutiatingly painful snafu, I feel great!  I will never again need to allocate “exercise” time because now, my whole day is filled with walking.  Walk to the grocery store.  Walk to the ice cream parlor.  Walk to lunch, walk to dinner.  Walk Kiki, walk Sam.  There’s so much walking to be had – it’s marvelous. 

I encourage all of you to try it.  I guarantee you’ll not only feel better, but also look better in just 2 weeks of walking or your money back.  Plus I’m pretty sure you can eat whatever you want and not have to stress it.  And you have a fail-free excuse for whenever you’re late.  Walking takes a long time.  (I’m actually using it as my reason for not cleaning again today.  Who has time to mop when it takes 6 hours to walk to and from work?)



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