Mar 05, 12
Read in March, 2012
I have always thought Michael Ian Black was very funny, but I had no idea what a good writer he is. This memoir is one of the funniest things I've read in years--I'd compare it to David Sedaris-level funny--but it's also incredibly sad and honest in a way that few memoirs that I've read tend to be. And when I say "honest," I don't mean salacious or scandalous, or full of gory details; I mean that Black is willing to talk about things few people are willing to confess. He talks about loathing a Christmas gift his mother foisted on him in hopes of turning him into an Alan Alda-style New 70s Man, and resenting the gift but not wanting to hurt her.
He talks about his children, and how caring for them--especially as babies--was more like punishment than anything else. He even mentions that playing with little kids is boring, which is something I've often said to people who are thinking of having kids. He talks about how marriage sucks sometimes, and how hypocrisy is FINE as long as HE'S the one being the hypocrite.
Black spends the book trying to work out who he is, and WHY he is that person, and even though he's careful and thoughtful with his memories and feelings, he is damn funny, too.