The Fuck-Up

published	1999 by MTV
binding	Paperback
isbn	0671027638 (isbn13: 9780671027636)
pages	304
description	Arthur Nersesian's underground literary treasure is an unforgettable slice of gritty New York City life...and the darkly hilarious odyssey of an anony...more [close] Arthur Nersesian's underground literary treasure is an unforgettable slice of gritty New York City life...and the darkly hilarious odyssey of an anonymous slacker. He's a perennial couch-surfer, an aspiring writer searching for himself in spite of himself, and he's just trying to survive. But life has other things in store for the fuck-up. From being dumped by his girlfriend to getting fired for asking for a raise, from falling into a robbery to posing as a gay man to keep his job at a porno theater, the fuck-up's tragi-comedy is perfectly realized by Arthur Nersesian, who manages to create humor and suspense out of urban desperation. "Read it and howl," says Bruce Benderson (author of User), "and be glad it didn't happen to you." [close]
date added	12-31-06 edit book

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Chris rated it:

03/24/08

Read in March, 2008

recommended to Chris by: a leg-humping dog
recommends it for: nincompoops of the basest degree

Having read “Story of the Eye”, “A History of Orgies”, and “Crash” within the last month, I was determined to give up reading and write a story of my own, inspired by the filthy aforementioned tales, which I tentatively titled “Whores On All Fours”. The idea was to chronicle my own licentious tales of bizarre and incredible sexual triumphs, but when discovering I only had two pages worth of material (with one encounter being recollected thrice within) I quickly abandoned this do...more Having read “Story of the Eye”, “A History of Orgies”, and “Crash” within the last month, I was determined to give up reading and write a story of my own, inspired by the filthy aforementioned tales, which I tentatively titled “Whores On All Fours”. The idea was to chronicle my own licentious tales of bizarre and incredible sexual triumphs, but when discovering I only had two pages worth of material (with one encounter being recollected thrice within) I quickly abandoned this doomed attempt. I got back to my roots, searching for a staggering juggernaut of literary greatness which speaks volumes of the human conditions and righteously encompasses the moral and social struggles of man in these declining modern days: in a perverse and illogical act of flagellation to this burgeoning quest for something of substance, I choose something called “The Fuck-Up” as my representative for the enlightening products of our culture. Folly.

I believe that “The Fuck-Up” was meant to be funny, in that ‘this is so absurdly banal and ridiculous’ kind of way, something which I don’t find funny (I think I giggled twice, but while hungover). I’d probably even say that when I do write something it comes across in the same wimpering vein, without the subtle graces of professionalism and talent. This doesn’t bother me so much, having accepted my lot as a simple beast. My own regrettable shortcomings aside, everything down to the alluringly minimalistic cover, the MTV stamp on the spine and the mere title of “The Fuck-Up” screams ‘I need to be held and admired for my quirky traits, yet shunned and reprimanded for my wanton display of individualistic integrity’; surely, the engrossing comedy of our clever times. I’d like to make it clear I’m also not reading this book solely for the moronic glee garnered from typing “The Fuck-Up” repeatedly, as a matter of fact I try to make sure that I spell fuck as ‘f*ck’ when writing reviews for some inexplicable reason, if only to show my desire to conform to some social standards which may or may not be part of the GoodReads Terms Of Service which I never read, so I guess I can at least try to meet them halfway should this confrontational word butt heads with their whims.

Well, let me deliver some good news; should you be a fan of Auggie Burroughs, David “Chopped Liver” Sedaris, or Chucky P, this uninspired drivel is right up your alley. You can safely discard your previously-relevant bible in the nearest fire, as a true messiah has risen from the hard streets of New Yawk to impart a tangible, sensible, and vastly-improved set of laws for living (or at least grudgingly eking out a shamelessly solipsistic and revolting fraud posing as a redeeming existence).

The rest of us wonder what the point is. It’s convenient for author Arthur Nersesian that in these troubled times, you don’t need a point to get your gibberish to the masses; the concept of having a solid plot or even a good idea is almost unfathomable, it takes too much time to drum that sh!t up, and actually committing it to paper nigh impossible. Well, let it be known that the author’s name is actually now a dis and distraction that I drop on people (talk about being a f*cking geek), but it truly is fun, Ner-ses-ian, Ner-ses-ian (just as they are aiming for that last bullseye in a heated darts game). Especially if you kind of hiss that second ‘s’, which comes naturally to you lispers out there, nobody is hitting sh!t with you mad-dogging them with that malarkey. Should anyone question what the hell a Nersesian is, bullsh!t them, tell them that the Nersesians perished pitifully begging for clemency and weeping like b!tches to a Macedonian onslaught in the days when men were merciless and the weak were punished. While they consider the probable fate of the women and sheep of the recently conquered, finish your game up in the stunned silence.

That crap above is basically as significant as any event within “The Fuck-Up”; disheartening indeed.

Our disaffected and undisciplined narrator of the book stumbles along meekly, blindly navigating the modern-day meat-grinder; his dismal and meaningless life is thrown for a loop when both his girlfriend and pseudo-mistress (he never lays the wood to her) ditch him just as he loses his embarrassing post at a second-run Theater. Unfettered, he ends up sleeping on the couch of an elder, wizened philosopher-poet/friend who affords our hero a glimpse of a life sold-short, a man who has cashed in on his dreams and been pulverized by constant rejection of his offerings to assert his statement, while seeking employment and a chance to allow his own talents to garner their due recognition. Through his craftiness and intrepid skills of double-talking-jive and persuasion he rectifies his unemployment, homelessness, and lack of female companionship while posing as a homosexual to continue working as a night manager of a gay movie theater. The proclivity for homosexuality in this piddling genre is almost disquieting; who the hell cares, not shocking, congratulations on f*cking dudes! However, our narrator is “The Fuck-Up”, and since he’s a decent but luckless fellow, each of these corrective events slowly landslides into an abysmal quagmire of sh!t. Great, just what we need, more obstacles in the insurmountable path of life for this p*ssy to cry about.

There is one scene within, however, that does ring true, but for all the wrong reasons for the author. While shacking up with a well-to-do older woman, she offers our troubled friend her Mercedes in exchange to communicate a little rough-love to her son, who is almost his own age. Frustrated by the thick-headed stupidity and flagrantly punk-ass attitude of the kid, the narrator sinks to the barbaric level of kicking the kid’s ass to emphasize the importance that the miscreant conform to his humiliating requirements. If this type of reasonable punishment was still tolerated in the rearing of our young and keeping people in line on the streets, I guarantee not only would a bright new day be around the corner, but we wouldn’t have people publishing this half-assed and weak cheetah-sh!t.
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