The Manhattan Theatre Club on West 55th Street does it again!

I went to a Sunday matinee - which looked like a gathering place for the walking dead and at which, unfortunately, I did not stand out – and saw an extraordinary new play called The Receptionist by Adam Bock.

It is beautifully written, beautifully cast, beautifully directed, beautifully performed and is a stunning 90 minutes of serious theatre. It opened last night and if the critics are not as blown away by it as I was, I will be very surprised.

I am sitting in what they laughingly refer to as First Class on Amtrak’s Acela train to Boston, shoved in to a four top table with two strangers who have not stopped staring and snickering the entire ride. One is obviously drunk (by 11:00am) and the other has made the table his desk. He has put out a blotter, a pen set, a picture of a very ugly wife with three equally ugly children and a sign that says, “The Buck Stops Here.” This seat is costing me more than a ticket to a Broadway show and, so far, I am under whelmed. Right in front of us is a woman with a child who should be poster kid for retro birth control.

To my left is a daughter of Sappho who you know is carrying a picture of Rosie in her wallet. I like her because she has brought her own lunch which consists of a side of beef tacos and for dessert, a piece of pink carpet.

They’ve just made an announcement that they think they have a case of the Super Bug aboard, but, unfortunately, the child still looks fine and her lungs are in good working order.

The conductor just sullenly told us that, as the train is overbooked, they need more seats and they are going to take the “Lifeboat” approach which is to throw the oldest people out first. Two people have already walked by saying, “You’ve lived your life, old woman. And besides, who needs you? We have Kathy Griffin.”

They are NOT getting me onto an ice flow without a fight.

Strictly for fun and camp and laughs go see Charles Busch who, in the tradition of Dame Edna and Charles Ludlam, is one of the great female impersonators to grace the stage.

I went to the opening night of "Die Mommie Die!"  (which Charles wrote and stars in) and loved every minute of it. Charles and the play got a great review in The New York Times.

It was lovely to see the amazing turn out of Broadway stars at the opening. They all have so much respect for Charles and his wonderful work.

Among them were Michele Lee, Anna Deavere Smith (who must be VERY glad that Anna Nicole Smith is dead and that she is no longer being double billed for silicone injections), Marian Seldes, Kate Mulgrew, Edward Hibbert, etc, etc, etc.

It was an audience who wanted to laugh and got what they wanted.

Flying to Cincinnati, where I am doing a series of lectures, I picked up the Sky Mall Catalogue and saw many useless objects that could help to fill the many worthless voids in my life, such as fake rocks you can hide keys under, blackhead removers, wine racks that look like Maurice Chevalier and doggie stairs for beds and sofas (and other places doggies probably shouldn’t go). This set my mind to thinking about some of the great inventions that are TRULY useful and which I know that I could not live without, such as:

1. The Dimmer Switch. PLAUDITS FOR THE INVENTOR OF THE DIMMER SWITCH! Any woman over 35 understands how vital this is (any ugly, young person should also hop on this magical invention’s bandwagon). Show me an ug, show a dimmer switch and I see a possible proposal of marriage. One of my favorite sayings is, “For every five years older, ten watts down.” And, truly, the three sexiest words in the English language are, “Where are you?”

2. The Elevator Heel. For men this is an all out winner. Sonny Bono would still be alive (and probably with Cher), Napoleon would have died in his bed and the munchkin scene in the Wizard of Oz could have never been cast if these men had known about the elevator lift insole. I just can’t picture three six-footers singing, “We represent the Lollipop Guild.”

3. Thinning Mirrors. Do I have to say more? These are becoming harder and harder to find as they were pretty much all bought up by Kirstie Alley, Kathy Bates and Shamu (who has always been VERY sensitive about his weight).

4. The Tape Gun. What kidnapper or long suffering daughter in law has not sung the praises of the man who invented this little gem? It also serves a wonderful duel purpose that only the greatest of inventions do, it keeps ‘em quiet while it’s on and hurts like hell when you rip it off.

5. The Yellow Traffic Light. This fabulous color light comes between green and red serves a great purpose; it lets you know when to speed up. If, while driving, your eyes have been on your G.P.S., you’ve been e-mailing on your Blackberry or you’ve been turning around to the back seat to smack the sass out of some little snot-nosed kid, the yellow light is your best friend.

My makeup artist, Adele, shared this with me and I thought it was hilarious, so I want to share it with you.

A man was sitting on the edge of the bed observing his wife turning back in forth, looking at herself in the mirror. Since her birthday was not far off, he asked her what she would like to have as a gift. “I’d like to be six again,” she replied, still looking in the mirror.

On the morning of her birthday, he arose early, fixed her a nice, big bowl of Lucky Charms and then took her to Six Flags theme park. What a day! He put her on every ride in the park; the Death Slide, the Wall of Fear, the Screaming Monster Roller Coaster, everything there was. Six hours later they staggered out of the park. Her head was reeling and her stomach was upset.

He then took her to McDonald’s where he ordered her a Happy Meal with extra fries and a chocolate shake.

Then it was off to a movie with popcorn, a soda and her favorite candy,
M & M’s. What a fabulous adventure!

Finally, she wobbled home and collapsed into bed, exhausted. He leaned over his wife with a big smile and lovingly asked, “Well dear, what was it like being six again?” Her eyes slowly opened and her expression suddenly changed and she said, “I meant my dress size, you moron!”

Moral of the story: Even when a man is listening, he is going to get it wrong.

Want to know why Starbucks is so successful? I’ll tell you… I was flying – yet again – from LaGuardia to Greensboro, NC on one of those little puddle jumpers where I knew there would be no First Class, no food and no clean bathrooms, so my assistant, Matt, and I decided to chow down before we went up.

I was shocked to find that there were no Starbuck’s in the US Air terminal at LaGuardia, so we stopped at a cutsie place called Cibo Market. I always feel that anything with the name Market has to be fresh, kind of organic and of a higher quality. WRONG! For me, a woman who eats dog poo and says, “Delicious, got any more Terrier?” not to finish what we bought is amazing, especially as the prices were extraordinarily high. $7.95 for a pre-packaged sandwich that maybe a turkey had once walked near and $8.95 for a tuna sandwich that should have been thrown back.

What was really horrible was the coffee. How do I describe it? Shut your eyes and think of a dirty Korean nail salon. Got it? Now, think of the pedicure water after a whole group of Cuban boat people have just gotten their toes done. In the interest of a greener America, the water is now recycled into Cibo Market’s urns where Juan Valdez and his donkey walk past and spit. Sound good? Well, I’m not through, we haven’t discussed the cream. I don’t know what kind of a cow it came out of, but I bet it had a penis. Even seven Splendas couldn’t fix it. The poor stewardess had never before been asked to throw away food and coffee that required wearing a hazmat suit.

So I went and investigated why Starbuck’s is so good. Did you know that they wash their pots with special brushes and soaps? They make fresh coffee every 20 minutes. Their roasters go to school to learn how to roast the perfect Starbuck’s blends and their then Baristas learn how to brew it properly. Starbuck’s has inspectors who travel the world incognito to maintain their high level of quality and customer service. A note to Cibo Market, never mind your cutsie cups and never mind your cutsie non-biodegradable plastic bags and never mind your cutsie name, get your product right or get out of your locations and let a Starbucks come in.

On the way back through this morning we passed Cibo Market again to see a young woman working on a display and all I could think was, “Enough with that. Work on learning how to make a descent cup of coffee.” 

Two books that have consumed my life in the last few days are Celebrity Detox by Rosie O’Donnell (published by Grand Central Publishing) and Starring Brian Linehan by George Anthony (published by McClelland & Stewart).

I picked up Rosie’s book at the opening of her art exhibition at the Gallery at New World Stages in New York and was amazed at how honest and candid she is.

Rosie goes through her Barbara Walters/Donald Trump/The View year controversies with candor and very clear hindsight. Like her or don’t like her (And I LIKE her), Rosie certainly tells you exactly what she thinks. Her basic philosophy for life – and television – is Tell The Truth and her shock and disappointment when ABC and the powers that be tried to muzzle her (after hiring her for just that reason) really hit home (think I see a parallel here with someone whose initials are JR?).

I especially loved her take on money and how rich people deal with it. Anyhow, it’s a good, fast read and it wet my appetite as now I’d love to see a well written biography on Rosie’s early life, her struggles to get into show business, how she self-produced Taboo, her realization that she was a lesbian, her obvious joys of parenthood, etc, etc, etc. She’s a fascinating character – and a very strong, vibrant artist.

Now, to the other book.

ATTENTION CANADIANS!!! ATTENTION CANADIANS!!! Starring Brian Linehan is a full-blown, deeply researched, breezily written, page turner on the life of Brian Linehan who was, in his time, the Barbara Walters of Canada. Besides containing lots and lots of star dish (Shirley MacLaine, Warren Beatty, Bea Arthur, Steven Spielberg, etc, etc, etc), George Anthony, the author who was a great friend of Linehan’s, discovered – and reveals– many secrets about Linehan that even his closest friends were never privy to (starting with his thirty-one year relationship with Dr. Zane Wagman).

The book goes through Linehan’s insanely poor childhood in a Canadian steel town, his escape to Toronto, his almost instant success, his friendships with the great, the rich and the famous and his sudden obsolescence when the long-form celebrity interview was made passé by such shows as Entertainment Tonight, Extra and Access Hollywood. It deals with the horrors of the entertainment business when Linehan found himself “over” and continues through his bouts with cancer and Wagman’s suicide. The portrait that Anthony gives us of Linehan is of a very complicated, public persona who dug deep into celebrities lives, but never let anybody into his. I read it in one long and fascinating plane ride to London.

It makes me very sad to admit it, but I can’t sing. Once, many years ago, I was singing and something awful happened which has scarred me for life; I heard myself.

I have the vocal ability to take “Happy Birthday” and turn it into a funeral dirge, in fact, I once sang “Happy Birthday” to Barbra Streisand and her eyes crossed in the opposite direction. And one other time I was serenading Sammy Davis, Jr. and his glass eye shattered.

Speaking of eyes, many years ago I sang a solo for a group of deaf people and they covered theirs. And on another occasion I sang in front of Marlee Matlin and she took the batteries out of her hearing aid.                                   

Several karaoke bars in New York have restraining orders against me.

Stevie Wonder once heard me singing karaoke and said, “I wish I was deaf too.”

Melissa tells me that my singing is deadly and I think that she might be right because Dr. Kevorkian recently invited me to sing at assisted suicides. He feels that I will make his patients even more willing to die.

Comments and responses excerpted from my Emmy blog.

Cat Lady wrote: LOVE YOU and cannot wait to read what you write!...Your opinion is what counts my dear.  You are in touch with reality...not those who live in Hollyweird.

Dear Cat Lady - If you think that I'm in touch with reality then you had better lay off the catnip. --xxx Joan

Mary wrote: How boring was this show!!!

Dear Mary - It wavered between boring and insane.  I like the Jersey Boys singing "You're just too good to be true"...while Adriana from "The Sopranos" is getting shot. --xxx Joan

Organ Grinder wrote: You make me laugh so hard.  I worry I'm going to injure an internal organ.

Dear OG - If you do, I know a guy in India who can get you a replacement organ cheap.  How old a kid do you want it from? --xxx Joan

Mr. Blackwell wrote: Why are the gays always hosting the Emmy's?  Ellen Degeneres, now Ryan Seacrest? Come on don't tell me he wasn't dying to try on some of those gowns.

Dear Mr. B  - At one point during the show he came out of the closet, but I believe it was Henry VIII's closet. --xxx Joan

Right this moment I am flying to Los Angeles to film a commercial for Geico. I am so excited about this because I’ve always wanted to meet that little, cockney lizard, not to mention those cavemen. It’s not often that one is in the presence of such major talent as these commercial logos, though I have worked with two others over the course of my career.

The first was Speedy, that cutsie, little Alka-Seltzer elf and all I can say is, “What an asshole”. I mean, I have seen some star trips in my life, but Speedy took it to a whole new level. Our director was getting so frustrated with him that at one point he threatened Speedy with the old “Margaret Hamilton” (which involves throwing a bucket of water on him and watching him dissolve). That shut Speedy up pretty damned fast.

And the second was the time that I worked with the Hamburgler. This idiot was someone who took his role a little too seriously. At one point I went back to my trailer during a break in filming and found my wallet missing and hamburger grease all over my purse. I immediately called Mayor McCheese and Sheriff Big Mac and had him arrested.

It is Columbus Day I am so happy! Why? Not because of Christopher Columbus-fuck him.  If the stupid bastard didn’t know enough to name the country Columbus and claim it for himself....well…..FUCK HIM. I am happy because Columbus Day signifies that we are finally getting to the end of parade season in New York.

I live on 5th Avenue which is a nightmare because every parade goes right under my windows. Starting with the St. Patrick’s Day Parade in March till the Columbus Day Parade in October, each week I am swimming in a sea of ethnic pride. Not that I don’t respect the marchers, but I have a hard time understanding why everyone wants to march around in hideous native costumes. I thought one of the reasons that they left the old country in the first place is so that they wouldn’t have to wear them.

There is nothing more annoying than going away for a weekend and returning home to find out that I can’t pull up in front of my house to let my dogs out and unload my luggage because there are people in dirndls and wooden shoes running around waving garish flags of countries that owe us a bundle.

This past Sunday’s Polish Parade is the only one that I never mind. God bless this group because they never disrupt the city and that is mainly because they can never remember that the parade route is up 5th Avenue. They’re on 34th Street, you find them on 10th Avenue, they are wandering around Jersey City and always waving around pierogies and mentioning Chopin for the four millionth time (they sure milk that one!)

My suggestion is that the ethnic groups should march where people are happy to have them. The Polish should march on the Pulaski Skyway, the Irish should march around any fern bar in Midtown, the Puerto Ricans should march back to Puerto Rico where there is plenty of room because they are all here and the Germans should march around any bakery or crematorium or any place with a large oven. As for the Jews, we don’t march (except to an All-You-Can-Eat Buffet).

Thank you for all your comments about my products over the course of my whilrwind anniversary at QVC last weekend. 

In order to answer all of your questions about my jewelry or my beauty products, please email me at customerservice@joanrivers.com so that I can make sure that you're answered directly. 

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Last Sunday night I went to a very fancy, schmancy screening of the new George Clooney movie Michael Clayton and I must say that I had forgotten that when a movie studio wants to spend money on a picture, how great it is! They screened the movie at the Time Warner Center which is very, very, very modern, showbiz and gorgeous. Just going up in the elevator was so glamorous.

I was not invited to this snappy event; I went as the “date” of Cindy Adams  (who is the number one columnist in the United States today) so you can imagine the great treatment we got.

It was a star-studded screening. Besides George Clooney, Tom Wilkinson and the cast of the picture, a lot of New York actors and writers were there, such as Bob Balaban (who has just written and directed a new movie for HBO), Joan Collins and her husband, Percy Gibson, Regis & Joy Philbin, Nicolas Pileggi and his wife, Nora Ephron. Plus socialites galore from Palm Beach and New York.

The lead character in the movie is played by George Clooney who looked terrific and is such an excellent actor. The story is very involved with flashes forward and backward, but it all comes together at the end. Some people in the audience thought it was too complicated and too long, but I enjoyed it thoroughly.

Afterward, the group was escorted to a chic restaurant in the Time Warner Center and we were seated right near Georgie boy himself. The woman to my right was a gorgeous Italian actress, but smiled at me and said, “No speaka English.” And my Italian stops at, “Gucci.”

The best part of the evening was watching George Clooney’s body language with his new girlfriend. Even when he was leaning over to talk to Walter Cronkite (who was at his left) his hand was under the table holding onto her hand! It was really, really, really sweet. The girlfriend is pretty like a real woman (not PRETTY) and very nice and they looked like two happy teenagers. There was no smooching or making out and she wasn’t wearing a dress cut down to her navel. It was all very nice. George Clooney is a class act.

The best part about the evening, you ask? As I said above, I wasn’t invited, so I was Cindy’s guest, so when all of the people with the lists on clipboards would ask, “Who are you?” I’d reply, “and guest.” It’s wonderful because you don’t have to say “hello” to people you hate as you are a non-person.