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I've been spending a lot of beach time book-less (and ending up in elsewherementioned really scary places in my head as a result) 'cause I've misplaced the copy of "Childhood's End" I've been nibbling at again in memory of Arthur C. Clarke after he died earlier this year, so yesterday I perused the Warner Library for a temporary substitute and landed on a hardcover of "Dave Barry Turns 50."
*I* just turned 50, I thought, so this seems appropriate. Also, I have a collection of Dave Barry books I've never read because I could essentially write them in my head without cracking the cover, he got so predictable, so he fell out of favor with me and I stopped reading him. But I decided he'd be good to read in bite-size beach chunks (mmmmm... beach chunks), and I'm happy to report I've been laughing my ass off (no small feat, trust me)(also, no small ass) at the beach the past couple of days.
More importantly, I was caught by surprise when I opened the book and found the inscription, "Peg -- Good luck with your humorous career." Totally forgot that was the book he had just released when he did a book-signing in Portsmouth (at, what was the name of that bookstore on Route 1? Stroudwater, I think? Musta been in '98 or '99) and I stood in line. I did that not so much out of admiration at the time (see above re: predictability), but because from the late '80s, when I discovered him, into the early '90s, when his columns began to seem ... mmmmm, repetitive ... he was my hero and my role model, and I felt like I owed the man. It was because of him that I had any notion that one could make a living writing shallow humor -- and I don't mean that in a bad way -- and I aspired to be womanhood's answer to Dave Barry. (And when I later discovered Anna Quindlen, I aspired to be their love child.)
Even had a regular column for a time in the newspaper where I mostly worked as a responsible journalist in which I fancied that I was distilling lofty ideas into accessibly funny bits. It was only in retrospect that I realized just how far short I had fallen of what I thought I was doing.
Not very different from what I think I'm doing here, come to think of it.
No real surprise, then, in any case, that my attempts to get someone to syndicate my column back in the day never bore fruit. Maybe I'll dig them up and post them someday. When I'm drunk. The same day I post my stupid free gas story, perhaps.
Didn't remember having a long enough conversation with Barry at that book-signing, though, for him to write something that would conjure up that period of my life and that goal.
Now. About my dream of doing stand-up ...
*I* just turned 50, I thought, so this seems appropriate. Also, I have a collection of Dave Barry books I've never read because I could essentially write them in my head without cracking the cover, he got so predictable, so he fell out of favor with me and I stopped reading him. But I decided he'd be good to read in bite-size beach chunks (mmmmm... beach chunks), and I'm happy to report I've been laughing my ass off (no small feat, trust me)(also, no small ass) at the beach the past couple of days.
More importantly, I was caught by surprise when I opened the book and found the inscription, "Peg -- Good luck with your humorous career." Totally forgot that was the book he had just released when he did a book-signing in Portsmouth (at, what was the name of that bookstore on Route 1? Stroudwater, I think? Musta been in '98 or '99) and I stood in line. I did that not so much out of admiration at the time (see above re: predictability), but because from the late '80s, when I discovered him, into the early '90s, when his columns began to seem ... mmmmm, repetitive ... he was my hero and my role model, and I felt like I owed the man. It was because of him that I had any notion that one could make a living writing shallow humor -- and I don't mean that in a bad way -- and I aspired to be womanhood's answer to Dave Barry. (And when I later discovered Anna Quindlen, I aspired to be their love child.)
Even had a regular column for a time in the newspaper where I mostly worked as a responsible journalist in which I fancied that I was distilling lofty ideas into accessibly funny bits. It was only in retrospect that I realized just how far short I had fallen of what I thought I was doing.
Not very different from what I think I'm doing here, come to think of it.
No real surprise, then, in any case, that my attempts to get someone to syndicate my column back in the day never bore fruit. Maybe I'll dig them up and post them someday. When I'm drunk. The same day I post my stupid free gas story, perhaps.
Didn't remember having a long enough conversation with Barry at that book-signing, though, for him to write something that would conjure up that period of my life and that goal.
Now. About my dream of doing stand-up ...
- Location:seabrook
- Mood:misty
- Music:"Baby I'm-A Want You"
