Cover image for Ron Jeremy : the hardest (working) man in showbiz / Ron Jeremy with Eric Spitznagel.
Title:
Ron Jeremy : the hardest (working) man in showbiz / Ron Jeremy with Eric Spitznagel.
ISBN:
9780060840839
Edition:
1st ed.
Publication Information:
New York : HarperEntertainment, c2007.
Physical Description:
343 p., [32] p. of plates : ill. ; 9 3/4 in.
Personal Subject:
Added Author:
Holds:
Copies:

Available:*

Copy
Library
Call Number
Material Type
Home Location
Status
1
Searching...
791.43028092 JER Book Adult Biography
Searching...

On Order

Summary

Summary

He's the porn world's Everyman. Blessed with an enormous "talent" yet average looks, he's starred in more than 1,700 adult films, directed 250 of them, and over the last twenty years has become porn's biggest ambassador to the mainstream. He's appeared in 60 regular films, 14 music videos, and VH1's Surreal Life, starred in the critically acclaimed Porn star (a movie about his life), and in Being Ron Jeremy (a take off on Being John Malkovich), co-starring Andy Dick. And that's just the tip of the iceberg. . . .

Ron Jeremy is a born storyteller (funny, considering he doesn't do a lot of talking in his films). He knows where all the bodies are buried, and in this outrageous autobiography he not only shows you the grave but also gives you the back story on the tombstone. Get ready for Ron Jeremy--a scandalously entertaining deep insider's view of the porn industry and its emergence into popular culture, and a delectable self-portrait of the amazingly endowed Everyman every man wanted to be.


Reviews 2

Publisher's Weekly Review

With more than 1,750 porn films under his belt (and director of more than 135), Jeremy is still cranking them out two decades after most adult film performers have retired. His memoir (co-written by humorist Spitznagel, author of Fast Forward: Confessions of a Porn Screenwriter) details a life of relentless self-promotion that often borders on the excessive (who else would call himself "the biggest porn star on the planet" and attach an appendix of the mainstream projects he was almost cast in or was cut out of the final product?). Fans won't find much introspection, and the incessant celebrity name-dropping is daunting, but the book is like Jeremy: self-effacing, affably vulgar, eager-to-please and constantly on the run. The anecdotes fly by: trying to direct a performance out of John Wayne Bobbitt's reattached organ in Uncut; having sex with an 87-year-old co-star; battling the LAPD on pandering charges; offering instructions on autofellatio; and hanging with Sam Kinison and Rodney Dangerfield. "I've given confidence to millions of men across the world," Jeremy boasts. "They look at themselves in the mirror and think, Y'know, compared to Ron Jeremy, I'm not that bad looking at all. At least that's what I tell myself whenever I go back to the buffet for seconds." Photos not seen by PW. (Feb.) (c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved


New York Review of Books Review

RON JEREMY has a big penis. "How big?" you ask. The answer he likes to give is "Two inches ... from the floor!" (He credits this line to Milton Berle, who was also known for his generous endowment.) In fact, Jeremy measures the length of his penis at nine and three-quarter inches, significantly smaller than that of the porn star John Holmes, but nevertheless his greatest asset. For its size and his endurance and control of it, Ron Jeremy's phallus has made him what one trade magazine called the "top porn star of all time"; he has performed in more than 1,700 porn films with over 4,000 partners. "Ron Jeremy: The Hardest (Working) Man in Showbiz," written with Eric Spitznagel, is an X-rated "Candide" that recounts the journey of a lad with ambitions as large as his genitals from a childhood in Queens to bawdy adventures in the sex industry to a rather melancholy epilogue in which the woman he loves breaks up with him because he won't forsake his swinging life for monogamy. The book makes the case that its author is more than a mere sex machine. Educated at Queens College, he studied Stanislavsky and Brecht. He describes himself as a nice Jewish boy who never smoked, hardly drinks and loves his parents. "My youth was almost unreasonably happy," he writes, "like something out of a Norman Rockwell painting." He was the class clown and a beloved hotel waiter during summers at a Catskills resort; he was kind to his dying mother and is a "big softy" when it comes to stray animals in need. One of his most endearing qualities is that he knows he is not a handsome demigod. "I got older and fatter and my already hirsute body sprouted hair like a Chia Pet. ... I was short and chunky and undeniably furry" - all of which earned him an industry nickname, the Hedgehog. Except for his member, he has the looks of Joe Average, which perhaps helps male viewers of his movies better identify with his on-screen exploits. Like the films of the directors Ed Wood and Russ Meyer, much of Ron Jeremy's work has an in-your-face amateurishness and is energized by fanatical enthusiasm reminiscent of Art Brut. In one day before noon, he shoots a picture called "Put It in Reverse, Part 3," where his job is to have sex with 14 different women in a row. "Am I a lucky bastard or what?" he asks the reader. He directs one called "Space Vixens," in which astronauts land on what they think is another planet. But when they stumble across a group of cave women, they realize they have gone back in time on Earth. "It was exactly as hilarious and corny as it sounds," he writes. "There were some truly spectacular astronaut/cave-woman sex scenes. Really, what more could you ask for?" Interspersed with tableaus from Jeremy's picaresque life are such self-help sidebars as "Sexual Hygiene" (avoiding S.T.D.'s), "The Grip" (erection advice) and "Self-Fellatio 101." He lists his favorite movie titles, including "Innocent Bi-Standers," "Oral Majority" and "For Your Thighs Only." Like memos stuck all over a refrigerator, his memoir is scattered and colorful and, all told, a revealing collage. Even if you start reading with a sneer on your face, you may conclude that Ron Jeremy is a likable guy. It's disarming to meet a porn star whose great joy in life is spooning on the couch with Fetus, the partly blind, hairless pet rat he adores. Like most one-shot autobiographers, Jeremy is a name-dropper, even if most of the names don't belong to A-list notables. Tammy Faye Messner (the former Tammy Faye Bakker) ran away from his naked pool party, but subsequently became a good friend. He has palled around with Joey Buttafuoco and directed John Wayne Bobbitt in his porn-film debut. He almost persuaded the Hollywood Madam, Heidi Fleiss, to appear in a porn film, but it didn't happen because Fleiss decided the movie would not help her image in her court case. Jeremy's story made us think of another man with an illustrious penis. In the mid-20th century, the playboy Porfirio Rubirosa married the Dominican dictator Rafael Trujillo's daughter, the French actresses Danielle Darrieux and Odile Rodin, and Doris Duke and Barbara Hutton (two of the world's richest women). His oversize member inspired Parisian waiters to name gigantic pepper mills "Rubirosas," and he is said to have bedded hundreds of famous actresses and socialites. Rubi played polo, competed in Formula One races, and clubbed with the likes of Frank Sinatra, Aly Khan and King Farouk. Ron Jeremy's anatomy led him on an entirely different path, to a world where it was a great social coup to sneak into the radio studio of the old "Howard Stern Show" to make a porn movie with Crazy Cabbie, one of the show's regular miscreants. The contrast between Rubi and the Hedgehog tells us that even if size does matter, how you use what you've got matters more. Jane and Michael Stern's most recent book is a memoir, "Two for the Road: Our Love Affair With American Food."


Excerpts

Excerpts

Ron Jeremy The Hardest (Working) Man in Showbiz Chapter One Portrait of a Hedgehog as a Young Man There are two stories involving my birth that may very well tell you everything you need to know about me. I was born on March 12, 1953, in Bayside, Queens. As my father remembers it, my mother didn't experience much in the way of contraction pains. She just woke him up in the middle of the night, calmly announced that it was time, and had him drive her to the hospital. After the doctors wheeled her into the delivery room, I plopped out less than a half hour later. It was as simple as that. No epidural was necessary. My mother didn't even need to push. I did most of the work. I knew that it was time, and I just . . . came out. "Oh," she apparently said. "That was it?" I like to think that I just wanted to cause my mom as little physical discomfort as possible, but my dad has a different theory. "You were in a hurry to get out," he's told me. "You knew you had things to do, and you didn't want to stick around in the womb any longer than was necessary." The other story took place later that morning, just a few hours after my shotgun delivery. My mother was taken to a private room to rest and recover. Though it was an altogether effortless birth, she was still feeling a little groggy; the doctors had injected her with too much anesthesia, having anticipated a birth at least slightly longer than a sneeze. But she was conscious enough to overhear a pair of nurses talking in the next room, where they were bathing me and getting a first glance at my unusual physical gifts. "Good Lord," one of them muttered. "Would you look at that kid's penis?" "It's pretty big," the other said. "And on a baby, no less." The nurses giggled nervously. If they had any idea that my mother was listening, they certainly didn't let on. "Well, he's a very lucky boy," one of them concluded. And that, as the dramatists like to say, is what you call foreshadowing. Even as an infant, I was an impatient little fucker. And I had a bigger schmeckel than most guys my age and older. If there's a better indication of the man I was to become, I don't know what it is. Doing a cartwheel out of my mom's womb was just the beginning. Most of my infancy was spent trying to escape the boring inactivity of babyhood. I just couldn't sit still for it. During the first few months of my life, my parents would put me in a crib and quietly leave the room after I'd fallen asleep. But within a matter of minutes, they'd hear loud thumping sounds, and they'd come in to find me banging my head against the crib, like an irate prison inmate desperate for freedom. On some nights, they'd catch me crawling the crib's walls, literally balancing on the edges, teetering dangerously close to falling off. At one month, I was already crawling. From what I understand, that's not just unusual, it's a little bit freaky. Most children don't start crawling until between seven and ten months. Me, I couldn't wait that long. My parents were obviously thrilled that I was such a quick learner, but they also couldn't help but wonder, Just where the hell does he think he's going, anyway? No sooner did they place me on the floor than I started scampering toward the door, as if I thought I was already late for some long overdue appointment. My youth was almost unreasonably happy. I had parents who loved and supported me, siblings whom I adored and who never failed to be my closest allies, and a neighborhood that was like something out of a Norman Rockwell painting. In Bayside, most of us lived in semidetached, private homes no more than a few feet apart. You could look out of your living room window to see the family next door having dinner. It was like the entire neighborhood lived in the same apartment complex. It may sound like hell if you have a thing for privacy, but for me, it was pure bliss. My memories of growing up often involve lazy afternoons at the Alley Pond Park, playing stickball and basketball in the street; family trips to Manhattan to visit the museums and zoos; and bike trips over to Springfield Boulevard to have a slice and a Coke for 25 cents at Joe's Pizza. I could roam free without my parents worrying, and enjoy the kind of freedom that most kids today can scarcely imagine. I still look back on it as some of the best days of my life. But despite my idyllic upbringing, I didn't exactly take life at a leisurely pace. If anything, I was a lightning bolt of energy. I was constantly telling jokes or putting on impromptu shows for the neighbors. I'd dress up in my father's clothing and parade in front of anyone who so much as set foot in our house. I needed to be the center of attention at all times, and I'd do just about anything to ensure that it'd happen. By the time I started attending Nathaniel Hawthorne Junior High, I was already pegged as the class clown. This delighted my schoolmates, but for the poor saps who were unfortunate enough to be my teachers, it proved endlessly frustrating. It was bad enough that I had the attention span of a gnat, but given my determination to be the most entertaining person in the room, I was the living incarnation of every teacher's worst nightmare. It should come as no surprise that I was sent to the principal's office on an almost weekly basis. I was there so often that I was soon on a first-name basis with the school secretaries. I was scolded, threatened with detentions, and told that I was putting my scholastic future in jeopardy. But this only added fuel to the fire, and my class disruptions continued. Ron Jeremy The Hardest (Working) Man in Showbiz . Copyright © by Ron Jeremy. Reprinted by permission of HarperCollins Publishers, Inc. All rights reserved. Available now wherever books are sold. Excerpted from Ron Jeremy: The Hardest (Working) Man in Showbiz by Ron Jeremy, Eric Spitznagel All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.