There is no good place to begin with Harry Shearer, because he doesn't sit still long enough to allow one the chance to focus. He is a blur, forever in motion--on his way to the radio station, on his way from the movie studio, on his way to the publisher's office, on his way from the concert stage. One minute he's Ned Flanders, giving Homer Simpson the okiley-dokiley; the next, he's hair-band bassist Derek Smalls, yanking a foil-covered cucumber out of his pants in order to pass through airport security; the next, he's an anxious Eisenhower lackey, searching for astronauts with the right stuff. Sometimes, behind a computer's keyboard or a microphone or Bill Maher's swollen head, he's even Harry Shearer, expostulating about Bills and Dubyas and Dicks (Nixon or Clark, your choice). He is, in fact, as ubiquitous as... More >>>