Apparently You Can't Judge A Book By It's Title Either

I gotta warn you folks, I'm a little fired up tonight. See, I just finished reading a ridiculously long book (Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell, not bad, but 780 pages was a bit much) and so as the end was nearing, I began to get a little antsy, and I started anticipating my next read. I'd kept my wish list fairly manageable, and went on a little post-birthday spree, picking up a handful of choice titles that should keep me interested for at least the next few weeks.

So yesterday I finish the book, reward myself by reading "Summer Blonde" a graphic novel by Adrian Tomine, which was really good. I liked it more than "Sleepwalk" the previous book of his which I'd read. Still nihilistic, but not quite as much meaningless violence and angst. So after enjoying that so immensely, I looked forward to starting in on a new novel for some pleasure reading.

This morning I took the bus in and started reading my new selection, The Average American Male. So far, it's been an epic letdown. I was hoping for something akin to Love Monkey, a nice kind bildungsroman which examines what it's like to be a single gent in trying times, trying to find some happiness, maybe even figuring out what in the hell it is that women want. You know - the type of stuff that I can relate to. Thus far it has been an incredibly quick read, since I'm more than two thirds of the way through the book in the first day. Still, that may prove to be a good thing: because where I was hoping to find fun or silly self-deprecating writing that I so associate with the contemporary navel-gazing styles of writing, what do I find? This fucking book filled with chauvinistic fratboy drivel. I can get a kick from time to time when I read or hear tidbits of stories like these. However, thus far this book has been about 175 pages of "trying to fuck bitches", playing XBox, talking about "fags" and "retards" and other similarly inane shit. I tell ya, how in the hell this guy became a spokesman-type for my generation. Previous generations had guys like Hemingway, Kerouac, Bukowski, and Raymond Carver. Who do me and my folks have? Tucker Max and this hack. Clearly, I have no issues with hyper-masculine writers, and am generally nonplussed by authors who spout a little sexism or whatnot. But when you try to convince people that "the average American male" does nothing but spank the monkey a dozen times a day when he's not playing video games, that's when I start to get impatient and offended.

I'm not one to attack an author usually, but this is one of those special situations. I can only hope against hope that the book resolves in some great plot twist; maybe the protagonist will catch syphilis and lose his mind. Maybe he'll get brutally stabbed and realize what a shallow waste his life is. But, assuming the last eighty pages go the way of the first hundred and eighty, I will be insanely let down by even choosing this book. So let me just summarize the whole idea of this post: if you want to see how oversexed jocks view the world, read this book. If you want to see how real males view the world, read Love Monkey. You'll have a hell of a lot of fun, and you'll really understand what's going on when women ask men "what are you thinking?" and men reply "nothing." Then again, I tend to be thinking about nothing most of the time.