Matt’s Comments (group member since Mar 06, 2009)

Matt’s comments from the fiction files redux group.

I mean let's unbundle this:

The first and most important thing you need to know about Jonathan Evison's heartbreaking, maddening novel The Revised Fundamentals of Caregiving is that one of its two main characters is a paralyzed teenage boy, named Trevor. The other is a grown man, Ben, who frequently acts like a teenage boy. Your enjoyment of the book — the follow-up to Evison's well-regarded West of Here — !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!will be largely predicated on how much you like listening in on can-you-top-this, gross-out sex talk, and ruefully self-demeaning descriptions of the female of the species.!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

"From our preferred vantage opposite Cinnabon, we objectify, demystify, belittle, and generally marginalize the fair sex, as though we weren't both completely terrified of them," says Ben, the book's sad-sack narrator.

"Look at the turd-cutter on her," Trevor says, of a poodle-haired blonde in tight jeans. 'Would you tap that?'

"In a heartbeat," Ben says.

Lolling his head to the side, he looks me in the eye. "I'd give her a Gorilla Mask."

"I'd give her a Bulgarian Gas Mask," I counter.

"I'd give her a German Knuckle Cake."


A little of this goes a long, long way. Evison can be a skillful, compassionate writer who effortlessly evokes a range of characters, from Trevor's no-nonsense mother to Ben's terminally furious ex.

But his compulsive return to Trevor's fascination with women and what he'd like to do to them — or on them — suggests a kind of authorial paralysis that makes this book less Portnoy's Complaint, more American Pie. !!!!!(compulsive? he's a teen age boy!!! and despite this her contention of the ubiquity of this kind of exchange is vastly overblown and hyperbolized here and later in the review)


It's a work that fits neatly into the category Washington Post critic Ron Charles recently identified as !!!!!!! "whiny man" books — "stories about white guys who just can't seem to figure out why their lives aren't going better."!!!!!!!!!!!

When we meet Ben, he's a former aspiring poet and stay-at-home dad, laid low by an unimaginable tragedy, desperate to get a $9-an-hour job as a caregiver. !!!!!!!!!!!!Poor Ben Benjamin — yes, he's such a loser he's been saddled with the same name twice!!!!!!!!!! — lives in a soulless shoebox of an apartment, where he spends his time Facebook-stalking his ex-wife's new beau. ("He looks like an NPR listener," Ben snarks. Ouch.)

For the first hundred pages, not much happens. Trevor's long-gone biological father reappears, bearing fast-food chicken and belated apologies. Ben has a one-night stand with a trapeze artist from a local Indian casino (it ends badly). Finally, Trevor and Ben load up a specially equipped minivan with "flares, cook stove, cooler, flashlights, baby wipes, straws, moisturizers, Enalapril, Digitek, Protandim, respirator, memory foam, deodorant, Advil, jock-itch cream, Q-tips, acne pads, electric razors, wool socks, aqua socks ... insurance cards [and] medical files," and go on the inevitable Male Bonding Road Trip. Secrets are revealed. Junk food is consumed. ("Blue tacos? Uh, how did that happen?") Closure occurs.

The trip, by far, is the strongest section of the book, as the relationship between Trevor and Ben blossoms into a thing of strange beauty — and when Evison's not trotting out his Urban Dictionary-level expertise about increasingly absurd sex acts, the writing can be lovely. Here's Ben, recalling his daughter: "I can see Piper, as though in a photograph, on the south rim of the Grand Canyon, the bright red halo of a cherry Slushy ringing her mouth."

But too often, these passages are like smooth-edged bits of sea glass in a nasty morass of deliberately puerile potty-talk. When you have the misfortune of encountering a pack of teenage boys, online or IRL, you can block them, or leave. Fundamentals offers no such respite. There's nowhere to run, nowhere to hide!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

she definitely had her sensibility bent out of joint (pun intended) but the emphasis is all hers

Robert wrote: "Sorry, have to disagree. She is unloading about critical preferences for masculine narrative. You are reducing her argument to one about penises. Cute but sexist. And while she invites comparisons ..."

nothing to apologize for but she's the one fixating on gender not me

and there's a difference between defending a position that's being attacked and forwarding an agenda - she's the one with the agenda and in fact if you've read her original comments re Franzen she spends a lot of time talking about her own work and how it is recieved out in the world and almost none at all on the merits of his work

and again in the matter of 'critical preferences', Egan and Donoghue were the big winners that year but more to the point let's get down to particulars, who was overlooked and by whom?

the makeup of the nation's readership skews female, the major reviewers are increasingling female (the NYT boasts not only Maslen but also Michiko Kakutani as their primary reviewers), and anecdotally the publishing industry at the editorial and executive levels (people who I work with every day) is one in which power is pretty equitably distributed (It may even skew female)

so who is being given short shrift? and by whom?

Regan wrote: "Even if her own work is absolute shite, I don't think that makes a difference to the actual review she wrote about Revised Fundamentals. The question was whether the criticisms she had were valid. ..."

there's a little ribald interplay early when the two protagonists are on their own but it's a distant memory for about two thirds of the book as the major female characters take stage

in fact if you want to get critical the female characters to a woman are all depicted in a positive light and most of the male characters are depicted as varying shades of flawed and bumbling

also telling is that the interplay in question is between ben and trev (a teen) but not present in the exchanges between Ben and his buddy (who is a more mature family guy)

I think penises is the point - as it's what she's fixating on as well so... shrug?

and I wouldnt defend either Wolfe or Franzen on any points but there's more than a slight flaw in your logic if you're argument is 'well, they do it too'

and simply put Weiner's work wouldnt stand up to this kind of scrutiny - anyone want to review the depth of characterization she affords her male characters? any bets on whether they're simplified caricatures and cardboard thin placeholders? anyone? anyone?

is it chauvanistic to characterize her complaint as whinging? I ask because I felt her comments at the time were largely self serving in as much as they had to do with the way the industry perceived her own work (as Chick-lit which Im sorry but it is)

not that there's not truth to what she says in general about industry attitudes vis gender but it does bear noting that it was Jennifer Egan not Jonathan Franzen who was the most decorated author that year - which is a little inconvenient for her argument

and the ultimate villain in her scenario is not as she intimates the critical community but rather her own publisher who is responsible for casting her work as chick-lit (which btw again a)do we really want to look at the quality of her prose and 'treatment' of her subject matter? (because its not just the subject matter but how she approaches it) & b) she's done pretty ok by that marketing approach)

Weiner was also one of the leading voices in last year's whinge-fest regarding all the attention that Jonathan Franzen was getting (because of his penis or something, I forget now) - maybe she just doesnt like people named Jonathan who have penises?

come on Dude, whip out your inner Nicholas Sparks and make some damn money

I love that scene in the 40 Year Old Virgin

maybe this sheds light on our perpetual discussion regarding male v female writers and whether we can tell the difference and whether they can write opposite genders - I'm going to go out on a limb and suggest that Weiner may be hampered in her attempts

Jennifer Weiner clearly has no experience of teen age boys or immature males of any stripe

a full page in PW for Johnny

I remember a jacket shot of Anne Beattie that I used to linger over when I was a bookseller shelving fiction back in the 80s

Ernest Hemingway or Larry David?

on this evening i was sitting at a table outside of the lilas watching the light changeon the trees and the buildings and the passage of the great slow horses of the outer boulevards. the door of the cafe opened behind me and to my right, and a man cameout and walked to my table.

'oh here you are,' he said. it was ford madox ford, as he called himself then, and he was breathing heavily through a heavy, stained moustache and holding himself as upright as an ambulatory,well-clothed, up-ended hogshead.

'may i sit with you?' he asked, sitting down, and his eyes which were a washed-out blue under colourless lids and eyebrows looked out at the boulevard.

'i spent good years of my life that those beasts should be slaughtered humanely,'he said.

'you told me,' i said.
'i don't think so.'
'i'm quite sure.'
'very odd. i've never told anyone in my life.'
'will you have a drink?' the waiter stood there and ford told him he would have a chambery cassis. the waiter, who was tall and thin and bald on the top of his head with hair slicked over and who wore a heavy old-style dragoon moustache, repeated the order.

'no. make it afine a l'eau,' ford said.
'a. fine a l'eau for monsieur,' the waiter confirmed the order.

i had always avoided looking at ford when i could and i always held my breath when i was near him in a closed room, but this was the open air and the fallen leaves blew along the sidewalks from my side of the table past his, so i took a good look at him, repented, and looked across the boulevard. the light was changed again and i had missed the change. i took a drink to see if his coming had fouled it, but it stilltasted good.

'you're very glum,' he said.
'no.'
'yes you are. you need to get out more. i stopped by to ask you to the little evenings we're giving in that amusing bal musette near the place contrescarpe on therue cardinal lemoine.'
'i lived above it for two years before you came to paris this last time.'
'how odd. are you sure?'
'yes,' i said. 'i'm sure. the man who owned it had a taxi and when i had to get a plane he'd take me out to the field, and we'd stop at the zinc bar of the bal and drink aglass of white wine in the dark before we'd start for the airfield.'

'i've never cared for flying,' ford said. 'you and your wife plan to come to the balmusette saturday night. it's quite gay. i'll draw you a map so you can find it. i stumbled on it quite by chance.'
'it's under 74 rue cardinal lemoine,' i said. 'i lived on the third floor.'
'there's no number,' ford said. 'but you'll be able to find it if you can find the placecontrescarpe.'

i took another long drink. the waiter had brought ford's drink and ford was correcting him. 'it wasn't a brandy and soda,' he said helpfully but severely. 'i ordered a chambery vermouth and cassis.'

'it's all right, jean,' i said. 'i'll take the/w. bring monsieur what he orders now.'

'what i ordered,' corrected ford. at that moment a rather gaunt man wearing a cape passed on the sidewalk. he was with a tall woman and he glanced at our table and then away and went on his way down the boulevard.

'did you see me cut him?' ford said.'did you see me cut him?'

'no. who did you cut?'

'belloc,' ford said.'did i cut him!'

'i didn't see it,' i said. 'why did you cut him?'

'for every good reason in the world,' ford said.'did i cut him though!' he was thoroughly and completely happy. i had never seen belloc and i did not believe he had seen us. he looked like a man who had been thinking of something and had glanced at the table almost automatically. i felt badly that ford had been rude to him, as, being a young man who was commencing his education, i had a high regard for him as an older writer. this is not understandable now but in those days it was a common occurrence.

i thought it would have been pleasant if belloc had stopped at the table and i might have met him. the afternoon had been spoiled by seeing ford but i thought bello cmight have made it better.

'what are you drinking brandy for?' ford asked me. 'don't you know it's fatal for a young writer to start drinking brandy?'

'i don't drink it very often,' i said. i was trying to remember what ezra pound had told me about ford, that i must never be rude to him, that i must remember that he only lied when he was very tired, that he was really a good writer and that he had been through very bad domestic troubles. i tried hard to think of these things but the heavy, wheezing, ignoble presence of ford himself, only touching-distance away, made it difficult.

but i tried.'tell me why one cuts people,' i asked. until then i had thought it was something only done in novels by ouida. i had never been able to read a novel by ouida, not even at some skiing place in switzerland where reading matter had run out when the wet south wind had come and there were only the left-behind tauchnitz editions of before the war. but i was sure, by some sixth sense, that people cut one another in her novels.

'a gentleman,' ford explained, 'will always cut a cad.' i took a quick drink of brandy.

'would he cut a bounder?' i asked.

'it would be impossible for a gentleman to know a bounder.'

'then you can only cut someone you have known on terms of equality?' i pursued.

'naturally.'

'how would one ever meet a cad?'

'you might not know it, or the fellow could have become a cad.'

'what is a cad?' i asked. 'isn't he someone that one has to thrash within an inch of his life?'

'not necessarily,' ford said.

'is ezra a gentleman?' i asked.

'of course not,' ford said. 'he's an american.'

'can't an american be a gentleman?'

'Perhaps john quinn,' ford explained. 'certain of your ambassadors.'

'myron t. herrick?'

'possibly.'

'was henry james a gentleman?'

'very nearly.'

'are you a gentleman?'

'naturally. i have held his majesty's commission.'

'it's very complicated,' i said. 'am i a gentleman?'

'absolutely not,' ford said.'then why are you drinking with me?'

'i'm drinking with you as a promising young writer. as a fellow writer, in fact.'

'good of you,' i said.

'you might be considered a gentleman in italy,' ford said magnanimously.

'but i'm not a cad?'

'of course not, dear boy. who ever said such a thing?'

'i might become one,' i said sadly. 'drinking brandy and all. that was what did for lord harry hotspur in trollope. tell me, was trollope a gentleman?'

'of course not.'

'you're sure?'

'there might be two opinions. but not in mine.'

'was fielding? he was a judge.'

'technically, perhaps.'

'marlowe?'

'of course not.'

'john donne?'

'he was a parson.'

'it's fascinating,' i said.

'i'm glad you're interested,' ford said. 'i'll have a brandy and water with you before i go.'

after ford left it was dark and i walked over to the
kiosque and bought a paris-sport compkt, the final edition of the afternoon racing paper with the results at auteuil, and the line on the next day's meeting at enghien. the waiter emile, who had replaced jean on duty, came to the table to see the results of the last race at auteuil.

a great friend of mine who rarely came to the lilas came over to the table and sat down, and just then as my friend was ordering a drink from emile the gaunt man in the cape with the tall woman passed us on the sidewalk. his glance drifted towards the table and then away.

'that's hilaire belloc,' i said to my friend. 'ford was here this afternoon and cut him dead.'

'don't be a silly ass,' my friend said. 'that's aleister crowley, the diabolist. he's supposed to be the wickedest man in the world.'

'sorry,' i said.

guys like Deaver or Coben may be based or in someway connected to NYC but do their novels take place there? not so much Im thinking

what Im after is more place as character like you'd get from a Chandler or Cain or even Winslow novel - I definitely get that from Price

especially when you should be putting 'in quotes' in quotes 'instead'

come on people that's one - surely New York can do better

So Los Angeles/So Cal has Chandler, Cain, Ellroy, Connelly, T Jeff Parker, Don Winslow, Walter Mosley etc

Boston has Lehane, Parker, Hogan amongst others

DC has Pelecanos and the Big Easy has Burke and even New Mexico has Hillebrand, and Nevada, Barr

but the Big Apple? Im hard pressed to think of anyone who fits the bill - Richard Price is brilliant, Mickey Spillane is, well whatever but surely there must be other bards of big city crime writing about life in Gotham

bwa bwa bwaaaaaa

Or beer suds.