Word: rooney
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COMPARING MIKE ROYKO and Andy Rooney is like comparing a lime to a pumpkin. A lime is a sophisticated citrus fruit: full of acid, yet capable of sweetness as well as tart; a lime's proper home is in a drink on a bar. Chicago-based journalist Mike Royko's columns are sophisticated, too--well-crafted, balanced deliciously between tart satire and sweet comedy, and discussed, discovered and sittiated often in bars...
...carve a big smile in it, scoop out its brains, stick a candle inside and let it sit on your windowsill. Similarly, Andy Rooney's essays are goofy and brainless, but also warm and pleasant...
UNFORTUNATELY (or fortunately--take your pick). I have left little space to discuss Andy Rooney's book, Pieces of My Mind. The book does contain some good moments, but they're drowned in a flood of simple-minded nostalgia and self-absorption. Too many of the book's pieces are stereotypical Rooney examinations of the little things in life. The chapter "It's Only a Plate" contains essays titled "A New Kitchen," "Old Appliances," "Buying Clothes," "Shoes," "Wastebaskets," and "Underwear," which contains this immortal line: "One of the pleasures of a vacation is being able to wear your old underwear...
...another essay, Rooney remembers that "when I was twelve, my mother bought me a corduroy suit. It must have been the first real suit with matching pants and jacket that I ever had. It even had a vest." To listen to an old senile relative ramble on like this would be considered an act of charity almost above and beyond the call of duty, but to buy a book full of these uninteresting memories from a stranger is sheer lunacy. They are written as simply and as poorly as first-grade primers: Rooney admits. "I dislike retyping a piece...
...trial is set for Dec. 12, according to Rooney, who will prosecute the case...