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- KurzbeschreibungAnais Nin, Anne Frank and Sylvia Plath wrote the world's most famous diaries. And where are they today? Dead. But the world's OTHER great diarist, Joan Rivers, is alive and kicking. And complaining.
In the extraordinary tradition of The Habit of Being: Letters of Flannery O'Connor and George Orwell's Diaries , comes an intimate and enriching glimpse into the mind of the most illuminating woman-of-letters of her generation-the provocative exploration of an age in which she has lived on and on and on and on.
Now in paperback, following up the phenomenal success of her headline-making New York Times bestseller I Hate Everyone...Starting With Me , the unstoppable Joan Rivers is at it again. When her daughter Melissa gives her a diary for Christmas, at first Joan is horrified-who the hell does Melissa think she is? That fat pig, Bridget Jones? But as Joan, being both beautiful and introspective, begins to record her day-to-day musings, she realizes she has a lot to say.
About everything. And everyone, God help them.
The result? A no-holds-barred, delightfully vicious and always hilarious look at the everyday life of the ultimate diva. Follow Joan on a family vacation in Mexico and on trips between New York and Los Angeles where she mingles with the stars, never missing a beat as she delivers blistering critiques on current events, and excoriating insights about life, pop culture, and celebrities (from A to D list), all in her relentlessly funny signature style.
This is the Diary of a Mad Diva . For the first time in a century, a diary by someone that's actually worth reading.
WITH NEW MATERIAL
- AutorJoan Rivers
- VerlagPenguin Putnam Inc
- Seiten320 Seiten
- Gewicht230 g
- LeseprobeThis diary was written to the best of Joan Rivers's memory. As such, some of the events may not be 100 percent . . . or even 5 percent factually correct. Miss Rivers is, after all, 235 years old, and frequently mistakes her daughter, Melissa, for the actor Laurence Fishburne.
Miss Rivers wrote this diary as a comedic tome, not unlike Saving Private Ryan or The Bell Jar . While Miss Rivers doesn't really like skinny models and actresses, she doesn't actually believe that they're all bulimics and they all carry buckets instead of purses. Similarly, she doesn't really think that all Germans are anti-Semitic Nazi sympathizers, that all Mexican Americans tunneled in across the border, that all celebrities are drug addicts, shoplifters or closet cases, or that Noah built his ark with non-union labor.
Miss Rivers does, however, believe that anyone who takes anything in this book seriously is an idiot. And she says if anyone has a problem with that they can feel free to call her lawyer, Clarence Darrow.
Fuck Lamaze. You try downing a bottle of Barbies with a dry throat.
This diary is my Christmas gift from Melissa and Cooper and I'm more disappointed than I was on my wedding night when I found out that Edgar was half Chinese-and not the good half. And this diary's not even from a good store. I was hoping for at least a Car-tier watch. I wouldn't even have minded if it was spelled with a K . I know, it's Christmas season and we're Jewish and we shouldn't care about gifts, but if indeed we did kill Christ-and I'm not saying we did; for all we know he could have slipped and fallen onto that cross (maybe he was clumsy; maybe he drank)-then something's got to ease the guilt. And the more expensive that something is, the less guilty I feel.
Anyhow, this is a new book for a new year and I'm feeling great. To celebrate, I got matching vagina piercings with my two best girlfriends, Margie Stern and Brucey Jenner.
I'm writing this in Mexico. On the spur of the moment, Melissa, Cooper and I decided to fly down here, and we were right: It's a perfect way to ring in the New Year-great resort, private beach and plenty of servants who'll do anything for a thirty-cent tip. This place is kind of like Downton Abbey with sombreros. Last night I got an eight-hour pedicure from Maria while resting my feet on her "brother," Jose, who was crouched over like a footstool. I let him switch positions every two hours so he wouldn't cramp and, more importantly, so Maria wouldn't slip and accidentally paint my ankles dusty coral. Unfortunately I can't take credit for the position-switching thing; I got the idea by watching Amistad on cable last week
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