I rarely read fiction by living authors so I have no idea why I bought this OH that's right, one night when I was drunk I stumbled upon it because it takes place in my old Brooklyn neighborhood.
I hate-read this book. The protagonist starts out as a nebbishly sort-of loser outsider so you think okay, I can root for this guy. But quickly you see he's another young self-absorbed Brooklynite who spends a lot of time worrying that he's simply too smart for women. He has the luxury of having his book published, he's snobbishly against the gentrification he's steadfastedly a part of, spends time at faux-dive bars and Williamsburg brunches and OH GEE he gets laid ALL THE FUCKING TIME. He's an intellectual who hangs out with "friends" whose main jobs seem to be undermining each other and being dicks. At first you think he's a sensitive artist sort but he's always bitching about women wanting to "talk", always annoyed they're about to cry when he's breaking their hearts and on and on and on.
A thoroughly unlikable book that also takes pages and pages to spell everything out, explanation after explanation. You're in the main character's head and don't like it, and not in an entertaining or thoughtful or fulfilling way.
Blech.
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