ew Yorker wit and wisdom “Everybody talks of The New Yorker‘s art, that is its illustrations, and it has just been described as the best magazine in the world for a person who can not read,” Harold Ross, the magazine’s founder and editor, wrote in a 1925 letter. Oh, how times have changed. Although it’s now a cultural institution, the magazine made a somewhat lackluster debut in February of 1925 and would have folded a few months later had it not been for Ross. A bluff, determined Westerner sometimes at odds with the Eastern elite, the editor fought hard to find a focus for his weekly. Rallying writers in the ’20s and ’30s many of them from the renowned Algonquin Round Table he created a forum that would publish some of the most memorable journalism of the 20th century. The magazine may be named for New York, but its span exceeds the city’s limits. Its list of contributors is long and illustrious John Cheever, Eudora Welty, James Baldwin and William Trevor, to name a few and the number of books written about it or featuring the work of its writers and artists gets bigger every season. Worthy titles crop up regularly we counted eight in the past six months alone and a few of the most recent releases are highlighted here.

One of America’s greatest humorists, New Yorker cartoonist James Thurber was an artist who could, with a few shapely, articulate lines, produce quibbling siblings, bickering spouses and, of course, canines dogs of all shapes and sizes, dispositions and breeds. His big, bumbling mutts were creatures that didn’t know the difference between man and beast, that dragged their owners whither they would and did things only humans could went snow-skiing, say, or got psychoanalyzed. These and other Thurberesque absurdities are collected in The Dog Department: James Thurber on Hounds, Scotties, and Talking Poodles, an endearing anthology, edited by author Michael Rosen, of the artist’s dog-centered writings and drawings. Comprised of New Yorker shorts and unpublished archival material, along with selections from the book Thurber’s Dogs, this delightful, amply illustrated volume is filled with humor, advice and reflection Thurber-style on man’s best friend.

In the 1930s, as a reporter for The New Yorker, John McNulty frequented Costello’s Irish saloon on Third Avenue, a boisterous gin mill filled with cabbies, horseplayers and bums on the make that he immortalized in the pages of the magazine. The results are collected in This Place on Third Avenue, a group of slice-of-life stories brimming with humor and drama that feature the saloon, its habituŽs and their pungent, city-steeped dialect. This is the low life writ large, no fringe, no frills. McNulty calls ’em as he sees ’em, and the titles tell all: “Atheist hit by truck.” “Man here keeps getting arrested all the time.” Though a skyscraper now stands at the site of Costello’s, thanks to McNulty, the spirit of the place and the era lives on.

The Fun of It: Stories from The Talk of the Town brings together the best of the magazine’s trademark “Talk” essays, those succinct journalistic gems, full of crystalline reportage and plainspoken prose, about the everyday and the remarkable, the little man and the big. Spanning nine decades, The Fun of It opens with selections from the 1920s and features contributions by some of the magazine’s best writers, from E. B. White to Jamaica Kincaid to John McPhee. Edited by long-time staff member Lillian Ross, who chose from thousands of pieces, the volume is studded with standouts. Especially memorable are antic essays on the city from a young John Updike, and Jane Kramer’s visit with Samuel Beckett and Buster Keaton.

Another collection of classic profiles by Joseph Mitchell, McSorley’s Wonderful Saloon was included in his anthology Up In the Old Hotel but has not existed as a separate volume since it was first published in 1943, when it became a bestseller. Offering a gallery of unforgettable characters oystermen, barkeeps and street-walking eccentrics, a gypsy king and a true-blue bearded lady McSorley’s is vintage reporting from the man The New York Times once called “a listener of genius.”

ew Yorker wit and wisdom “Everybody talks of The New Yorker‘s art, that is its illustrations, and it has just been described as the best magazine in the world for a person who can not read,” Harold Ross, the magazine’s founder and editor, wrote in a 1925 letter. Oh, how times have changed. Although it’s now a cultural institution, the magazine made a somewhat lackluster debut in February of 1925 and would have folded a few months later had it not been for Ross. A bluff, determined Westerner sometimes at odds with the Eastern elite, the editor fought hard to find a focus for his weekly. Rallying writers in the ’20s and ’30s many of them from the renowned Algonquin Round Table he created a forum that would publish some of the most memorable journalism of the 20th century. The magazine may be named for New York, but its span exceeds the city’s limits. Its list of contributors is long and illustrious John Cheever, Eudora Welty, James Baldwin and William Trevor, to name a few and the number of books written about it or featuring the work of its writers and artists gets bigger every season. Worthy titles crop up regularly we counted eight in the past six months alone and a few of the most recent releases are highlighted here.

One of America’s greatest humorists, New Yorker cartoonist James Thurber was an artist who could, with a few shapely, articulate lines, produce quibbling siblings, bickering spouses and, of course, canines dogs of all shapes and sizes, dispositions and breeds. His big, bumbling mutts were creatures that didn’t know the difference between man and beast, that dragged their owners whither they would and did things only humans could went snow-skiing, say, or got psychoanalyzed. These and other Thurberesque absurdities are collected in The Dog Department: James Thurber on Hounds, Scotties, and Talking Poodles, an endearing anthology, edited by author Michael Rosen, of the artist’s dog-centered writings and drawings. Comprised of New Yorker shorts and unpublished archival material, along with selections from the book Thurber’s Dogs, this delightful, amply illustrated volume is filled with humor, advice and reflection Thurber-style on man’s best friend.

In the 1930s, as a reporter for The New Yorker, John McNulty frequented Costello’s Irish saloon on Third Avenue, a boisterous gin mill filled with cabbies, horseplayers and bums on the make that he immortalized in the pages of the magazine. The results are collected in This Place on Third Avenue, a group of slice-of-life stories brimming with humor and drama that feature the saloon, its habituŽs and their pungent, city-steeped dialect. This is the low life writ large, no fringe, no frills. McNulty calls ’em as he sees ’em, and the titles tell all: “Atheist hit by truck.” “Man here keeps getting arrested all the time.” Though a skyscraper now stands at the site of Costello’s, thanks to McNulty, the spirit of the place and the era lives on.

The Fun of It: Stories from The Talk of the Town brings together the best of the magazine’s trademark “Talk” essays, those succinct journalistic gems, full of crystalline reportage and plainspoken prose, about the everyday and the remarkable, the little man and the big. Spanning nine decades, The Fun of It opens with selections from the 1920s and features contributions by some of the magazine’s best writers, from E. B. White to Jamaica Kincaid to John McPhee. Edited by long-time staff member Lillian Ross, who chose from thousands of pieces, the volume is studded with standouts. Especially memorable are antic essays on the city from a young John Updike, and Jane Kramer’s visit with Samuel Beckett and Buster Keaton.

Another collection of classic profiles by Joseph Mitchell, McSorley’s Wonderful Saloon was included in his anthology Up In the Old Hotel but has not existed as a separate volume since it was first published in 1943, when it became a bestseller. Offering a gallery of unforgettable characters oystermen, barkeeps and street-walking eccentrics, a gypsy king and a true-blue bearded lady McSorley’s is vintage reporting from the man The New York Times once called “a listener of genius.”

Glassware, silverware, chi-na! Dirty dishes and kitch-en utensils! This was the mantra of our seventh-grade home economics teacher. Mrs. Douglas chirped the words as we sat scowling by our assigned “kitchenettes.” It was our rally call signaling us to assume positions at the sink and start cleaning. There were some of us, however, who secretly liked home ec some of us who still do. Here’s a fabulous book for those who have gotten in touch with their inner housecleaner.

Appealing to the voyeur in all of us, Louise Rafkin escorts us into strangers often strange homes in Other People’s Dirt: A Housecleaner’s Adventures from Cape Cod to Kyoto. It is hilarious reading. Think David Sedaris as a maid.

It would behoover you to read it.

Reviewed by Katherine H. Wyrick.

Over the past several years, journalist/essayist/satirist P.

J. O’Rourke has tickled our collective funny bone with his views on liberals, Republicans, war, politics (and politicians), automobiles, government, and manners. He has written for a wide array of magazines, ranging from Rolling Stone to the New Republic, from Car and Driver to Vanity Fair. In his latest work, Eat the Rich, O’Rourke takes on the subject of economics, I wanted to know why some parts of the earth prosper and others suck, he says. So, armed with nothing but wads of cash and the goodwill of his publishers, O’Rourke spent a couple of years investigating the vagaries of economies around the world. From Sweden to Albania, Cuba to Tanzania, he crisscrossed the globe, finding fact and humor in more or less equal measure.

For O’Rourke, as with many of his generation, the topic of economics was first raised by his parents, who had grown up during the depression: . . . Booms and busts can have larger consequences, such as in 1929 when stocks were crashing, banks were collapsing, and President Hoover was hoovering around. Pretty soon you could buy the New York Central Railroad for a wooden nickel, except nobody could afford wood. People had to make their own nickels at home out of old socks which had also been boiled, along with the one remaining family shoe, to make last night’s dinner. So the kids had to walk to school with pots and pans on their feet through miles of deep snow because no one had the money for good weather. My generation has heard about this in great detail from our parents, which is why we put them in nursing homes. On his visit to Cuba, O’Rourke writes, Figuring out what the Cuban peso is worth is a complex economic calculation. To put it in layman’s terms, a pretty close approximation is nothing. In Moscow, O’Rourke was able to find free-range chicken and Italian food authentic enough to satisfy the Corleone family, but there were virtually no Russian products in sight. For, as the Russians have discovered a free-market economy (mas o menos), they have also discovered brand names. Easy to sneer at this, opines O’Rourke, But there’s a reason why, when we go to Florida, we don’t drink Ocala Cola. It is perhaps difficult for Americans to grasp, but Russia never had a Renaissance, never had a Reformation . . . Russia never had a Roaring ’20’s, a Booming ’50’s, a Swinging ’60’s, or a Me Generation. There was just one Them Generation after another. In Albania, O’Rourke explores how the entire (meager) holdings of a small country were gambled away in a sophisticated pyramid scheme. In Hong Kong, he wonders at the short-sightedness that would allow the British to give up one of the wealthiest colonies on the planet, Why didn’t the British give some other islands to China? Britain, for instance. This would get the UK back on a capitalist course Beijing being more interested in money-making than Tony Blair. Anyone familiar with O’Rourke’s recent books will be able to make a pretty accurate guess at his views, but he makes a good case for his conclusions, drawing from both his own experiences and the writings of the world’s premier economists. And, as usual, he takes a dry topic and moistens it with a liberal (oops, conservative) dollop of humor.

There must be some psychological term for it, the feeling that as you hit a certain age you and your circle of friends cease to age (at least you do). And if you’re a fan of this Pulitzer Prize-winning humorist, when you see the title Dave Barry Turns Fifty, your immediate reaction is: when did he get so old? Come, fellow boomer, coos Barry. Take my hand and let us travel together on a voyage of exploration into our very favorite topic, which is us. He strolls down memory lane as best he can but, hey, memory is one of the first things to go, you know? Or is it hearing? Or eyesight? I forget.

Speaking of bifocals, Barry suggests that diminishing eyesight can actually be a good thing. [W]ithout my reading glasses, the only part of the newspaper I can read is the headlines. After glancing at such horrible displays he realizes: I don’t want to read those stories, and is relieved that they are written in letters the height of bacteria. Barry reminisces about many of the watershed events, fads, characters, and technologies, actual and sometimes absurd, in the years since his birth. Remember Ozzie and Harriet? Rotary phones that only came in black? Air raid drills at school? I know diving under desks ( which were apparently made out of some atomic-bomb-proof wood ) certainly made me feel safe. Following each of these chapters is a series of thinking points/ discussion questions such as Boy, postal service sure has improved since we got the ZIP code, huh? There are plenty of other observations Barry has to make, based on his half-century (which sounds much more impressive than 50 years) of accumulated knowledge: People who want to share their religious views with you almost never want you to share yours with them. Aside from his historical perspectives, Barry offers sage advice on such topics as putting the kids through school: Without a college education, your child will enter the job market with no useful skills; whereas with a college education, your child will enter the job market with no useful skills and parents who are hundreds of thousands of dollars in debt. Barry has tackled themes before: Dave Barry’s Book of Bad Songs, Stay Fit and Healthy Until You’re Dead, and Dave Barry Turns Forty, to name a few. But with age comes wisdom, among other ailments. Over the years he has morphed from a young whippersnapper to an old curmudgeon. He’s no longer the happy-go-lucky long-haired weirdo of his youth. Now the long hair sprouts from his ears. Getting older may be inevitable, but as Barry shows, there’s no reason to take it with a straight face.