Scene from the last episode of The Mary Tyler Moore Show
I shouldn’t admit it, but I have very plebian tastes. Back in the day, my favorite TV program was The Mary Tyler Moore Show. I actually cried while watching the finale in 1977. More recently, the tears flowed again when The Big Bang Theory said its farewell. I know I should say my faves are Ken Burns documentaries, the History channel’s offerings, everything on PBS …
Don’t get me wrong, I do enjoy many of those shows (loved Victoria and The Crown), but nothing captures my heart more firmly than endearing but flawed characters with whom I can identify, an improbable but somehow still believable story, and — especially — a clever punch line. A writer who can make me laugh gets my vote every time. And not just on TV. The same holds true for the written word.
Sure, occasionally I enjoy curling up with one of the Bronte sisters, Hemingway, Du Maurier, or Fitzgerald. And sometimes I try to match wits with James Patterson, David Baldacci, or John Grisham — or even allow myself to be terrorized by a Stephen King horror tale. But for the most part, I love a writer who tickles my funny bone. Erma Bombeck could always do that — as could Nora Ephron, David Sedaris, Woody Allen (not crazy about him, but love his off-the-wall zingers), and Judith Viorst.
If you’re not familiar with her dozens of books, please buy, beg, borrow or steal at least her poetry collections written every decade: When Did I Stop Being Twenty, It's Hard to be Hip over Thirty, How Did I Get to be Forty, Forever Fifty, Suddenly Sixty, I’m Too Young to be 70 and Unexpectedly Eighty. Some of her poems rhyme. Some don’t. All are wise, witty and wonderful. I just bought and read her latest collection, Nearing Ninety, which inspired me to write the following:
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