Books for Dudes: Comedy Is Hard; Memoirs by Comedians Are Even Harder
By Douglas Lord Aug 30, 2010"Comedy," wrote Steve Martin, "is not pretty." He should know. Comedians and books (Shopgirl) don't often mix well either.
Generally, comedians write jokes, not books. So results vary depending on what type of person they are. While straight comedian memoirs can make readers wonder why Margaret Cho sounds so much like Eldridge Cleaver, aggressively funny memoirs often devolve into disposable one-shot jokery. But it's those special comedians that strive for both funny and wise who fail so spectacularly. They're comedians after all, not yogis on mountaintops.
With these selections, if you're interested in the person you'll enjoy the book. Otherwise, you really won't, and reading the book won't turn you into a fan. Some are quite good, especially the surprising Jim Breuer entry. Some, like Olivia Munn's, are god-awful. The trees are DYING, people. This here newsletter is virtual-I'm not hurting any trees.
I also have to warn those with sensitive ears because comics don't shy away from what my Aunt Agatha called "The Cussing." Mostly it's about what you'd find in the average thriller, but sometimes let's just say that I didn't swear that much in my young teens hollering the F bomb every chance I got ("Effing hang on! Let me effing put on my effing shoes!"). Ah, the liberty of language! To be helpful, I've made a crudeness/language ratings guide for each entry.
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Brand, Russell. My Book(y Wook): A Memoir of Sex, Drugs, and Stand-Up. IT Bks. 2009. 353p. photos. ISBN 9780061857805. pap. $14.99. HUMOR/MEMOIR
"How could I get back the feeling I'd had in front of that audience?" Brand wonders about acting on page 93. Yes, you read that right-PAGE 93. It takes him THAT LONG to get around to this question, this sudden revelation, this epiphany that every other actor seems to have about page five. It might as well be page 903, because any spark of interest has been killed off long, long before. Brand goes on to describe how he "got on with" learning whatever craft he thinks he does, which translates to an additional 259 pages of doing drugs, failing, and what my catechism referred to as "premarital sexual congress." While Brand earns a few points for honesty, a big vocabulary, and general cheekiness, this is too dreary a recitation of various addiction treatments of a self-indulgent assworm. "It's difficult to be honest," he writes, "because in cold print it seems serious and egotistical" (note: another name for this condition is "Sting"). And while I'm a happily almost-married man, the dormant alpha male in me bridles at the thought of this taco head with Katy Perry in the same way it bristled at John Mayer with Jessica Simpson.
Rated: X for eXcrement
Breuer, Jim. I'm Not High (But I've Got a Lot of Crazy Stories About Life as a Goat Boy, a Dad, and a Spiritual Warrior). Gotham. Oct. 2010. 272p. ISBN 9781592405756. $26. HUMOR/MEMOIR
I opened this book completely ready to hate it. I planned to drive to his house and hurl the flaming book through his picture window. Instead, I found a funny, heartfelt, likable read. JB, as we'll call Breuer, comes across as equal parts vulnerable, tough, and smart, and it all swirls around in a dudely, well-rounded ineptitude that everyone can relate to. While his story includes some of the frippery you might expect from a "very funny dude from Long Island" (i.e., someone who makes interdepartmental prank calls at Sears and scams drinks at bars with fake Tourette's), the anecdotes tend toward recounting formative experiences with friendships, family, and the death of loved ones and show how he confronted them to the best of his abilities. The unflinching boldness JB exhibits, while naïve, is endearing and unexpected, as is his honest, if untutored, relationship with God. A good example is when Chris Farley called our author shortly before his death, and JB felt that God was urging him to "reach out to another human being." While acknowledging this is "kooky and surreal," he maintains that it is also a legitimate regret, one he doesn't intend to repeat. Further, he urges readers to "at least just give it a shot" if they find themselves in a similar situation. Despite derailing about three-fourths of the way through amid self-congratulatory vagaries and assurances that he is totally devoted to his family, readers are left with a normal dude: funny, brave, and real.
Rated: PG-13 for language, adult situations, and Tracey Morgan.
Burnett, Carol. One More Time: A Memoir. Random. 2003. 400p. photogs. ISBN 9780812969726. pap. $14.95 HUMOR/MEMOIR
While it's not the most exciting read in the world, this diary of the hard work and experiences of the beloved comedienne's early life and professional start is instructive and moving. First published in 1986, it recounts Burnett's hardscrabble but loving youth, which I find oddly reminiscent of Eudora Welty's Why I Live at the P.O. By baring her insecurities, embarrassments, peasant roots, and truly unflattering early life, Burnett shows a lot of heart and hella bravery. As we are introduced to the important, formative people in her life, we also learn about alcoholism, tragedy, and near-poverty through the eyes of an intelligent, loving child. The only problem is, there's no funny here. There ought to be some, no? Could she have done some dark funny stuff, or maybe some Erma Bombeck-isms? Or maybe a bit of Carrie Fisher booze-houndering? Also, the coverage is pre-network TV show, so alas, no mention of comedic god Harvey Korman.
Rated: Is there anything more tame than Rated G?
Carlin, George. Last Words: A Memoir. Free: S. & S. 2009. 297p. photogs. ISBN 9781439172957. $26.99. HUMOR/MEMOIR
Who doesn't like George Carlin? Oh, you don't? Your mom sure did. Fact: when the world was young, and I was 11, I used to wonder what the hell old George did all day. I listened to his albums, saw him on TV, knew he did stand-up. But I really wondered, what time did he have to wake up? Then what? What did that day look like? It's not like he had to memorize the Hippy Dippy Weatherman routine. He didn't write the Seven Words You Can Never Say on Television-he repeated them. Laying around and swearing is no job for a man, unless you're Joe Biden. Lazy? Yeah, I'm betting that's an affirmative. So it didn't surprise me to read that it took 15 years to assemble this autobiography. He even had a co-writer (Tony Hendra) to help. What was the hold up? What, he had to go write down a joke or something? Anyhoo, this is a great, acerbic memoir about just about everything. All his experiences. A stirring recitation of growing up white in Harlem in New York City, becoming the class clown, doing military service, abusing drugs in the early 1970s (which, of course, continued ad infinitum), and surviving the various victories and tragedies that came his way. It's great stuff from an intelligent, curious, angry Irishman. Plus, because he's coming at it from the end of his life, when he can offer we dudes a little wisdom to make some sense of things. Guaranteed to provoke some thought and make you laugh, sometimes simultaneously.
Rated: R for language, substance use and abuse, and occasional actual thinking. See LJ's original review.
Corolla, Adam. In Fifty Years We'll All Be Chicks: And Other Complaints from an Angry Middle-Aged White Guy. Crown. Nov. 2010. 288p. ISBN 9780307717375. $25. HUMOR/MEMOIR
If you know, and enjoy, Corolla from Loveline, The Man Show, Crank Yankers, or whatever else, you'll enjoy chortling along with this. If you don't like him, you won't like his same ole blue-collar-esque shtick. The entire thing riffs on the unmanliness, ridiculousness, silliness, and safety-prone nature of once-great America. While it's conceivable that the author has the talent to do so in the more challenging format of a satirical Moby-Dick (featuring Jimmy Kimmel as Starbuck), instead he focuses on picking as much low hanging fruit as he can. While it's done at an exceptional level, much of this is pure grousing. Corolla is merciless with people, especially people who piss him off (e.g., event security, his high school driver's ed instructor). But the mercilessness extends to topics (e.g., seat belts, play food) as well as concepts like the "List of Guys He Can't Hang Out With." I've actually made the list three times: Guy Who Swims Before Work, I Don't Own a TV Guy, and Guy Who Just Now Got Laid (this sentence is two-thirds true, BTW). The fearless Corolla takes on Nature, opining that "it's cool that beavers live in lodges" (yea and verily!) and urges men to "lift the fucking seat before you piss"; his strangely charming List of Things To Do Before He Dies includes "Be tied to a chair with a hot chick" and "Tell my team to 'synchronize watches.'" Lit crit reviewers will, I'm sure, make much of his strong stance on rodeo clowns.
Rated: NC-17 for using the F word over one million times.
Dunham, Jeff. All by My Selves: Walter, Peanut, Achmed, and Me. Dutton. Nov. 2010. c.307p. illus. ISBN 9780525951414. $25.95. HUMOR/MEMOIR
You probably recognize Dunham, as I did, as the ventriloquist you flip past because you've already seen him and think he should be funnier. His book explains perfectly why he's not funnier: because he's a genuinely nice guy. He doesn't seem to have that edgy, corrosive, angry, ugly humor so appealing to dudes. So while he's funny, he's also tame. Sort of the opposite of Bob Saget. A throwback to a gentler time, Dunham is the only child of a devout Texas Christian family; his two main inspirations are vaudevillians Edgar Bergen and Milton Berle. His hobby (no kidding) is building and piloting life-sized helicopters, you know, from kits. Makes my triathlon geekery look pretty cool by comparison. The performing bug bit him at the tender age of eight (which, I point out to Mr. Russell Brand, surfaces on PAGE 12), and since then he characterizes himself as "always trying to get onstage," where he "always just play[s] the nice guy" alongside his "figures" (they aren't puppets). Church events led to bigger and bigger parties, local commercials, and stand-up. Along the way, he developed a thick skin, evolved his characters, and learned "the two basic rules for success-don't move your lips and make your audience laugh." Travelling shows led to Broadway and early cable, and he started headlining soon after getting gigs opening for his idols (e.g., Bob Hope, George Burns). An audience, he writes, is "like a hive of bees...it's an entity that the performer has to learn to understand and communicate with." An autobiography, however, is not like a hive of bees; it's a chronology, and Dunham's persistent skipping around in time is jarring. While it's not something I can recommend to my fellow dudes, this is an honest effort from a genuine fella. Chicks, take the guy home; your parents will love him.
Rated: PG with occasional terrorism from Achmed, Chucky references, and, hey, why is Jeff's hand up that guy's butt...?
Griffin, Kathy. Official Book Club Selection: A Memoir According to Kathy Griffin. Ballantine. 2010. 384p. photogs. ISBN 9780345518569. pap. $15. HUMOR/MEMOIR
I think that Griffin is funny about 55 percent of the time. She's crude (good), obsessed with Cher (bad), doesn't take herself too seriously (good), obsessed with plastic surgery (bad), and "makes mock" (very good). The government has a crack team of scientists working on explaining Griffin's appeal and two Emmy wins, but I figured it out first: it's a trick, a ruse, a sham. Griffin's devious scheme is to present herself as one of us, when in reality she's one of them. She talks a good game about working with Celebrity X (e.g., Jay Mohr, Brooke Shields, or Jerry Seinfeld) and/or being their fan and while doing so characterizes herself as thrilled to be there, happy to be in the same room. In so doing, she breaks down that mysterious wall of celebrity and establishes parity with us, the hoi polloi. But then it turns out that the invisible force field is up after all; Griffin isn't a commoner at all! She's actually a decently wealthy celebrity with access to fantastic, orgiastic Hollywood red carpet parties featuring delicious snacks and frosty beverages. Hers is an amusing book, full of juicy gossip, if you're willing to go along for the ride. Griffin's folksy tone crosses over into big-sister feel; combined with her take-no-prisoners attitude, it makes her searing honesty all the more genuine, as when she describes liposuction as a "crock of shit" that almost killed her and her nose job as a temporary fix at best.
Rating: R for language, defamation, and criminally premature post-op photos of her plastic surgery.
Handler, Chelsea. Chelsea Chelsea Bang Bang. Grand Central. 2010. 256p. photos. ISBN 9780446552448. $25.99. MEMOIR
I admit I don't know who Handler is [editor's note to Doug: she's the best-selling author of Are You There, Vodka? It's Me, Chelsea]. Yet I'll say this: she is poop-your-pants funny. Whether describing an all-girl third-grade masturbation party ("Two hours and twenty minutes later I was covered in sweat with rug burns of my forehead and both cheeks") or taking her 300-pound chauffeur on vacation, Handler's one funny chick. Seemingly effortlessly, she pulls off anecdotes that blend controlled amounts of sass, brass, profanity, and funny. She marches right up to the line in the sand that crosses from "acceptable" to "crude" and launches spitball attacks. Take the episode when she's nine and puts the full-court press on her parents to get her a Cabbage Patch Kid-despite her father's protestations of being broke as he reads the financial pages. "I wanted to tell my father to go fuck himself. If he knew so much about the stock market, why did we have air-conditioning only in our dining room?" Or upon discovering the joys of (ahem) self-pleasure: "Who knew that the little albino pincushion I was carrying around all these years would end up turning into the equivalent of a watermelon Jolly Rancher? How many other women knew about this? And if they did, why did anyone ever get jobs?" I wish that the experience of reading this could have been more than mere amusement, that I could have helped humankind or something, but in the end it's just a laugh.
Rating: R for cussing, cursing, blaspheming, bad words, and sexual content. And for making me poop my pants.
Holmes, Jessica. I Love Your Laugh: Finding the Light in My Screwball Life. McClelland & Stewart. Oct. 2010. 256p. photogs. ISBN 9780771041341. $27.99. HUMOR/MEMOIR
OK, who is this chick? I've never heard of her or her alleged show (Royal Canadian Air Farce). Apparently, she's a dull Canadian girl with about as much quirk as Mary-Louise Parker with none of the sex appeal. She sees herself as "some sort of female Dennis the Menace" and seems to be all of 36 years old. I ask you, what wisdom can one possibly accumulate in a mere 36 years? The life experiences are wearyingly trotted out: she felt good as the happy goof in high school. She enters and leaves the Church of Mormon, which cements her comfort in being goofy amid crowds (sleepy?) which felt good and gave happiness to others (hey, wake up, now!). When she enters "the post-baby/flabby tummy/crow's feet season of life" (wow, your forehead just smacked the desk), it just gets worse. It takes Holmes until page 115 just to get cast in a commercial, then there's a chapter of hair and makeup disasters. The book grinds to a close when her career stalls after two kids in 20 months, some post-partum depression, and pretending to be happy with her life.
Rating: SWT for Sucky Waste of Time.
Munn, Olivia. Suck It, Wonder Woman!: The Misadventures of a Hollywood Geek. St. Martin's. 2010. 288p. photos. ISBN 9780312591052. $23.99. HUMOR/MEMOIR
Make that three authors I've never encountered until now. I'll give this to Munn, however-she manages the C word on page two. Page TWO! It even took Russell Brand until page 73! If the lone good point of a book is the flip book part, where the author does a goofy dance as you flip the pages, you know it's good for nothing. Dudes, I actively seek positive things to say about books; I got nuthin' here. This is an utter and complete waste of time, money, resources, air, even this web space. Don't read any more of this entry! It's a series of ad nauseum borefests. In one entry, Munn, cohost of the popular G4 network's Attack of the Show!, relates a onetime boyfriend's fantasy of giving oral to a disembodied dick. If it was her own fantasy, I can sense how she might glean some soul-baring satisfaction, but it's not even hers. Another chapter concerns meeting her first agent and house sitting his dogs, but the longest-and most painful-is her vacillating about a Playboy shoot. I wonder how teeny her brain is when I read that "a million dollars is not enough for me to get nude" as I'm Googling FREE images that are close enough for government work. I don't know what she's like on TV, but I can tell you for a fact that watching a dog drag its ass across the lawn is more entertaining than reading this.
Rating: X for eXcrement.
Extra Credit: The Tough Guy Chronicles
Leonard, Elmore. Stick. HarperTorch. 2002. 416p. ISBN 9780060085636. pap. $7.99. F
Leonard is, quite frankly, The Man. His characters, who aren't even all that likable, are Real Guys who live in the Real World. This is the kind of Real Guy who's totally alien to me and 99 percent of all the dudes I know. For example, all the Elmore Leonard tough guys I can think of have killed someone (well, maybe not Dennis from Tishomingo Blues). I don't personally know anyone who's done that deed. I wouldn't want to. That's scary, dudes. But that's merely one aspect of the Elmore Leonard mystique. All of the author's Real Guys step up to The Line-the razor's edge of common sense and reason-to make The Move-something very important that could make or break their entire lives. Brief recap: Real Guys hit The Line to make The Move. The move could be a scheme (Frank in Mr. Paradise), a score (Jack in Bandits), even some career-making change (Carl in Up in Honey's Room). Personally, I can't think of one time I ever went to The Line. I never had to make The Move. I wouldn't know The Move if it bit me on the nose. I am racking my brain to think of a dude I know who has made The Move and I can't. However, I also don't think this is the main difference between the life of a suburban office drone and the lives of Leonard's Real-Guy-I'm-from-Detroit life (from whence many Leonard Real Guys hail). Also, it's not the sheer muscle with which Real Guys grab life by the horns and twist it down to the dirt. It's owning the wisdom, gleaned from your life experiences, to know exactly when the time has come to take the bull by the horns. Most of Leonard's Tough Guys have tried to take the bull by the horns and failed (or at least didn't get the bull down clean). But that experience helped lead them to where they are now.
Whew. Enough of my yappin'. Originally published in 1983, Stick is basically a slice of the life of Ernest "Stick" Stickley, an ex-con armed robber (yes, he has killed guys) who finds himself in Florida. He winds up witnessing a murder during a drug deal rigged by two nefarious dudes and starts to think bigger. He changes his appearance, befriends a legit financial consultant, goes to The Line, confronts his pursuers, and finally makes The Move, getting a small fortune in grift in the process. Stick needs all his past knowledge and failures to back up his judgment, and that's how he knows it's time. Awesome tough-guy stuff.
Extra EXTRA Credit: The Eighth Grade Girl Book Review
Henderson, Susan. Up from the Blue. Harper. Sept. 2010. 320p. ISBN 9780061984037. pap. $13.99. F
My soccer-playin', wise-crackin', web-2.0-savvy daughter had some summer reading to do and picked up this review copy I had laying around. "It's a chick book," I said. "Write me a review, and I'll put it in that newsletter thing I do." So here ya go: first blood from my first blood.
Tillie Harris is going into labor with her first baby, but her husband isn't there. Because her husband is out of reach, she must contact her father, whom she hasn't seen in years. This brings back unpleasant memories of her younger years. When she was little, her mother, Mara, was a mess. Some days brought joy and others left Mara unable to get out of bed. But when Tillie's father gets a job at the Pentagon, the family has to move. When they arrive, Tillie finds her mother missing. Her father refuses to talk about it, but Tillie discovers the truth about her mother's desertion is way more complex than she ever predicted.
So, other than a budding jacket-blurb writer, I find the daughter's entry intriguing. Mara is "a mess." Does this reflect the reviewer's own clear bias against her father? "Way more complex." Like, way wayyyyyy more? Anyway, the daughter said she enjoyed the book and would recommend it to others.
