The Kominsky Method

Good afternoon, everybody. Thank you so much for coming.

If you're wondering why we're doing this in a, uh, nondenominational chapel

instead of a synagogue with a rabbi...

...it's because Norman, he wanted it that way.

Just before he died, he said to me,

"Sandy, you wanna stick me in a rowboat, push it into the LA River,

set it on fire, that's fine."

"Just spare everybody the religious claptrap."

Religious claptrap.

As you might guess, Norman belonged to the reform school of Judaism.

I've been trying to figure out how to pay homage, uh, to this man.

And then I remembered one of his favorite sayings,

"The truth is a good fallback position."

So that's what I'm gonna do. I'm gonna fall back on the truth.

It was tough being Norman's friend.

But for over 50 years, that's what I was.

Fifty years of him giving me a hard time

about the women I dated, the women I married,

the divorces I suffered through, the money I lost,

money I never had,

even the booze I drank.

He found fault in just about every aspect of my life.

Homage, Dad. Pay homage.

He lent me money when I was in trouble, but he never let me forget it.

No. No, no, no.

My nose got rubbed in it over and over again.

When I went through that whole cancer deal last year,

I was scared out of my mind.

My best friend, my good buddy,

he kept joking about how I should save my hair

when it falls out

and use it to make a tea cozy.

A tea cozy.

Well, fuck you very much, good buddy.

I didn't lose one strand. Not one.

Not one.

But I did lose you.

And I don't know how I'm gonna get through that.

I... I don't know how I'm just supposed to go about my business without you.

And... And for the record, you know,

I did call the City of LA about setting you on fire in a rowboat,

but I couldn't get a permit for a Viking funeral.

You know, maybe in Ventura County but not here.

Thank you.

I did not see that coming.

We are here today to mourn the passing of my grandfather's meat body.

But that decaying collection of cells is not who or what he was.

My grandfather was an immortal spirit who has lived countless millions of lives.

Scientology?

And like all immortal spirits,

he has roamed the universe for eons in search of a game.

For that is what we do.

We play games.

And the biggest game that we play is to forget our true identity

so that we can play hide-and-seek with ourselves.

And when the day comes that we find ourselves,

that we know with absolute certainty that we are static awareness

senior to matter, energy, space, and time,

then we win.

I know that to be true for myself, and now my grandpa knows it too.

Although, without having crossed LRH's bridge of total freedom,

he will quickly be sucked back into the hellish merry-go-round

of birth and death.

Thank you.

My father never gave up on me.

He should have,

but he never did.

Time after time, I let him down, but he just refused to give up.

So, as part of my amends to him,

my sponsor and I decided that I should pay him back

for all the rehabs and therapists

and wilderness retreats that he sent me to.

Not counting inflation, that came to a little over $900,000,

and that doesn't include the 300 grand in... in legal fees

to... to beat that bogus intent-to-sell bust.

Like I would ever be stupid enough to sell my own stash.

Anyway, I owe my papa a million two.

And I'm gonna use part of my inheritance to pay him back.

Well, not him, obviously, because, you know.

I am gonna pay him back by building a drug rehab

in the Galápagos Islands,

where drug addicts and alcoholics

and people with eating disorders can turn their life around

while learning about Charles Darwin and evolution.

Hmm.

So, in honor of my father, the man who never gave up on me, um,

the rehab will be called The Suite Surrender,

because, in sobriety, you have to surrender to win,

and "suite" will be spelled S-U-I-T-E,

because all the rooms will be junior suites or better. Thank you.

When I lost my husband, I thought,

"That's it. I'm alone now."

But miracle of miracles, I ran into a man

with whom I'd had a hot and heavy fling way back in 1967.

That man was your dad and your grandpa.

Well, I mean, first we assumed that, uh,

the relationship this time would be merely platonic.

You know, old friends holding hands,

taking a walk in the park,

sharing meals.

But that's not what happened at all.

With a little encouragement from me and, uh,

a little pharmaceutical assistance,

Norman quickly turned into the voracious stud that ravaged me

all those years ago.

It was wonderful.

And his lust was gentle but demanding.

And punctual.

Oh, you could set your watch by it.

7:30 a.m. on Wednesdays and Sundays.

After a cup of coffee and a quick visit to the bathroom,

he would take me from behind and make me quiver and shake

like a... like a 16-year-old girl

who's been rebelling against her overly religious parents.

Wednesday and Sunday mornings,

Norman Newlander loved me like no other man.

Wednesday and Sunday mornings.

At 7:30 to 7:45.

I'm a little horny right now.

I was Norman's assistant

for 22 years.

I, um, arranged his work schedule, his personal schedule,

his travel plans, his vacations.

I made sure he had regular medical, dental...

...dermatology, and ophthalmology.

Um...

I...

I... I also took care of all of his lunch and dinner reservations,

always reminding the restaurants how important he was

so that he had a nice table.

Classic Homo sapien.

I also made sure his wife and daughter got birthday cards and flowers.

Same for Valentine's Day.

And, um, eight times I made arrangements for his daughter

to go to the very best rehabs.

But in...

But in all that time...

I never told Norman how much he meant to me.

How making him happy made me happy.

How... how his welfare was my first thought in the morning

and my last thought before I went to sleep.

Um...

Uh, thank you.

No. No!

Don't leave me!

I have so much more to give!

- No! - No, Jeanine. Jesus. Jeanine...

What's she hanging onto?

God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change,

the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.

God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change,

the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.

God, grant me the serenity...

- Should we be worried about her? - I'm more worried about him.

He'll be okay. Just gotta give him time.

- I hope so. - Yeah.

A couple of years ago, my... my best friend in the world

passed away unexpectedly.

Stevie Chartokoff.

- I ever tell you about him? - No.

Great guy. Great guy.

We were pals since, like, third grade.

And I'll tell you, when he died,

I didn't feel anything. I was numb.

That's awful.

No.

See, that's the... I think it's actually a... a... a survival mechanism.

It's like... It's like nature's way of being compassionate.

What do you mean?

Well, 'cause when it happened,

I could... The pain was too much.

But over time, you know, I was able to feel the grief more and more and more,

till it just became, uh, a part of who I am, you know?

It's like it morphs into acceptance, which

is, I guess, a sort of a wisdom.

That's actually pretty comforting.

You are wise.

I remember one... one time in high school, we must have been 14 or 15,

me and Stevie smoked a joint, and we decided to... to light our farts on fire.

That's a real thing?

Oh yeah. You lie on your back with your legs up in the air,

and you hold a lit match in front of your ass.

You let one rip, and a big blue flame shoots out.

Anyway, somehow the pubes on Stevie's balls caught fire,

and he was screaming.

He was crying and screaming for me to pat it out.

He said, "Pat it out! Pat it out!" I'm not gonna touch his balls.

So, long story short,

his mother had to drive him to the emergency room.

She did not wanna touch those balls either. Trust me.

So, your wisdom came later in life.

It was after that. Yes.

Boy, what a deal.

You're crazy not to get one.

I'm okay.

The churro is delicious.

I would like to say something.

Can't I just enjoy this?

No, you need to hear it.

Sandy, I'm very grateful for our friendship,