Live right and find happiness (although beer is much faster) Life lessons and other ravings from Dave Barry

A COMPLAINT: The "humor section" is a meaningless bookseller's term. Think about it for a second. If you go to the bookstore and find yourself browsing the biography section, you know what you're going to get: biographies. Mystery section: mysteries. Sports: books about sports. But humor is something else entirely, conveying an intention rather than a subject. Rare is the humorous book about humor, although Joe Randazzo has just written quite a good one about breaking into the humor industry. Books filed under "humor" aren't about anything specific. Their subjects run the gamut from "Calvin and Hobbes" anthologies to comedic memoirs to pop culture parodies to the sorts of gift books that are best read from the cozy confines of the commode. Their only commonality is their desire to amuse. Yet, you won't find some of the world's funniest writers in the humor section. No Mark Twain, no Douglas Adams or Jane Austen or Kurt Vonnegut or Tom Robbins or any number of others. Why? Because, at a certain point, a funny book with long enough legs graduates from the humor section to the literature section or the classics section or what have you. I mean, you can't put "A Confederacy of Dunces" in the humor section, right? It won the Pulitzer, for goodness' sake! Pulitzer Prize winners, no matter how funny, do not get put alongside books with titles like that of the comedian and actor Brad Garrett's new memoir, WHEN THE BALLS DROP: How I Learned to Get Real and Embrace Life's Second Half (Gallery Books, $25). In other words, the best a writer of humor can hope for is one day to be exiled from the humor section, which does not make those of us left behind feel very good. One could certainly be in worse company than the very funny writers who have given us a new crop of books to chuckle over. Garrett won fame as Ray Romano's oafish brother, Robert, on "Everybody Loves Raymond." In his comedic autobiography, he dishes on his former castmates: "A few weeks later, I met Raymond and promptly felt that we were doomed." On Doris Roberts, who played the mother: "It was like we were separated at birth, right down to the 42-inch waist." It's clearly all meant in good fun, and "Raymond" fans will enjoy Garrett ribbing his television family. The book also recounts Garrett's days opening for "Mr. S.," Frank Sinatra, who referred to him as "Greg Barrett" for the several years he worked with Ol' Blue Eyes. Nobody ever corrected Mr. S. because nobody ever corrected Mr. S. Showbiz kibitzing aside, the bulk of the book deals with growing into middle age and the unfortunate ailments that come with the territory (one chapter is entitled "Celebrating Your E.D. During Your Midlife Crisis"); the ephemeral nature of fame ("My career is at the point where about half of the people who recognize me think I'm Kramer from 'Seinfeld.' Especially Mexicans. I'm not sure why"); and on a more serious note, Garrett's struggles with alcoholism. Garrett is a naturally funny writer, uncensored and, at times, crass - admirable qualities all. He makes no great effort to win us over, presenting his politically incorrect views on marriage, for example, without apology. Whether you agree with him or not, readers will laugh. And laugh a lot. The photos alone are worth the cover price, including that of a 15-year-old Garrett, already well over six feet tall, in blackface, doing his "fully committed Jimmie Walker impression." From a recovering (or as Garrett calls himself, "former") alcoholic to a full-throated lush.... YOU DESERVE A DRINK: Boozy Misadventures and Tales of Debauchery (Plume, paper, $16) is the literary debut of Mamrie (pronounced MAME-ree) Hart, a YouTube star whose show of the same name has over 800,000 subscribers. Hart's show is like a lot of popular shows on YouTube: one camera, rapid cuts, lots of non sequiturs and enough high-spirited antics to hold an audience for five-minute increments. A book requires far more attention-holding than that, and Hart has done an admirable job translating her frenetic show to the slower pace of the written word. Although she keeps her anecdotes trotting along as if they were on Adderall, she injects so many funny snapshots from her out-of-control life (an exotic dancer throws a contact lens of Hart's that had fallen onto the stage of a strip club "like a grenade about to detonate," warning Hart that "unless you want some random coochie juice in your eyeball, you gotta let that thing go") that readers will be happy to take the ride with her. And it's difficult to dislike anybody who owns up to an early crush on a paper towel logo. Of the Brawny Man, she says: "A man who can pull off plaid and cleans up in the kitchen? Sign me up!" Hart is a pull-no-punches comedian with a talent for self-deprecation in the guise of selfaggrandizement, a winning formula. Appropriately, most chapters begin with a cocktail recipe. I'd suggest Hart would make an excellent drinking buddy, but I suspect many of us would not survive the night. Those seeking (slightly) more highbrow amusement might want to check out Michael Frayn's MATCHBOX THEATRE: Thirty Short Entertainments (Valancourt, paper, $15), a collection of one-act plays in miniature that range in subject from indecipherable voice mail messages ("Buzz Me"), to a very silly memorial service for a theater intermission that has just passed ("Memorial"), to the various and totally unnecessary details of a sofa the speaker wishes to dispose of ("Let Me Tell You a Little About Myself"). Frayn is probably best known for "Noises Off," a play repeatedly advertised as "the funniest farce ever written." Because Frayn is English, when reading selections from this book aloud, as any reader will be tempted to do, I found it best to read them in my woeful British accent. Reciting the part of J. Walter Unction upon receiving the annual J. Walter Unction Award from the piece "Themselves" in anything other than an approximation of the voice of Peter Cook is pointless. Try it: "I've won this prize every year now since it was first established....And every year it comes as a complete and utter surprise. I'd just like to thank the judges for their faith in me, once again.... And my parents, for ... well, for setting up this award." See? The book's tone ranges from Samuel Beckett to Peter Sellers to Monty Python. "Matchbox Theatre" is a book of scripts. All of the pieces are either monologues or sketches of not more than two or three characters, and while one could easily sit down and peruse the book as a reader, Frayn's publisher is right to say, "These tiny plays are offered here for performance in the smallest theater in the world: the theater of your own imagination." It is great fun to cast yourself as any or all of the characters, open your mouth, and let the silliness fly. American silliness has long had a champion in Dave Barry, the Pulitzer Prize-winning essayist whose newspaper columns chronicled the absurdity of modern American life from 1983 to 2004, and in a few dozen novels and essay collections. His newest, LIVE RIGHT AND FIND HAPPINESS (ALTHOUGH BEER IS MUCH FASTER): Life Lessons and Other Ravings From Dave Barry (Putnam, $26.95), pretends to be organized around the search for happiness but seems much more like a menagerie of funny in search of an organizing principle. Personally, I felt no need for any cohesion beyond Barry's singular voice. Here he is recounting a trip to Russia: "Call me a courageous patriot if you wish, but when my country asks me if I am willing to go on a potentially dangerous mission to a potentially dangerous foreign place where I will run a very real risk of being in potential danger, I do not hesitate. I simply answer, as countless brave, self-sacrificing Americans have answered before me: 'Can I fly business class?'" Funny, and slightly self-deprecating in that he doesn't even ask to fly first class. A courageous patriot, indeed. Barry has never been cool, which is no insult. His brand of folksy yet mildly anarchic humor lulls you into thinking his comedy is toothless, but would a toothless writer open his book with an essay entitled "Bite Me, David Beckham"? I think not. Comedians of all stripes have struggled to translate their humor to the printed page, but Barry is a writer of prose by trade, and his easy style belies the genuine genius it takes to create a series of sentences like these when describing his fear of being mugged while on a trip to the World Cup in Rio: "When I lumbered out of the men's room, I was a man of mystery bulges, a human cash piñata. . . . I had my hand in my pocket, clutching my decoy money wad, ready to throw it at the first Brazilian who got within 10 feet of us. You probably think I was being ridiculous. But guess what, smarty-pants? Guess what happened. . .? I'll tell you what: Nothing. Nobody robbed us, at knife point or gunpoint or needlepoint or any other kind of point." If reading those sentences doesn't unloose at least a modest chuckle, I don't even know what to say to you, smarty-pants. At 67, Dave Barry remains, and there is no other word for it, hilarious. But how does one learn to make comedy for a living? Surely this is a question bedeviling thousands of folks unsatisfied with being the funniest guy in accounts receivable. For those aspirants comes a guidebook to the world of professional humoring, Joe Randazzo's FUNNY ON PURPOSE: The Definitive Guide to an Unpredictable Career in Comedy (Chronicle, paper, $18.95). Randazzo is the former editor of the satirical newspaper The Onion, and he puts those skills to good use as he takes readers on a guided tour of the comedy community, from doing standup to writing for television and movies to auditioning to creating a YouTube channel. Randazzo pulls off the rare trick of being funny while discussing comedy. Here is his definition of comedy: "The simplest definition for what makes something funny is 'abnormality.' Like a tumor, for example." Tumors, of course, aren't funny. Which is why his definition is funny. Or because it's now impossible for me to read the word "tumor" without hearing Arnold Schwarzenegger say it, as in "It's not a too-mah." "Funny on Purpose" has actual, useful advice for those who would seek to subject themselves to the paradoxical suffering and pain of a career devoted to making others laugh. For example, his five traits for performing comedy are as succinct as they are debatable: reliability, timing, shamelessness, yelling and vulnerability. Actually, of these, I think only yelling is debatable. Bob Newhart never yelled and still did O.K. People who already know they want to be screenwriters or stand-up comedians can find books on the market with more in-depth advice on their specific subjects. Those, however, who have a sense that they are funny people but, unlike LeBron James, do not know where to take their talents would be well served heeding Randazzo's advice, as well as reading his assorted interviews with comedy luminaries like Terry Jones, Joan Rivers, Judd Apatow and many others scattered throughout the book. BEFORE YOU GO scampering off to the humor section, I would like to note a couple more books that fit in my "best read from the cozy confines of the commode" humor section subsection. First is SPINGLISH: The Definitive Dictionary of Deliberately Deceptive Language (Blue Rider, $27.50), by Henry Beard and Christopher Cerf. This is one of those perfect bathroom books, because a reader can open up to any page and the contents within will make him or her sick. Compiled in one exhaustive edition are all of our worst neologisms from the worlds of politics, advertising, the military and whatever other industries have need for terminological subterfuge, complete with definitions and first use. Consider "document management," defined as "the now-no-longer-economicallyviable Enron Corporation's term for shredding paper evidence." Or the head-shaking "exquisite egg pasta," which was "a phrase prominently displayed by Stouffer's on packages of its veal tortellini with tomato sauce that touts what was referred to in the product's list of ingredients as 'cooked noodle product.'" Each entry is lovingly footnoted so that curious readers can flip to the back of the book for sourcing. Another book that deserves a place of honor in the family water closet is HAND DRAWN JOKES FOR SMART ATTRACTIVE PEOPLE (Scribner, $22), by Matthew Diffee, a cartoonist for The New Yorker. Diffee is a master of the single-panel cartoon, able to convey in one picture and few words a novel's worth of wit. A slightly sauced businessman at a bar complains to his neighborhood barkeep, "I feel like a man trapped in a woman's salary." Boom! A great joke plus social commentary on two different topics, all in 10 words. What more could anybody ask for? Here's another: An old couple are getting ready for bed. The man, T-shirt tucked into boxers, reaches for a pair of spectacles: "These are my reading glasses. I need my sex glasses." Diffee is able to accomplish with very little what most humor writers cannot with so much. One may wish to extend potty time just to keep flipping through. Like Dave Barry's latest collection, this assortment of books is a menagerie of funny in search of an organizing principle. And as with Barry's book, there is none, other than that all fulfill the promise of making the reader laugh. Any complaints I have toward the booksellers of the world regarding the humor section do not apply to these authors or their fine and funny works. MICHAEL IAN BLACK is an actor and the author, most recently, of "You're Not Doing It Right," a memoir, and "Naked!," a children's picture book.

Humorist Barry (You Can Date Boys When You're Forty: Dave Barry on Parenting and Other Topics He Knows Very Little About, 2014, etc.) departs from the collections of his now-defunct syndicated newspaper column and his goofy full-length novels to write a dozen original essays gathered loosely around a theme: happiness and its discontents.In a semiserious introduction, the author notes that the topics of the essays might seem random at first but that they all touch on happiness in some way, however oblique. He carries out his quasi-theme as promised, providing laugh-out-loud moments throughout the book. In one essay, Barry discusses homeownership. Though it may constitute a significant part of the American dream, it is often not a good way to achieve happiness. In the longest essay, about the author's travel to Brazil, where supposedly friendly citizenry rob tourists regularly, Barry shifts into an exploration of the Brazilian mania for soccer. This then leads into an extended discussion about his daughter, a high school soccer player, and ends with a critique of recent World Cup matches and how futile it was to hate the Belgian team even as its members were defeating the U.S. national team. Additional essays cover Barry's travels to Russia with fellow writer Ridley Pearson, Barry's experiment wearing Google Glass, the mindlessness of 24/7 TV news, why Barry's own generation (he was born in 1947) seems less content than the generation that came before it, advice to his daughter as she reaches the age she can obtain a driver's license and a letter to his infant grandson centering on the ritual of circumcision. Needless to say, effective humor is extremely personal. For those who have found Barry funny in a good way, these latest essays will cause outright, prolonged laughter. Copyright Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

INTRODUCTION What makes us happy? It's definitely not money. To quote the old saying that old people are always saying: "Money can't buy happiness." How very true that is. Oh, you might think money would make you happy. But would it really? Let's say you inherited a billion dollars. You could have a private jet, live in a mansion with a swimming pool, drive a Maserati. You could drive your Maserati into your swimming pool if you felt like it. That's how rich you'd be. But would all that money really make you happy? Would your family and friends really love you any more? OK, they probably would, especially if you let them ride in your jet. And if they didn't love you more, you could afford to have them professionally whacked and get a whole new set of family and friends. People would audition to be your friend. I would be one of these people. So apparently the old saying is wrong: Money can buy you happiness. The problem is, you need a really large quantity of it. You have to be one of those twenty-three-year-old Internet billionaires that everybody would like to punch in the mouth. So most of us have to seek happiness in other ways. Tragically, some people turn to drugs or alcohol. This is a big mistake. I realize that the title of this book seems to suggest that you can achieve happiness by drinking beer, but that is of course a joke. Beer is not the answer. Sure, when your problems are getting you down, drinking beer might temporarily improve your mood. But what happens when the beer wears off? You're right back where you started, still stuck with all the same problems. Sooner or later, you're going to have to face the harsh truth: You need more beer. No! Strike that. The harsh truth is that happiness is an elusive thing. I speak from personal experience here. I should be a happy man. I have all the elements of a good life: a loving family, a nice home, a dog that doesn't pee indoors without a good reason. I have a full head of hair and several original teeth. I have no major health issues that I am aware of, thanks to a rigorous healthcare regimen of never getting within 200 yards of a known healthcare provider. I have a small group of really close male friends with whom I am not in touch because we are males, but I know I can count on them if I ever really need them, assuming they are still alive. And if all of that isn't enough, I've had a long and rewarding career that consists of being paid to write pretty much any random idiot thing I want. You can put suspenders on a salamander, but it still won't make waffles. See what I mean? That sentence makes absolutely no sense, but I got paid to write it . It's printed right here in a published book! Unless you're a high-ranking federal official, there is no way you can do anything this useless and still have a job. So I have been blessed with many blessings. I should be happy. And I am, sort of. But I can't escape the nagging feeling that I'm not really happy, at least not the way I was when I was young and carefree and basically an idiot. I especially have this feeling when it's my turn to drive the soccer practice car pool for my daughter, Sophie, and some of her teammates. This involves spending up to an hour in a confined space with a group of fourteen- and fifteen-year-old girls, all high school freshmen, listening to them discuss the concerns that girls of that age have, such as racism, bullying and global climate change. I am of course kidding. Here are the top ten concerns of my daughter and her friends, based on their car pool conversations:    * Boys.    * The hideous totally unwarranted cruelty of high school teachers.    * What this one boy did in this one class OMG.    * Some video on some Internet thing that is HILARIOUS.    * Hair. 6-10.  Boys. All of the girls discuss all of these topics simultaneously at high volume while at the same time (they are excellent multi-taskers) thumbing away on their phones and listening to the radio, which is cranked way up so they can hear it over the noise they're making. So they're very loud. They're spooking cattle as far away as Scotland. But here's the thing: It's a happy noise. These girls are the happiest people I know. Everything makes them laugh. They love everything , except the things they hate, and they love hating those things. They literally cannot contain their happiness: It explodes from them constantly in shrieks and shouts, enveloping them in a loud cloud of pure joy. It gets even louder when the radio plays their favorite song--which is basically every song--and they all sing joyfully along at the top of their lungs. For example, recently, as I was driving them to practice, the girls--most of these are good Catholic girls who attend Catholic school, where they receive religious instruction--suddenly, in unison, began belting out these lyrics: My anaconda don't want none unless you GOT BUNS, HON! This is the chorus to a song called "Anaconda," in which a man--Sir Mix-a-Lot--is declaring his fondness for large buttocks on women. The "anaconda" refers to one of his body parts. (Hint: Not his pancreas.) I know what you're thinking: Why did I let the girls listen to such an inappropriate song? Why didn't I change the station? My excuses are:    * It took me a while to figure out that the song was not about an actual anaconda.    * If I changed the station, odds are that the new station would also be playing "Anaconda," or another song that was just as inappropriate. As far as I can tell from driving the car pool, all radio stations play the same two inappropriate songs in heavy rotation.    * Young people have been listening to inappropriate songs on the radio for centuries, dating back to when I was a young person and we listened to "Louie Louie," which everybody knew had dirty words, although nobody knew exactly what they were: Louie Louie [Something unintelligible but supposedly obscene] Yi yi yi yi! But getting back to happiness: I envy my daughter and her friends. I wish I could be as happy as they are, although I wouldn't want to have to go back to high school and deal with acne and the cosine again. I want to be happy AND be a grown-up, if that's possible. But as I say, happiness is elusive. Which brings us to this book. It's a group of essays on a variety of topics. They may seem pretty random, but in fact there's an underlying theme, which is happiness. There's an essay about my parents' generation, which I believe somehow managed to be happier than mine, which was not supposed to happen. There's a letter to my grandson, imparting wisdom that I hope will enable him to have a happy and fulfilling life, or at least keep him from unnecessarily refrigerating his condiments. There's an essay on whether adopting modern technology--specifically Google Glass--can bring happiness (SPOILER ALERT: No). There's an essay on the never-ending funfest that is cable TV news, and one on David Beckham, who makes many people happy, but not me. There are reports on my trips to Brazil, which is basically a happy place, and Russia, which might be, but I had no idea what anybody was saying. There's some advice for my daughter as she reaches the age when she can legally drive in Florida, which makes her happy, although it terrifies me. And there's an essay on home ownership, which is the American dream, and a guaranteed way to not achieve happiness. So that's the book. I hope you like it. I hope it makes you happy. If not, there's always beer. BITE ME, DAVID BECKHAM * * * * * * I hate David Beckham. To understand why, take a moment to examine the picture below. It's my yearbook photo from my senior year at Pleasantville (N.Y.) High School, where I was a member of the class of 1965: This photo has not been retouched. This is what I actually looked like when I was a senior in high school and desperate to be accepted by my peers, or at least not get beaten up by them. Perhaps you are thinking: "Hey, don't be so hard on yourself! Back then everybody looked like a dweeb!" I appreciate your thoughtful effort to console me, but no, not everybody did. Many people back then looked normal; some were actually quite attractive. I was not one of them, as you can clearly see. Remember: This was my high school yearbook photo , which means I was actively trying to look good when it was taken. This was the best I could do . Part of the problem was simple genetics. I was not a naturally good-looking male. Also I was a late developer puberty-wise. In the photo, I'm looking thoughtfully into the distance, as if I'm thinking: "I wonder what the future holds in store as I prepare to depart from high school and enter the next phase of my life." In fact I am thinking: "I wonder if I will ever develop body hair." Speaking of which: Note my haircut. I appear to be wearing a malnourished weasel on my head. How did I achieve that look? I'll tell you how: My dad cut my hair. He was a Presbyterian minister. He had received extensive training in theology, but, incredibly, this training did not include a single course in hair design. Also he was bald. Nevertheless, for years my dad cut my hair, and my brothers' hair, using electric clippers that he bought at a drugstore. In my opinion it is tragic that our elected officials, who are always making such a fuss about assault rifles, make no effort whatsoever to regulate the sale of electric hair clippers to civilians. In a sane world, my dad would never have been allowed to possess those things. He was a thoughtful, wise and kind man, but he had the hairstyling talents of an enraged barn owl. Consider, for example, this sector of my haircut: What are we to make of these two strange, vaguely clawlike hair formations on my forehead? It's not at all clear what their role in the hairstyle is. Are they supposed to belong to the majority of my hair, drifting off to the side? Or are they supposed to be pointing down and forming bangs? Apparently they cannot decide! So they're just going to loiter there in the middle of my forehead, looking weird. In my high school yearbook photo. Which is the PERMANENT RECORD OF WHAT I LOOKED LIKE IN HIGH SCHOOL. Not that I am bitter. Now consider my eyeglasses: I started wearing glasses in third grade. I was the first kid in my class to need them. I was also one of the smaller kids, which made me the Puny Kid With Glasses, often sensitively referred to by the other kids* as "Four-Eyes." My mom took me to get my glasses at the optical department of Macy's in White Plains, N.Y., which offered basically one style of eyeglasses for boys, which should have been called "You Will Die a Virgin." Today, 1960s-style eyeglass frames are considered "retro" and are worn ironically by members of the hipster community. Ha-ha! How clever of you, hipsters! Maybe, to complete the "look," you can also develop a case of retro 1960s-style acne, causing zits the size of hockey pucks to erupt randomly on your face, especially on those rare occasions when you had the opportunity to talk to an actual girl. Wouldn't that be ironic ?! Not that I am bitter about that, either. Anyway, my point is that in high school I was not physically attractive to the opposite sex, namely girls. "But Dave," I hear you remarking, "looks aren't everything! There are plenty of other qualities besides cuteness that girls look for in boys." Good point! And when I say "Good point!" I mean you are a stupid idiot. The girls of Pleasantville High School were not interested in "plenty of other qualities besides cuteness." I know this because I HAD plenty of other qualities besides cuteness. Sarcasm, for example. I had a black belt in sarcasm. I went entire years without ever saying anything that was not basically the opposite of what I actually thought. Also I could make realistic farting sounds with my hands. These are just two of the many qualities other than cuteness I had in high school. None of them impressed girls. You will never hear a high school girl say about a boy, in a dreamy voice, "He's so sarcastic!" Here is an actual thing that happened to me in eleventh grade: Excerpted from Live Right and Find Happiness (Although Beer Is Much Faster): Life Lessons and Other Ravings from Dave Barry by Dave Barry All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.