Rating: 
Summary: I laughed a thousand times.
Review: Not at every line-- some of the pieces are a bit arcane. But some are a real scream. Everyone should buy this book for the colophon alone. Bruce McCall is a genius. It's amazing that he can paint too.
Rating: 
Summary: A certain brand of humor
Review: Reading this anthology from cover to cover wouldn't be recommended. Think of this book as a newspaper; pick the headlines and titles that engage you and go from there. You'll be surprised at what you find. Some of the reviewers here are saying the pieces aren't laugh out loud; I think there's just a certain brand of humor the New Yorker tends to eminate. If you're into light or witty pieces, or if you'd just like a different kind of comedy, try this book.
I particularly enjoy Bruce McCall's pieces. "In the New Canada, Living is a Way of Life," he sarcastically marvels at the way Canadians deal with only one living room, one swimming pool, and are somehow able to answer his request for the time in perfect English.
Andy Borowitz's "Emily Dickinson, Jerk of Amherst" is a hilarious insight into a young man's (obviously fictional) relationship with the literary Belle. "Who, then, was the real Emily Dickinson? Daughter of New England in chaste service to her poetry, or back-stabbing gorgon who doctored your bowling score when you went to get more nachos?"
A wonderful collection of great short stories.
Rating:
Summary: Head-Funny, but not Gut-Funny
Review: The prose here sparkles. Purple, in the best sense of the world. Ideas are bandied about left and right like badminton birdies. Themes are covered copiously. Wit and wisdom are abundant, brought out whenever the author needs it, like a samurai does with his sword. The pieces are all triumphs of economy, setting up their propositions and then quickly cutting to the punchline(s) before the reader becomes bored. Writing of this magnitude, especially when collected from such a fine variety of sources in one collection, is to be treasured and preserved. The superlatives for this book are immeasurable... except that it's not funny. Oh, it's funny, alright. Just not the right kind of funny. "That was clever," you might say to yourself, after a romp through one of Garrison Keillor's prose pieces. "I wonder if I should chortle now? I think I shall... Chortle!" Or: "Look, mum: alliteration! How ingenious. I marvel at the textbook examples of Comedy found herein." It's humour of the head, as you can see, but rarely humour from the gut. The kind that causes an unexpected snort, embarrassing you in a room full of stranger. Or, the kind that promises a swift trip up the nasal passages for the mouthful of milk you just gulped. This is the kind of visceral humour that I expected. Alas, I did not get it. Let me show you what I mean, by giving some examples of Head-Funny (not Gut-Funny) pieces: Polly Frost's 'Notes on My Conversations', in which the author imagines herself as a professional conversationalist; Thomas Meehan's 'Yma Dream', in which the author must disastrously introduce a series of guests at a party he is throwing (example: "Ilya, Ira, here's Yma, Ava, Oona. Ilya, Ira -- Ona, Ida, Abba, Ugo, Aga." You get the idea); Roger Angell's 'Ainmosni', in which the author devises a simple plan for curing insomnia: playing with well-known palindromes! ("A woman, a plan, a canal: Panamowa"); Bill Franzen's 'Hearing From Wayne', in which Wayne sends a postcard to Bill... from the afterlife. Don't get me wrong: I enjoyed all these pieces. Immensely. But the promised laughs didn't materialize. Instead, I got pieces that made me think, that made me ponder, that made me contemplate. But laugh? No. Not out loud, anyway (and frankly, an out-loud laugh is the only kind that counts). I will admit, though, that there were isolated moments of gut-busting. Chet Williamson's 'Gandhi at the Bat', in which the The Mahatma pinch-hits for Red Ruffing. "C'mon, Moe!" Babe Ruth pleads. "Show 'em the old pepper!" To which Gandhi replies: "I will try, Mr. Baby!" Jack Handey's 'Stunned' is a surreal account of a man and his telescope, through which he has discovered conclusive evidence of life outside our own solar system (or has he?). Noah Baumbach's 'Keith Richards' Desert-Island Disks' takes said list, published in Pulse magazine, and imagines what would happen if Keef actually ended up on the island with only these disks (hint: he gets sick of "Tutti Frutti" pretty quickly). Anthony Lane's 'Looking Back in Hunger' is a wonderfully vitriolic look at cookbooks, and how they mess with our minds. Martin Amis' 'Tennis Personalities' proves in two scant pages why I think he is the only perfect writer working today (regular readers of this space will already know I think this way). And in the book's final section we get some perfectly precise verse, most notably from E.B. White, Dorothy Parker, and Ogden Nash. In his introduction, David Remnick (or is it Henry Finder?) points out that "you might be ill-advised to read this book straight through" because, and here he quotes Russell Baker, "humour is funny when it sneaks up on you and takes you by surprise." Having come to the end of this anthology, I suspect they're right. Expectations can sometimes sap energy. Calling something "An Anthology of Humour Writing" might just wring the humour out of it. But I hope that the examples I've given above indicate that when the collection isn't funny, and it's rarely gut-bustingly funny, it is still highly worthwhile.
Rating:
Summary: Head-Funny, but not Gut-Funny
Review: The prose here sparkles. Purple, in the best sense of the world. Ideas are bandied about left and right like badminton birdies. Themes are covered copiously. Wit and wisdom are abundant, brought out whenever the author needs it, like a samurai does with his sword. The pieces are all triumphs of economy, setting up their propositions and then quickly cutting to the punchline(s) before the reader becomes bored. Writing of this magnitude, especially when collected from such a fine variety of sources in one collection, is to be treasured and preserved. The superlatives for this book are immeasurable... except that it's not funny. Oh, it's funny, alright. Just not the right kind of funny. "That was clever," you might say to yourself, after a romp through one of Garrison Keillor's prose pieces. "I wonder if I should chortle now? I think I shall... Chortle!" Or: "Look, mum: alliteration! How ingenious. I marvel at the textbook examples of Comedy found herein." It's humour of the head, as you can see, but rarely humour from the gut. The kind that causes an unexpected snort, embarrassing you in a room full of stranger. Or, the kind that promises a swift trip up the nasal passages for the mouthful of milk you just gulped. This is the kind of visceral humour that I expected. Alas, I did not get it. Let me show you what I mean, by giving some examples of Head-Funny (not Gut-Funny) pieces: Polly Frost's 'Notes on My Conversations', in which the author imagines herself as a professional conversationalist; Thomas Meehan's 'Yma Dream', in which the author must disastrously introduce a series of guests at a party he is throwing (example: "Ilya, Ira, here's Yma, Ava, Oona. Ilya, Ira -- Ona, Ida, Abba, Ugo, Aga." You get the idea); Roger Angell's 'Ainmosni', in which the author devises a simple plan for curing insomnia: playing with well-known palindromes! ("A woman, a plan, a canal: Panamowa"); Bill Franzen's 'Hearing From Wayne', in which Wayne sends a postcard to Bill... from the afterlife. Don't get me wrong: I enjoyed all these pieces. Immensely. But the promised laughs didn't materialize. Instead, I got pieces that made me think, that made me ponder, that made me contemplate. But laugh? No. Not out loud, anyway (and frankly, an out-loud laugh is the only kind that counts). I will admit, though, that there were isolated moments of gut-busting. Chet Williamson's 'Gandhi at the Bat', in which the The Mahatma pinch-hits for Red Ruffing. "C'mon, Moe!" Babe Ruth pleads. "Show 'em the old pepper!" To which Gandhi replies: "I will try, Mr. Baby!" Jack Handey's 'Stunned' is a surreal account of a man and his telescope, through which he has discovered conclusive evidence of life outside our own solar system (or has he?). Noah Baumbach's 'Keith Richards' Desert-Island Disks' takes said list, published in Pulse magazine, and imagines what would happen if Keef actually ended up on the island with only these disks (hint: he gets sick of "Tutti Frutti" pretty quickly). Anthony Lane's 'Looking Back in Hunger' is a wonderfully vitriolic look at cookbooks, and how they mess with our minds. Martin Amis' 'Tennis Personalities' proves in two scant pages why I think he is the only perfect writer working today (regular readers of this space will already know I think this way). And in the book's final section we get some perfectly precise verse, most notably from E.B. White, Dorothy Parker, and Ogden Nash. In his introduction, David Remnick (or is it Henry Finder?) points out that "you might be ill-advised to read this book straight through" because, and here he quotes Russell Baker, "humour is funny when it sneaks up on you and takes you by surprise." Having come to the end of this anthology, I suspect they're right. Expectations can sometimes sap energy. Calling something "An Anthology of Humour Writing" might just wring the humour out of it. But I hope that the examples I've given above indicate that when the collection isn't funny, and it's rarely gut-bustingly funny, it is still highly worthwhile.
Rating:
Summary: Rich Source of Literary and Political Drollery for All Moods
Review: This book is a perfect gift for all fans of The New Yorker! If you are like me, The New Yorker's cartoons draw your attention first. Then, you'll look for quips in verse. You'll scan your favorite features. Next, you'll scan the table of contents for your favorite writers. Finally, you will read articles on subjects of interest. In all cases, you can expect to be surprised with wit . . . even in the midst of "serious" articles on "serious" subjects. Unless you have read every issue of The New Yorker over the past 75 plus years, undoubtedly you've missed some wonderful humor in the form of prose and poetry. This anthology lets you quickly access the works that have "stood the test of time" to still produce a laugh now for both editor, David Remnick, and editorial director, Henry Finder. Over 70 contributors are represented, many by more than one piece. You are cautioned that "humor is often diluted by concentration" so that you should sample this collection over time in small doses, like medicine. The works are loosely organized into Spoofs, the Frenzy of Renown, the War between Men and Women, the Writing Life, a Funny Thing Happened, Words of Advice, Recollections and Reflections, and Verse. The works vary a lot in how quickly they will reach your funny bone. Some will release many laughs, while others are basically one joke that will raise not too much more than a smile. After you have finished all of the offerings to the altar of humor, you may wish to create your own index of which works match best with which moods and times when you read. I usually prefer compact works suffused with quick humor. Here are my favorites in the collection: E.B. White, "Duck in Fierce Pajamas" which begins with "Ravaged by pink eye, I lay for a week scarce caring whether I lived or died." and "Critic" Marshall Brickman, "The Analytic Napkin" Ian Frazier, "LGA - ORD" which begins with "Grey bleak final afternoon ladies and gentlemen . . . ." Groucho Marx, "Press Agents I Have Known" Chet Williamson, "Gandhi at the Bat" F. Scott Fitzgerald, "A Short Autobiography" Frank Sullivan, "The Cliché Expert Takes the Stand" and "The Cliché Expert Tells All" Ruth Suckow, "How to Achieve Success as a Writer" Michael J. Arlen, "Are We Losing the Novel Race?" Woody Allen, "Selections from the Allen Notebooks" Peter De Vries, "The High Ground, or Look, Ma, I'm Explicating" Robert Benchley, "Why We Laugh -- Or Do We?" Steve Martin, "Changes in the Memory after Fifty" Clarence Day, "Father Isn't Much Help" S.J. Perelman, "Cloudland Revisited" Martin Amis, "Tennis Personalities" John Updike, "Car Talk" Dorothy Parker, "Rhyme of an Involuntary Violet" Ogden Nash, "Procrastination Is All the Time" Robert Graves, "The Naked and the Nude" Communing with these wonderful writers will also encourage you to read more of their work, and the works of those they spoof. What could be finer? I hope that the editors consider producing a second volume that includes serious works which contain humorous asides and interludes. Look on the bright side of every "overly serious" subject. In that way, you can avoid the "deadly dullness" stall!
Rating: 
Summary: The New Yorker isn't what it used to be
Review: When Pandora opened the forbidden box, all the evils of the world emerged. Only Hope remained to support people. Humour is Hope's offsider, without which Hope is only grim determination. There's nothing grim in this collection, granting the sole exception that so many of the "dated" pieces display a disturbing timelessness. Thurber's 1933 article on Mr. Preble and Frank Sullivan's articles from the same era are examples. No matter, this collection from The New Yorker spans time, topic and technique with enough variety for any reader. Broadly divided into such subject areas as "Spoof," "Words of Advice" and, my favourite, "The Writing Life" the assembly of wit can be approached from almost any direction. The editors caution you not to read it cover to cover, - "put yourself on a diet" - but such advice is unwarranted. The variety of the chosen selections passes you from one piece to the next without choking. Within the topic areas the essays are chronologically arranged. Knowing that, you may chose an area and read at random.
A collection as large and varied as this necessarily lacks universal appeal. Tastes in humour vary as widely as in religion or politics. Groucho Marx is mostly unknown in this generation, but on stage, TV and here in print, displays why he was revered as a comic for many years. On the other hand, Remnick and Finder let Steve Martin convince them he's funny. Others remain to be convinced, but his inclusion in this collection still is justified. There is more than just the issue of generations involved. "Classical" humourists abound here, James Thurber, E. B. White and Robert Benchley. From the same era, however, Upton Sinclair would seem an intrusion - until you read "How to be Obscene." As the chronology of each section progresses, it's clear that much of today's humour varies from early styles. Garrison Keillor is not really funny, but offers light-hearted philosophy in his submissions. Veronica Glen's "My Mao" can only be described as feeble, but is characteristic of the sort of humour the Cold War often evoked. Woody Allen's "Kugelmass Episode" lifts the tone with a whimsical fantasy published in the same year. Selections such as these point up that the collection is of "humour" and not "comedy." The distinction may be thin, but the editors have shown how deftly they have chosen when reviewers here assert the humour is "head" humour and not "gut" humour. Comedy is "gut" humour. "Head" humour suggests reflection and offers an alternative, and often plausible, version of real life. Many of the pieces here provide just that inspiration. Allen's fantasy of Kugelmass presents an update of Thurber's "Walter Mitty," showing how ageless this type of humour can be. It's impossible to review this collection without commenting on the final piece. Notes on the typefaces are normally of interest only to printers and other publications specialists. Bruce McCall's "A Note on the Type" will almost certainly be overlooked by the inattentive. His satire is the chief reason to read the collection randomly, but it would be rewarding to learn how many readers had to be directed to it.
Rating:
Summary: Pandora's Happiness Box
Review: When Pandora opened the forbidden box, all the evils of the world emerged. Only Hope remained to support people. Humour is Hope's offsider, without which Hope is only grim determination. There's nothing grim in this collection, granting the sole exception that so many of the "dated" pieces display a disturbing timelessness. Thurber's 1933 article on Mr. Preble and Frank Sullivan's articles from the same era are examples. No matter, this collection from The New Yorker spans time, topic and technique with enough variety for any reader. Broadly divided into such subject areas as "Spoof," "Words of Advice" and, my favourite, "The Writing Life" the assembly of wit can be approached from almost any direction. The editors caution you not to read it cover to cover, - "put yourself on a diet" - but such advice is unwarranted. The variety of the chosen selections passes you from one piece to the next without choking. Within the topic areas the essays are chronologically arranged. Knowing that, you may chose an area and read at random. A collection as large and varied as this necessarily lacks universal appeal. Tastes in humour vary as widely as in religion or politics. Groucho Marx is mostly unknown in this generation, but on stage, TV and here in print, displays why he was revered as a comic for many years. On the other hand, Remnick and Finder let Steve Martin convince them he's funny. Others remain to be convinced, but his inclusion in this collection still is justified. There is more than just the issue of generations involved. "Classical" humourists abound here, James Thurber, E. B. White and Robert Benchley. From the same era, however, Upton Sinclair would seem an intrusion - until you read "How to be Obscene." As the chronology of each section progresses, it's clear that much of today's humour varies from early styles. Garrison Keillor is not really funny, but offers light-hearted philosophy in his submissions. Veronica Glen's "My Mao" can only be described as feeble, but is characteristic of the sort of humour the Cold War often evoked. Woody Allen's "Kugelmass Episode" lifts the tone with a whimsical fantasy published in the same year. Selections such as these point up that the collection is of "humour" and not "comedy." The distinction may be thin, but the editors have shown how deftly they have chosen when reviewers here assert the humour is "head" humour and not "gut" humour. Comedy is "gut" humour. "Head" humour suggests reflection and offers an alternative, and often plausible, version of real life. Many of the pieces here provide just that inspiration. Allen's fantasy of Kugelmass presents an update of Thurber's "Walter Mitty," showing how ageless this type of humour can be. It's impossible to review this collection without commenting on the final piece. Notes on the typefaces are normally of interest only to printers and other publications specialists. Bruce McCall's "A Note on the Type" will almost certainly be overlooked by the inattentive. His satire is the chief reason to read the collection randomly, but it would be rewarding to learn how many readers had to be directed to it.
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