Steve Martin: The myth, the man, the bizarrely talented banjo player.

Steve Martin is one of those people whom I hate for their boundless energy and broad talents. He coud have stopped when he won an Emmy for his work writing for the Smothers Brothers Comedy Hour -- at age 23. Or perhaps when he won back to back Grammys for Best Comedy Album in '78 and '79. He could have stopped after his fifth time hosting Saturday Night Live. Or his tenth. He's on fifteen now, and I can't imagine it'll be his last. But no, he keeps going.

Stevie, as I like to call him, has always been a writer. After the Smothers Brothers and his own stand-up comedy, he wrote the screenplays for the oh-so-hilarious movies The Jerk, Dead Men Don't Where Plaid, Three Amigos, Roxanne, and more. As if this were not enough, the 21st century saw Stevie writing novels. Shopgirl, which was made into that really awesome movie with Claire Danes and Jason Schwartzman and that other guy, Steve Martin; The Pleasure of My Company, which was called "a feel good, warm-your-heart story, but not a little unsettling;" and most recently An Object of Beauty, the story of a New York fine art dealer, a novel full of "cool, caustic insights and fearless willingness to puncture vanity." So I'm a little jealous, sure, but it's hard to be too upset when you're laughing this hard.

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So, what do you think?