Roz Warren's Blog, page 2
February 2, 2013
Ten Things I Learned Reading "Heads In Beds" A Tell-All Memoir About Working In Elite Hotels
Ten Things I Learned Reading “Heads in Beds“ A Tell-All Memoir About Working In Elite Hotels
If you don’t tip the bellman who carries your bags to your room, something nasty could wind up on your toothbrush during your stay.
There is always a better room.
People who hang out in hotel lobbies all day are called “lobby lizards.”
Reservations made through Internet discount sites usually get the worst rooms.
If you want an upgrade, hand over a twenty at check-in and say, “Give me something nice.”
Slang names for a hundred dollar bill include: nugget, money shot, redhead, dirty dancer, hundo, hunnert, brick, left, ben and denny.
Hotel guests can make quirky demands, such as refusing to stay in any room where the digits in the room number didn’t add up to nine.
If your employers try to fire you unjustly, even though you do your job well, the union will protect you.
If your employers try to fire you because you’re a lazy slacker, and do your job abysmally, the union will protect you.
The morbidly obese are good tippers.
If you don’t tip the bellman who carries your bags to your room, something nasty could wind up on your toothbrush during your stay.
There is always a better room.
People who hang out in hotel lobbies all day are called “lobby lizards.”
Reservations made through Internet discount sites usually get the worst rooms.
If you want an upgrade, hand over a twenty at check-in and say, “Give me something nice.”
Slang names for a hundred dollar bill include: nugget, money shot, redhead, dirty dancer, hundo, hunnert, brick, left, ben and denny.
Hotel guests can make quirky demands, such as refusing to stay in any room where the digits in the room number didn’t add up to nine.
If your employers try to fire you unjustly, even though you do your job well, the union will protect you.
If your employers try to fire you because you’re a lazy slacker, and do your job abysmally, the union will protect you.
The morbidly obese are good tippers.
August 3, 2012
A Shocking Book Review
I HATE EVERYBODY… STARTING WITH ME: A SHOCKING BOOK REVIEW
Joan Rivers is a woman whose comfort zone is being outrageous. What reviewer in her fifties wouldn’t find that at least a little bit appealing? Growing up female in the middle of the last century, we were socialized to be nice, to be kind, to be supportive, and above all, not to make waves. There’s something compelling about a woman who took none of that to heart, whose basic attitude is “screw kindness” and who, instead, gleefully cuts loose with the venom. If venom is what you’re looking for, Rivers’ new book, “I Hate Everybody.. Starting with Me,“ won’t disappoint. It’s as offensive as it is funny.
“I Hate Everybody,“ in theory a compendium of everything Rivers despises, is really just an excuse to unleash a flood of new one-liners, jokes and heartfelt (and often heartless) kvetches. It’s nonstop schtick, running the gamut from clever, harmless fun (“I don’t know if the Ivory Coast has any actual ivory in it, but I respect it because it’s the only country named after two deodorant soaps.“) through derisive observation (“I hate people who can’t walk two blocks without drinking water. How thirsty can you be? Did you have a block of salt for lunch?“) and on to the truly tasteless. (“Every time I see some altacocker sitting at a card table hunching over and wheezing, I want to yell, “Get in the box Mildred! It’s time to get in the box!”)
There’s something shocking on every page. And something that will crack you up. Sometimes, it’s the same thing.
I love it when a joke offends me but is so undeniably funny I have to laugh anyway. It stretches my brain. It blows my mind. And it’s a Joan Rivers specialty. I couldn’t be more supportive of nursing in public yet I cracked a smile at: “Breast feeding is a natural body function? So is urinating, but do you want me to take a piss right here on the bus?”
Rivers makes fun of celebrities, the wealthy and anyone else who is smug and entitled. But she also mocks the handicapped, people with Downs Syndrome, Ann Frank, the elderly, and, of course, Jews. When she says she hates everyone, she means it. I’d planned to quote the book’s most offensive line, but so much of Joan’s wit is so ludicrously off-putting that I quickly gave up. There was just too much competition. I’m not easily offended and I was horrified by many of these jokes.
But I loved many more. A few of my favorites:
“I consider cooking to be one of the true wonders of the world, like the great pyramids of Giza or the Hanging Gardens of Babylon or the unexplained success of Carrot Top.”
“According to the New York Times, one teaspoon of sperm contains 148 calories, or, if you’re on Weight Watchers, two points.”
“A guy comes into my dressing room and says, ’I’d like you to meet my lady.’ I said, ’When were you knighted?’”
When a famous actors tells her that his wife, a vegan, doesn‘t eat anything with eyes, Joan responds: ”You must have a shitty sex life.”
Rivers is famously driven. But fame and success have failed to make her happy. In the book’s title she claims to hate herself and, reading it, you won’t doubt that for a moment. There’s always been a strong element of self loathing in her comedy. Her fearlessness and honesty may delight and refresh us, but hers is the wit of a bitter woman. She’s been funny for longer than almost anyone else is show business. She’s outlived most of the folks who have wronged her (which is something Rivers, an avid obituary reader, clearly relishes.) She’s worked tirelessly for everything she’s achieved, and it’s been an uphill battle all the way. You may find this book offensive. I know I did. But I have nothing but admiration for Rivers, if only because she tore up the “nice girl” rules most of us were raised with and wrote her own.
“I Hate Everybody” is a quick read. You can zip through it in a day. Shudder at the lines that offend you and snicker at the ones that amuse you. You’ll laugh! You’ll wince! And you’ll want to celebrate the fact that Rivers, still going strong at 79, excelling at a job she clearly loves, and continuing to rewrite the rules to suit herself, remains a role model for us all.
(This review first appeared on www.womensvoicesforchange.org.)
Joan Rivers is a woman whose comfort zone is being outrageous. What reviewer in her fifties wouldn’t find that at least a little bit appealing? Growing up female in the middle of the last century, we were socialized to be nice, to be kind, to be supportive, and above all, not to make waves. There’s something compelling about a woman who took none of that to heart, whose basic attitude is “screw kindness” and who, instead, gleefully cuts loose with the venom. If venom is what you’re looking for, Rivers’ new book, “I Hate Everybody.. Starting with Me,“ won’t disappoint. It’s as offensive as it is funny.
“I Hate Everybody,“ in theory a compendium of everything Rivers despises, is really just an excuse to unleash a flood of new one-liners, jokes and heartfelt (and often heartless) kvetches. It’s nonstop schtick, running the gamut from clever, harmless fun (“I don’t know if the Ivory Coast has any actual ivory in it, but I respect it because it’s the only country named after two deodorant soaps.“) through derisive observation (“I hate people who can’t walk two blocks without drinking water. How thirsty can you be? Did you have a block of salt for lunch?“) and on to the truly tasteless. (“Every time I see some altacocker sitting at a card table hunching over and wheezing, I want to yell, “Get in the box Mildred! It’s time to get in the box!”)
There’s something shocking on every page. And something that will crack you up. Sometimes, it’s the same thing.
I love it when a joke offends me but is so undeniably funny I have to laugh anyway. It stretches my brain. It blows my mind. And it’s a Joan Rivers specialty. I couldn’t be more supportive of nursing in public yet I cracked a smile at: “Breast feeding is a natural body function? So is urinating, but do you want me to take a piss right here on the bus?”
Rivers makes fun of celebrities, the wealthy and anyone else who is smug and entitled. But she also mocks the handicapped, people with Downs Syndrome, Ann Frank, the elderly, and, of course, Jews. When she says she hates everyone, she means it. I’d planned to quote the book’s most offensive line, but so much of Joan’s wit is so ludicrously off-putting that I quickly gave up. There was just too much competition. I’m not easily offended and I was horrified by many of these jokes.
But I loved many more. A few of my favorites:
“I consider cooking to be one of the true wonders of the world, like the great pyramids of Giza or the Hanging Gardens of Babylon or the unexplained success of Carrot Top.”
“According to the New York Times, one teaspoon of sperm contains 148 calories, or, if you’re on Weight Watchers, two points.”
“A guy comes into my dressing room and says, ’I’d like you to meet my lady.’ I said, ’When were you knighted?’”
When a famous actors tells her that his wife, a vegan, doesn‘t eat anything with eyes, Joan responds: ”You must have a shitty sex life.”
Rivers is famously driven. But fame and success have failed to make her happy. In the book’s title she claims to hate herself and, reading it, you won’t doubt that for a moment. There’s always been a strong element of self loathing in her comedy. Her fearlessness and honesty may delight and refresh us, but hers is the wit of a bitter woman. She’s been funny for longer than almost anyone else is show business. She’s outlived most of the folks who have wronged her (which is something Rivers, an avid obituary reader, clearly relishes.) She’s worked tirelessly for everything she’s achieved, and it’s been an uphill battle all the way. You may find this book offensive. I know I did. But I have nothing but admiration for Rivers, if only because she tore up the “nice girl” rules most of us were raised with and wrote her own.
“I Hate Everybody” is a quick read. You can zip through it in a day. Shudder at the lines that offend you and snicker at the ones that amuse you. You’ll laugh! You’ll wince! And you’ll want to celebrate the fact that Rivers, still going strong at 79, excelling at a job she clearly loves, and continuing to rewrite the rules to suit herself, remains a role model for us all.
(This review first appeared on www.womensvoicesforchange.org.)
July 3, 2012
Fifty Shades of OMG
When I purchased my copy of “Fifty Shades of Grey,” the first book in the Fifty Shades trilogy, the cashier asked if I wanted a receipt. “Absolutely,“ I told her. “I’m reading the book for review, so I’ll be reimbursed.“
“I want YOUR job,” she said. laughing “This book is hot!”
It sure is, both in the sense that it’s full of steamy sex and that it’s a runaway bestseller. Penned by British first-time author E. L. James, who released it as an e-book, the trilogy sold so well that Vintage Books published a print edition, which became an instant best seller. The library system where I work owns 92 copies of the first book alone. Last time I checked the reserve list, there were 267 women waiting to read it.
The publisher calls this smut-drenched novel an “erotic romance.” If you ask me, erotica is just smut that’s putting on airs. Let’s call this book what it is. Porn.
Porn you can get at the local public library is something new. So is porn for women. (Men aren’t reading this book.) The “nice girls don’t” stigma attached to women reading smut has finally vanished. Women of all ages, educational levels and income brackets are buying this book, or unashamedly handing over their library cards and checking it out. Not to mention recommending it to their friends.
I cracked it open, curious, and was soon absorbed. Is the writing any good? Absolutely not. It’s romance writing at its worst, teaming with clichés, stereotypes and purple prose. But James is a good enough storyteller to grab your interest and keep the story moving. “He rises and strolls toward me, an amused appraising smile on his beautiful sculptured lips“ is, undeniably, a very bad sentence. But you’ll probably be too busy turning pages to care.
“Fifty Shades” starts out like a garden-variety romance. College student Anastasia Steele (who is, implausibly, a virgin) is both attracted to and repelled by drop-dead gorgeous twenty-seven year old billionaire Christian Grey after she interviews him for the school paper. They have nothing in common, yet become obsessed with each other. You think you know exactly where this is going. But then you hit the first sex scene. Not only is it extremely explicit, but it goes on for twelve pages. Page after page of “My nipples bear the delicious brunt of his deft fingers and lips, setting alight every single nerve ending, so that my whole body sings with sweet agony.” (And that’s one of the tamer sentences.)
It soon becomes clear that this particular romance isn’t as much about whether these two will overcome all obstacles to end up in each others arms, but whether Anastasia will agree to become Christian’s sadomasochistic sex slave, under the terms of a ten page contract (which is set forth in its entirety, starting on page 165.) Much of the book is devoted to negotiating this contract. Is whipping okay? How about bondage? Being suspended from the ceiling, Ana tells Christian, is definitely a deal-breaker. As they wrangle over clauses, Ana and Christian enjoy page after page of hot vanilla sex, as well as sexy billionaire pass times like commuting to Christian’s penthouse via helicopter and dining together in upscale restaurants. (After which they go back to his place, where he ties her hands with a very special necktie, rips her panties off and they go at it.)
Then it’s back to more contract negotiation.
Is “Fifty Shades” fun to read? Sure. It’s also absolutely ridiculous. And completely implausible. She’s about to graduate from college, and she’s still a virgin? She comes like gangbusters -- many times -- the first time she has sex? And after an impressively athletic all-out first-time boinking session, she doesn’t even get a urinary infection?
This is fantasyland for sure.
Will “Shades of Grey” turn YOU on? If the sentence “My breasts swell, and my nipples harden under his steady gaze.” intrigues you, I’d encourage you to pick up a copy. But I’ll also warn you that when the whipping starts, you may decide to bid farewell to Grey and Ana, and watch “Downton Abbey” instead.
A librarian friend of mine who is a porn aficionado wasn’t impressed. “It’s nothing special,” she shrugged. “I could definitely put it down.“ But women new to porn are flocking to “Fifty Shades.”
Why is “romantic erotica” suddenly taking off? We can thank the internet. In the pre-digital age, if James had submitted this weird mix of romance, explicit sadomasochistic sex and contract negotiation to a publisher, would they have touched it? Not a chance. By releasing it as an e-book, she could bypass the gatekeepers, go right to her audience (women) and give us what we want. (Hot spicy sex!)
This is a development that brings new meaning to the phrase “sisters are doing it for themselves.”
The only real surprise is that the first novel to bring porn to ordinary women in a big way doesn’t just contain really explicit sex, but really explicit sadomasochistic sex. I don’t think anyone saw that coming.
Will Anastasia submit to a lifetime of flogging in Christian’s “red room of pain?” Why on earth would she? Well he’s rich and accomplished and handsome and hot. But he’s also the kind of dude who shows you his dungeon on the first date. Even Ana, besotted, recognizes that Christian is bad boyfriend material. He’s a stalker and a control freak who seethes with jealous rage if she so much as mentions another man. But he can pilot a helicopter! And play melancholy songs on the piano! And, after beating her, he’s quick to tenderly soothe her aching tushie with baby oil. By the end of the book, when finally Ana invites Christian to seriously punish her, it’s clear that these two are made for each other. (Although my inner feminist couldn’t help but think: this is a happy ending?)
Am I hooked? Do I need to know whether Ana will end up suspended from the ceiling? Or what‘s up with those weird scars on Christian’s chest? Am I going to read “Fifty Shades Darker,“ the next book in the trilogy? I won’t buy it. But I just might put it on reserve at the library.
If I do, I’ll be number 157 on the waiting list.
(This piece first appeared on www.womensvoiceforchange.org)
“I want YOUR job,” she said. laughing “This book is hot!”
It sure is, both in the sense that it’s full of steamy sex and that it’s a runaway bestseller. Penned by British first-time author E. L. James, who released it as an e-book, the trilogy sold so well that Vintage Books published a print edition, which became an instant best seller. The library system where I work owns 92 copies of the first book alone. Last time I checked the reserve list, there were 267 women waiting to read it.
The publisher calls this smut-drenched novel an “erotic romance.” If you ask me, erotica is just smut that’s putting on airs. Let’s call this book what it is. Porn.
Porn you can get at the local public library is something new. So is porn for women. (Men aren’t reading this book.) The “nice girls don’t” stigma attached to women reading smut has finally vanished. Women of all ages, educational levels and income brackets are buying this book, or unashamedly handing over their library cards and checking it out. Not to mention recommending it to their friends.
I cracked it open, curious, and was soon absorbed. Is the writing any good? Absolutely not. It’s romance writing at its worst, teaming with clichés, stereotypes and purple prose. But James is a good enough storyteller to grab your interest and keep the story moving. “He rises and strolls toward me, an amused appraising smile on his beautiful sculptured lips“ is, undeniably, a very bad sentence. But you’ll probably be too busy turning pages to care.
“Fifty Shades” starts out like a garden-variety romance. College student Anastasia Steele (who is, implausibly, a virgin) is both attracted to and repelled by drop-dead gorgeous twenty-seven year old billionaire Christian Grey after she interviews him for the school paper. They have nothing in common, yet become obsessed with each other. You think you know exactly where this is going. But then you hit the first sex scene. Not only is it extremely explicit, but it goes on for twelve pages. Page after page of “My nipples bear the delicious brunt of his deft fingers and lips, setting alight every single nerve ending, so that my whole body sings with sweet agony.” (And that’s one of the tamer sentences.)
It soon becomes clear that this particular romance isn’t as much about whether these two will overcome all obstacles to end up in each others arms, but whether Anastasia will agree to become Christian’s sadomasochistic sex slave, under the terms of a ten page contract (which is set forth in its entirety, starting on page 165.) Much of the book is devoted to negotiating this contract. Is whipping okay? How about bondage? Being suspended from the ceiling, Ana tells Christian, is definitely a deal-breaker. As they wrangle over clauses, Ana and Christian enjoy page after page of hot vanilla sex, as well as sexy billionaire pass times like commuting to Christian’s penthouse via helicopter and dining together in upscale restaurants. (After which they go back to his place, where he ties her hands with a very special necktie, rips her panties off and they go at it.)
Then it’s back to more contract negotiation.
Is “Fifty Shades” fun to read? Sure. It’s also absolutely ridiculous. And completely implausible. She’s about to graduate from college, and she’s still a virgin? She comes like gangbusters -- many times -- the first time she has sex? And after an impressively athletic all-out first-time boinking session, she doesn’t even get a urinary infection?
This is fantasyland for sure.
Will “Shades of Grey” turn YOU on? If the sentence “My breasts swell, and my nipples harden under his steady gaze.” intrigues you, I’d encourage you to pick up a copy. But I’ll also warn you that when the whipping starts, you may decide to bid farewell to Grey and Ana, and watch “Downton Abbey” instead.
A librarian friend of mine who is a porn aficionado wasn’t impressed. “It’s nothing special,” she shrugged. “I could definitely put it down.“ But women new to porn are flocking to “Fifty Shades.”
Why is “romantic erotica” suddenly taking off? We can thank the internet. In the pre-digital age, if James had submitted this weird mix of romance, explicit sadomasochistic sex and contract negotiation to a publisher, would they have touched it? Not a chance. By releasing it as an e-book, she could bypass the gatekeepers, go right to her audience (women) and give us what we want. (Hot spicy sex!)
This is a development that brings new meaning to the phrase “sisters are doing it for themselves.”
The only real surprise is that the first novel to bring porn to ordinary women in a big way doesn’t just contain really explicit sex, but really explicit sadomasochistic sex. I don’t think anyone saw that coming.
Will Anastasia submit to a lifetime of flogging in Christian’s “red room of pain?” Why on earth would she? Well he’s rich and accomplished and handsome and hot. But he’s also the kind of dude who shows you his dungeon on the first date. Even Ana, besotted, recognizes that Christian is bad boyfriend material. He’s a stalker and a control freak who seethes with jealous rage if she so much as mentions another man. But he can pilot a helicopter! And play melancholy songs on the piano! And, after beating her, he’s quick to tenderly soothe her aching tushie with baby oil. By the end of the book, when finally Ana invites Christian to seriously punish her, it’s clear that these two are made for each other. (Although my inner feminist couldn’t help but think: this is a happy ending?)
Am I hooked? Do I need to know whether Ana will end up suspended from the ceiling? Or what‘s up with those weird scars on Christian’s chest? Am I going to read “Fifty Shades Darker,“ the next book in the trilogy? I won’t buy it. But I just might put it on reserve at the library.
If I do, I’ll be number 157 on the waiting list.
(This piece first appeared on www.womensvoiceforchange.org)
7 Things I Learned About Diane Keaton From Reading "Now and Then"
Woody Allen had a good body. (It was “fit and well proportioned.”)
She was in love with Al Pacino.
Marlon Brando once told her she had “nice tits.”
Keaton "never found a home in the arms of a man."
Her mom was as much of a character as she was.
She was bulimic. She isn’t anymore.
Therapy helped.
She was in love with Al Pacino.
Marlon Brando once told her she had “nice tits.”
Keaton "never found a home in the arms of a man."
Her mom was as much of a character as she was.
She was bulimic. She isn’t anymore.
Therapy helped.
April 24, 2012
Will Write For Crab Cakes
By: Roz Warren (and Janet Golden)
I’m a humor writer. My work appears in magazines from The Funny Times to The Christian Science Monitor. Janet is a history professor whose writing was confined to academic journals and the occasional op-ed. Driving back from the Jersey shore one day, we were kibitzing and Janet had a funny idea.
“That would make a good essay,” I told her.
“You can write it,” she said.
“Let’s write it together,” I suggested.
We hatched a plan. We‘d turn Janet’s funny idea into a humor piece, sell it to “The Funny Times” and spend the money on crab cakes at our favorite lunch spot the next time we were at the shore.
(Janet: I couldn’t turn Roz down -- none of my other friends can take off mid-week to go to the beach with me.)
When I got home I came up with a title and an adequate first draft and emailed it to Janet. Within an hour she‘d punched up some lines, deleted others, added some funny business of her own and shot it back, with a much better title. A writing partnership was born! The essay went back and forth till we couldn’t make it funnier. We submitted it to The Funny Times. They took it.
Acquiring a partner this late in my writing career was completely unexpected. I felt like the friend who’d had one of those late-in-life babies. You think the pattern of your life is set, then -- surprise!
(Janet: At our age, a new writing partner is much better than a newborn.)
Writing with a partner is more fun than writing solo. It’s easier too. You know when you -- creatively speaking -- hit a wall? With a writing partner, there’s always a door in that wall. When you’re stumped, you just open the door and lob the mess you’ve created at her. It comes back fixed! Or at least, improved. With Janet, I can even place an order. “The third paragraph needs a movie title that’s a pun about monetizing nature documentaries.“ I once requested. Within moments, she came back with “Crouching Tiger, Hidden Profits.”
Our brains don’t always work together as one. Janet once put a wisecracking baby elephant in an early draft. I didn’t think he was funny, so I deleted him when I returned it. When her redraft hit my in box, he was back. As we sent it back and forth, redrafting and polishing, I kept removing the baby elephant and Janet kept replacing him. Finally, the piece was done. Except for the elephant. In or out? I figured the piece was strong enough by then that an unfunny elephant wouldn’t stop an editor from taking it. Let the editor delete the elephant! I punched up the elephant’s lines and he stayed in. Later, when I read “Gone With The Wildebeest” in print, I thought the baby elephant was hilarious.
(Janet: You’re welcome.)
We’ve encountered a few glitches. Whenever I emailed one work-in-progress to Janet, it vanished. Turns out her prudish spam filter kept dumping it in her spam file because it contained the words “erectile dysfunction.“
(Janet: My spam filter obviously didn’t get the joke.)
We haven’t merged into a single Humor Writing Brain yet. We both continue to write solo. But I can count on Janet to add a funny line to whatever I’m working on. (She hasn’t asked me to make any of her academic papers funnier. But I’d be happy to try.)
(Janet: My academic papers are hilarious enough already, thanks.)
While we work well together, we don’t always think alike. I love Terry Gross; Janet lunges to change the channel when “Fresh Air” comes on. I spend my evenings reading magazines; Janet prefers movies. She’s happily married; I’m happily divorced. But we’re both opinionated and fairly clever, and neither of us is afraid to fall on her face when reaching for a joke. And we throw out each other’s lines, paragraphs and ideas with impunity because we both recognize that it’s not that important -- it’s humor writing, not brain surgery. It’s fun. And there’s a big reward: crab cakes.
(Janet: Make that a tasty reward. The crab cakes are actually pretty small. It‘s not as if we‘re stuffing our faces like those morons who enter hot dog eating contests.)
So we sit at our respective computers, batting our work back and forth until its done. She’s in charge of keeping us moving forward and I’m in charge of sending the completed work out. We’re currently working on a darkly comic mystery novel set in a suburban library. Who knows if it’ll sell? But we’re having fun writing it.
(Janet: If it sells, we’re celebrating with crab cakes at the beach -- in Aruba.)
So the next time you’re chatting with a friend and she comes up with a Good Idea, don’t just grab it. Offer to share. You never know what might happen. Maybe we’ll run into you at the shore next summer, enjoying crab cakes.
(Janet: But remember, the left front table is ours!)
I’m a humor writer. My work appears in magazines from The Funny Times to The Christian Science Monitor. Janet is a history professor whose writing was confined to academic journals and the occasional op-ed. Driving back from the Jersey shore one day, we were kibitzing and Janet had a funny idea.
“That would make a good essay,” I told her.
“You can write it,” she said.
“Let’s write it together,” I suggested.
We hatched a plan. We‘d turn Janet’s funny idea into a humor piece, sell it to “The Funny Times” and spend the money on crab cakes at our favorite lunch spot the next time we were at the shore.
(Janet: I couldn’t turn Roz down -- none of my other friends can take off mid-week to go to the beach with me.)
When I got home I came up with a title and an adequate first draft and emailed it to Janet. Within an hour she‘d punched up some lines, deleted others, added some funny business of her own and shot it back, with a much better title. A writing partnership was born! The essay went back and forth till we couldn’t make it funnier. We submitted it to The Funny Times. They took it.
Acquiring a partner this late in my writing career was completely unexpected. I felt like the friend who’d had one of those late-in-life babies. You think the pattern of your life is set, then -- surprise!
(Janet: At our age, a new writing partner is much better than a newborn.)
Writing with a partner is more fun than writing solo. It’s easier too. You know when you -- creatively speaking -- hit a wall? With a writing partner, there’s always a door in that wall. When you’re stumped, you just open the door and lob the mess you’ve created at her. It comes back fixed! Or at least, improved. With Janet, I can even place an order. “The third paragraph needs a movie title that’s a pun about monetizing nature documentaries.“ I once requested. Within moments, she came back with “Crouching Tiger, Hidden Profits.”
Our brains don’t always work together as one. Janet once put a wisecracking baby elephant in an early draft. I didn’t think he was funny, so I deleted him when I returned it. When her redraft hit my in box, he was back. As we sent it back and forth, redrafting and polishing, I kept removing the baby elephant and Janet kept replacing him. Finally, the piece was done. Except for the elephant. In or out? I figured the piece was strong enough by then that an unfunny elephant wouldn’t stop an editor from taking it. Let the editor delete the elephant! I punched up the elephant’s lines and he stayed in. Later, when I read “Gone With The Wildebeest” in print, I thought the baby elephant was hilarious.
(Janet: You’re welcome.)
We’ve encountered a few glitches. Whenever I emailed one work-in-progress to Janet, it vanished. Turns out her prudish spam filter kept dumping it in her spam file because it contained the words “erectile dysfunction.“
(Janet: My spam filter obviously didn’t get the joke.)
We haven’t merged into a single Humor Writing Brain yet. We both continue to write solo. But I can count on Janet to add a funny line to whatever I’m working on. (She hasn’t asked me to make any of her academic papers funnier. But I’d be happy to try.)
(Janet: My academic papers are hilarious enough already, thanks.)
While we work well together, we don’t always think alike. I love Terry Gross; Janet lunges to change the channel when “Fresh Air” comes on. I spend my evenings reading magazines; Janet prefers movies. She’s happily married; I’m happily divorced. But we’re both opinionated and fairly clever, and neither of us is afraid to fall on her face when reaching for a joke. And we throw out each other’s lines, paragraphs and ideas with impunity because we both recognize that it’s not that important -- it’s humor writing, not brain surgery. It’s fun. And there’s a big reward: crab cakes.
(Janet: Make that a tasty reward. The crab cakes are actually pretty small. It‘s not as if we‘re stuffing our faces like those morons who enter hot dog eating contests.)
So we sit at our respective computers, batting our work back and forth until its done. She’s in charge of keeping us moving forward and I’m in charge of sending the completed work out. We’re currently working on a darkly comic mystery novel set in a suburban library. Who knows if it’ll sell? But we’re having fun writing it.
(Janet: If it sells, we’re celebrating with crab cakes at the beach -- in Aruba.)
So the next time you’re chatting with a friend and she comes up with a Good Idea, don’t just grab it. Offer to share. You never know what might happen. Maybe we’ll run into you at the shore next summer, enjoying crab cakes.
(Janet: But remember, the left front table is ours!)
April 11, 2012
Roz Reads: When Do They Serve The Wine?
Every day at least one woman comes into the library where I work to put some serious, unreadable tome on reserve, sighing, “I’m probably going to hate it but I have to read it for my book group.” Why do book groups keep assigning books that people dread reading? Sure, these books deal with important issues and provoke interesting discussions. But a good, insightful humor book can accomplish that too -- and it’s so much more fun to read!
Next time your book group formulates its reading list, I suggest including Liza Donnelly’s WHEN DO THEY SERVE THE WINE? THE FOLLY, FLEXABILITY AND FUN OF BEING A WOMAN, an enjoyable, conversation-sparking read that addresses a very important topic -- what does it really mean, here and now, to be female? Donnelly, a staff cartoonist at the New Yorker, takes a sharp look at who we are and what is expected from us. (Everything!) The cartoons, grouped by decade, consider our lives from early childhood through old age, from “The First Kiss” to “Sex in Your Sixties,“ from Barbie to Vaginal Lubricant. Other topics include Cleavage, Hairstyles, Bad Dates, Menopause Basics and Advice for Michelle Obama.
If an overall theme emerges from Donnelly’s work, it’s that however young or old we are, a woman always has something to be anxious about. Our looks. Our popularity. Our achievements (or lack thereof). Our “rebellious body parts.” The humor, while sharply observed, is gentle. Donnelly won’t make you howl with laughter, but she’ll make you grin. Hers is the comedy of convention, addressing the gap between the expectations our gender imposes on is and our reality. The media’s influence on our sense of self is a favorite target. (Three woman watch television together. One asks: “Why do I get this vague notion that something is always expected of us?“) Another favorite topic is negotiating stereotypes (Two little girls are at play. One says to the other: “My doll can be the pretty one and yours can watch her.“) There’s also plenty of fun, empowering material. (A female divorce lawyer says to her client: “I’ll need to ask you a number of questions about your former husband, hereafter called ‘son-of-a-bitch.‘” )
Donnelly begins each section with a brief essay about the challenges and surprises the decade in question held for her. A picture emerges of a smart, savvy woman whose desire to be “nice” is at odds with her anger at what women often have to put up with. She’s resolved this conflict by being a people-pleaser who expresses cultural criticism through her art. The reader will be impressed by both her wit and her insight. Here’s her take on the way our looks change as we age:
“I threw out the scale years ago, and now I want to toss the mirror. But I don’t need to. Although it has taken me fifty years, I know who I am now, wrinkles and all. The mirror doesn’t lie, but it can’t tell me everything.”
Donnelly herself appears to have it all -- motherhood, a thriving career, and a loving “feminist husband“ (fellow New Yorker cartoonist Michael Maslin). But it’s impossible to resent her because she comes across as the kind of woman who’d make a great best friend. Funny as hell but kind and caring. You imagine that if you needed a shoulder to cry on, she’d drop everything to be there for you, find the right words to console you, bake you some fabulous cookies and even turn the whole thing into a cartoon that would give you perspective on the fact that your life ain’t really so bad.
Next time your Book Group chooses titles, why not add WHEN DO THEY SERVE THE WINE? to your reading list? On the day it comes up for discussion, bring along a bottle (or two) of good wine, and be prepared to talk about what we wish construction workers would really say, when it feels just great to be a bitch at work and whether or not a vibrator is the perfect bridal shower gift. If what follows isn’t one of the liveliest and most engaging discussions your group has ever had, find another book group.
(This review first appeared on www.womensvoicesforchange.org)
Next time your book group formulates its reading list, I suggest including Liza Donnelly’s WHEN DO THEY SERVE THE WINE? THE FOLLY, FLEXABILITY AND FUN OF BEING A WOMAN, an enjoyable, conversation-sparking read that addresses a very important topic -- what does it really mean, here and now, to be female? Donnelly, a staff cartoonist at the New Yorker, takes a sharp look at who we are and what is expected from us. (Everything!) The cartoons, grouped by decade, consider our lives from early childhood through old age, from “The First Kiss” to “Sex in Your Sixties,“ from Barbie to Vaginal Lubricant. Other topics include Cleavage, Hairstyles, Bad Dates, Menopause Basics and Advice for Michelle Obama.
If an overall theme emerges from Donnelly’s work, it’s that however young or old we are, a woman always has something to be anxious about. Our looks. Our popularity. Our achievements (or lack thereof). Our “rebellious body parts.” The humor, while sharply observed, is gentle. Donnelly won’t make you howl with laughter, but she’ll make you grin. Hers is the comedy of convention, addressing the gap between the expectations our gender imposes on is and our reality. The media’s influence on our sense of self is a favorite target. (Three woman watch television together. One asks: “Why do I get this vague notion that something is always expected of us?“) Another favorite topic is negotiating stereotypes (Two little girls are at play. One says to the other: “My doll can be the pretty one and yours can watch her.“) There’s also plenty of fun, empowering material. (A female divorce lawyer says to her client: “I’ll need to ask you a number of questions about your former husband, hereafter called ‘son-of-a-bitch.‘” )
Donnelly begins each section with a brief essay about the challenges and surprises the decade in question held for her. A picture emerges of a smart, savvy woman whose desire to be “nice” is at odds with her anger at what women often have to put up with. She’s resolved this conflict by being a people-pleaser who expresses cultural criticism through her art. The reader will be impressed by both her wit and her insight. Here’s her take on the way our looks change as we age:
“I threw out the scale years ago, and now I want to toss the mirror. But I don’t need to. Although it has taken me fifty years, I know who I am now, wrinkles and all. The mirror doesn’t lie, but it can’t tell me everything.”
Donnelly herself appears to have it all -- motherhood, a thriving career, and a loving “feminist husband“ (fellow New Yorker cartoonist Michael Maslin). But it’s impossible to resent her because she comes across as the kind of woman who’d make a great best friend. Funny as hell but kind and caring. You imagine that if you needed a shoulder to cry on, she’d drop everything to be there for you, find the right words to console you, bake you some fabulous cookies and even turn the whole thing into a cartoon that would give you perspective on the fact that your life ain’t really so bad.
Next time your Book Group chooses titles, why not add WHEN DO THEY SERVE THE WINE? to your reading list? On the day it comes up for discussion, bring along a bottle (or two) of good wine, and be prepared to talk about what we wish construction workers would really say, when it feels just great to be a bitch at work and whether or not a vibrator is the perfect bridal shower gift. If what follows isn’t one of the liveliest and most engaging discussions your group has ever had, find another book group.
(This review first appeared on www.womensvoicesforchange.org)
April 8, 2012
Setter On The Roof
By Roz Warren and Janet Golden
When I read that Mitt Romney had once driven for twelve hours with the terrified family dog, an Irish Setter, in a cage on the roof of his car, this lyric, to the tune of “Fiddler on the Roof” popped into my head:
What does it mean, this Setter on the roof
Who whimpers through the morn and then all afternoon.
What kind of nudnick chooses such a way
To schlep a much-loved family pet?
That’s just the way my mind works. Apparently my pal Janet’s mind works the same way, because when I emailed my new lyric to her, she came right back with:
How much was that doggie on the car roof?
The one with the PAC money dad
How much was that doggie on the car roof?
I wonder why he looks so sad.
At which point, we put our heads together to rewrite the Elvis classic “Hound Dog:”
You ain’t nothing but a roof dog.
Crying all the time.
You ain’t nothing but a roof dog.
Crying all the time.
You won’t ever cast a vote, pal
So you ain’t no friend of mine.
After that, “On Top Of Old Smokey” quickly became:
On top of a Caddy
Racing down the pike
I spied Mitt’s poor doggy.
He was pooping with fright.
(Actually, the car was a station wagon. But “Caddy” scanned better, and given the number of Cadillacs owned by the Romneys, we figured we could use our artistic license to borrow one.)
Next, Janet reworked “Old Yeller” into:
The dog was no mongrel.
Just a freaked out Irish setter.
Caged, not free. Not a Bain Trustee.
But up on the roof he could spew it.
And prove there’s nothing to it.
And that’s how a good dog should be.
And I turned “Who Let The Dogs Out” into:
Who caged the dog up?
Mitt! Mitt! Mitt! Mitt!
After which we both decided it was time to stop. But we’ll leave you with this:
A dog caged on the roof.
A most unhappy sight.
It may not mean a thing
But we think it just might.
(Note: Roz and Janet wish to thank our muse for this piece, the wonderful Gail Collins.)
When I read that Mitt Romney had once driven for twelve hours with the terrified family dog, an Irish Setter, in a cage on the roof of his car, this lyric, to the tune of “Fiddler on the Roof” popped into my head:
What does it mean, this Setter on the roof
Who whimpers through the morn and then all afternoon.
What kind of nudnick chooses such a way
To schlep a much-loved family pet?
That’s just the way my mind works. Apparently my pal Janet’s mind works the same way, because when I emailed my new lyric to her, she came right back with:
How much was that doggie on the car roof?
The one with the PAC money dad
How much was that doggie on the car roof?
I wonder why he looks so sad.
At which point, we put our heads together to rewrite the Elvis classic “Hound Dog:”
You ain’t nothing but a roof dog.
Crying all the time.
You ain’t nothing but a roof dog.
Crying all the time.
You won’t ever cast a vote, pal
So you ain’t no friend of mine.
After that, “On Top Of Old Smokey” quickly became:
On top of a Caddy
Racing down the pike
I spied Mitt’s poor doggy.
He was pooping with fright.
(Actually, the car was a station wagon. But “Caddy” scanned better, and given the number of Cadillacs owned by the Romneys, we figured we could use our artistic license to borrow one.)
Next, Janet reworked “Old Yeller” into:
The dog was no mongrel.
Just a freaked out Irish setter.
Caged, not free. Not a Bain Trustee.
But up on the roof he could spew it.
And prove there’s nothing to it.
And that’s how a good dog should be.
And I turned “Who Let The Dogs Out” into:
Who caged the dog up?
Mitt! Mitt! Mitt! Mitt!
After which we both decided it was time to stop. But we’ll leave you with this:
A dog caged on the roof.
A most unhappy sight.
It may not mean a thing
But we think it just might.
(Note: Roz and Janet wish to thank our muse for this piece, the wonderful Gail Collins.)
April 7, 2012
Books, Cats and Love: The Cartooning Career of Stephanie Piro
“Cartooning is the best revenge,” jokes Stephanie Piro when I ask where her ideas come from. A marital spat with husband John or a stranger’s insensitive remark will quickly find its way into Piro’s “Fair Game” strip, or King Feature’s popular “Six Chix” feature, where Piro is the “Saturday Chick.” They may start with a gripe, but her cartoons end in a laugh. Piro knows how to turn the challenges women face each day into good funny cartoons. Of course, all of her comics don’t begin with a kvetch. Her humor is also inspired by her love of cats, dogs and books, the library job she loves, motherhood and her abiding interest in how men and women interact. The typical Piro character is strong, self-assured and witty. Feminist but deeply feminine, she’s attractive and loves wearing nice clothes, but she doesn’t put up with guff from anyone. Quick to stick up for herself (or for a friend) with a snappy remark, she can be acerbic, but she’s never unkind. She’s pushes back at the way our culture limits women, and has no problem complaining about the man in her life. (She usually has a good pal to confide in.) Most important, she knows how to have fun. Piro’s work is upbeat and positive. Her glass is more than half full. And although she’s been at this for decades, her work remains fresh and original. “I read a lot of magazines to stay on top of things,” she says. “I want to stay current.” Just living her life, the cartoonist says, provides her with plenty of material.
Born in Brooklyn. Piro has spent most of her adult life in rural New Hampshire, where she lives with her journalist husband and a fluctuating number of sassy cats. Her love of cartoons began when her mom used the “Peanuts“ cartoon strip to teach her to read. After attending Manhattan’s School of Visual Arts, Piro worked hard to establish a cartooning career. Simpson’s creator Matt Groening gave her career advice. “He helped me find my audience,“ she says. In 1984, she started the Strip T’s Design Company to market T-shirts featuring cartoons about cats, dogs, books and dating. Her most popular design? The one in which a woman confides, “I like the concept of men. It‘s the reality I have problems with.” “That’s also the first cartoon I sold to Glamour Magazine,“ Piro recalls. Strip Ts and a Café Press site continue to sell Piro’s cartooned T shirts, mugs, and greeting cards, including special lines for book lovers and librarians. Piro also sells signed originals. “I store all the originals in Tupperware containers out in the barn,” she says.
Piro’s cartoons appear in magazines from “The Funny Times” to “The Chronicle of Higher Education“ and have been collected in three books (so far) “Men! Ha!” “Caffeinated Cartoons” and “My Cat Loves Me Naked.” (“You think I should lose a few pounds? My cat doesn’t think I’m fat! My cat loves me naked.“ )
Although she’s married to a man whose inventive wit in penning the local police blotter earned him nationwide coverage on NPR last year, Piro never shares work--in-progress with her husband. “We don’t always think the same things are funny,“ she says. “But he’s the first one I’ll show a finished cartoon to.“ She does a lot of redrafting before she‘s ready to show her work to anybody. “I go through a lot of paper,” she admits “But I do recycle.”
What makes her happy? Like her cartoons, Piro is positive and upbeat. “Almost everything makes me happy,” she says. “My library job. Checking in with my daughter Nico.” (She’s a librarian living in Washington D.C.) “My husband John cracks me up.” Most of all, Piro loves her work. “Nothing makes me happier than having the time to sit and write and draw,” she says. I love her work too, and I urge you to check it out.
(Note: This piece first appeared on www.womensvoicesforchange.org.)
Born in Brooklyn. Piro has spent most of her adult life in rural New Hampshire, where she lives with her journalist husband and a fluctuating number of sassy cats. Her love of cartoons began when her mom used the “Peanuts“ cartoon strip to teach her to read. After attending Manhattan’s School of Visual Arts, Piro worked hard to establish a cartooning career. Simpson’s creator Matt Groening gave her career advice. “He helped me find my audience,“ she says. In 1984, she started the Strip T’s Design Company to market T-shirts featuring cartoons about cats, dogs, books and dating. Her most popular design? The one in which a woman confides, “I like the concept of men. It‘s the reality I have problems with.” “That’s also the first cartoon I sold to Glamour Magazine,“ Piro recalls. Strip Ts and a Café Press site continue to sell Piro’s cartooned T shirts, mugs, and greeting cards, including special lines for book lovers and librarians. Piro also sells signed originals. “I store all the originals in Tupperware containers out in the barn,” she says.
Piro’s cartoons appear in magazines from “The Funny Times” to “The Chronicle of Higher Education“ and have been collected in three books (so far) “Men! Ha!” “Caffeinated Cartoons” and “My Cat Loves Me Naked.” (“You think I should lose a few pounds? My cat doesn’t think I’m fat! My cat loves me naked.“ )
Although she’s married to a man whose inventive wit in penning the local police blotter earned him nationwide coverage on NPR last year, Piro never shares work--in-progress with her husband. “We don’t always think the same things are funny,“ she says. “But he’s the first one I’ll show a finished cartoon to.“ She does a lot of redrafting before she‘s ready to show her work to anybody. “I go through a lot of paper,” she admits “But I do recycle.”
What makes her happy? Like her cartoons, Piro is positive and upbeat. “Almost everything makes me happy,” she says. “My library job. Checking in with my daughter Nico.” (She’s a librarian living in Washington D.C.) “My husband John cracks me up.” Most of all, Piro loves her work. “Nothing makes me happier than having the time to sit and write and draw,” she says. I love her work too, and I urge you to check it out.
(Note: This piece first appeared on www.womensvoicesforchange.org.)
April 6, 2012
War and Peas
Some people feel obligated to finish reading every book they start. Once they pick up a book, even if it’s hundreds of pages long and makes them want to scream with boredom, they will reach that last page if it kills them.
I am not one of those people. It’s not that I don’t love books. One reason I work in a public library is so I can read any book I want. If it’s not in our collection, it can be ordered from outside the system.
I make use of this service so often that the reference librarian in charge of ordering hard-to-find books from other libraries has joked that she wants to hide under her desk whenever she sees me coming. But even after she’s moved heaven and earth to locate a book in some itty bitty library in Nowhere, Pennsylvania and it has made the long journey across the state and into my hands, if it doesn’t grab me by chapter two, I’m sending it back.
I never feel compelled to finish a book. In fact, I rarely even feel INCLINED to finish a book. I will only keep reading if a book is so great that I CAN’T put it down.
A library patron recently told me that I absolutely had to read “The “Poisonwood Bible.“
“I tried to read it,“ I said. “I gave up after two chapters.“
“It took me fifty pages to get into it,” she admitted. “You have to give it a chance.”
I did. I gave it twenty minutes of my life. That’s all it’s going to get.
When I do fall for a book, I fall hard. I read it, and reread it, and recommend it endlessly. I’m the best friend a book could ever have, because I will bring that book scads of new readers. If there’s one question you’re asked when you work in a library, it’s “Can you recommend a good read?“
I’m convinced that I’m personally responsible for several extra print runs of both “Straight Man” and “Bel Canto.”
Book clubs are particularly pernicious for the reader who feels compelled to plough through books she can’t stand out of a sense of obligation.
A patron recently confided, “I have to read ‘Moby Dick‘ for my book club but it’s making me seasick.”
“Don’t worry,“ I told her. “I can help you jump ship.“
I printed out some insightful online reviews and she left the library smiling, prepared to discuss the Great White Whale but intending to go right home and curl up with the new Paretsky.
All I want is a book that will keep me up till two in the morning turning pages. I refuse to settle for less. The way I look at it, people who suffer to the end of a novel are like people who stay in bad marriages. But if the thrill is gone, I want out! Years ago, my ex and I pulled the plug on a twenty-year relationship. Now I’m with a guy who is consistently thrilling, and my ex is happily re-married to the true love of his life. I call that a happy ending.
Some people disapprove of my ability to jettison a book so quickly. “Once I start reading, I have to finish,“ they say proudly. I’m guessing these are the same people whose parents made them clean their plates when they were kids. They probably had to choke down every last pea, even if they hated peas, before they could enjoy dessert.
But you’re a grown up now! You can make (and break!) your own rules. If you aren’t enjoying your peas, feed them to the dog and try some spinach instead. Even better, toss them in the trash and go right to dessert! Who cares that you’ve only read five chapters of “War and Peace?“ “The Sylvia Chronicles” is calling to you! Kick Tolstoy under the couch and go with the book you really want. Life is too short (and “War and Peace” is too damn long) to do anything else.
I am not one of those people. It’s not that I don’t love books. One reason I work in a public library is so I can read any book I want. If it’s not in our collection, it can be ordered from outside the system.
I make use of this service so often that the reference librarian in charge of ordering hard-to-find books from other libraries has joked that she wants to hide under her desk whenever she sees me coming. But even after she’s moved heaven and earth to locate a book in some itty bitty library in Nowhere, Pennsylvania and it has made the long journey across the state and into my hands, if it doesn’t grab me by chapter two, I’m sending it back.
I never feel compelled to finish a book. In fact, I rarely even feel INCLINED to finish a book. I will only keep reading if a book is so great that I CAN’T put it down.
A library patron recently told me that I absolutely had to read “The “Poisonwood Bible.“
“I tried to read it,“ I said. “I gave up after two chapters.“
“It took me fifty pages to get into it,” she admitted. “You have to give it a chance.”
I did. I gave it twenty minutes of my life. That’s all it’s going to get.
When I do fall for a book, I fall hard. I read it, and reread it, and recommend it endlessly. I’m the best friend a book could ever have, because I will bring that book scads of new readers. If there’s one question you’re asked when you work in a library, it’s “Can you recommend a good read?“
I’m convinced that I’m personally responsible for several extra print runs of both “Straight Man” and “Bel Canto.”
Book clubs are particularly pernicious for the reader who feels compelled to plough through books she can’t stand out of a sense of obligation.
A patron recently confided, “I have to read ‘Moby Dick‘ for my book club but it’s making me seasick.”
“Don’t worry,“ I told her. “I can help you jump ship.“
I printed out some insightful online reviews and she left the library smiling, prepared to discuss the Great White Whale but intending to go right home and curl up with the new Paretsky.
All I want is a book that will keep me up till two in the morning turning pages. I refuse to settle for less. The way I look at it, people who suffer to the end of a novel are like people who stay in bad marriages. But if the thrill is gone, I want out! Years ago, my ex and I pulled the plug on a twenty-year relationship. Now I’m with a guy who is consistently thrilling, and my ex is happily re-married to the true love of his life. I call that a happy ending.
Some people disapprove of my ability to jettison a book so quickly. “Once I start reading, I have to finish,“ they say proudly. I’m guessing these are the same people whose parents made them clean their plates when they were kids. They probably had to choke down every last pea, even if they hated peas, before they could enjoy dessert.
But you’re a grown up now! You can make (and break!) your own rules. If you aren’t enjoying your peas, feed them to the dog and try some spinach instead. Even better, toss them in the trash and go right to dessert! Who cares that you’ve only read five chapters of “War and Peace?“ “The Sylvia Chronicles” is calling to you! Kick Tolstoy under the couch and go with the book you really want. Life is too short (and “War and Peace” is too damn long) to do anything else.
