Ah, David, the more I read other essayists, the more I miss you, you snarky, observant, educated, clever, skeptical writer whose worldview closely overlapped with mine. After spending a few days at Paris Fashion Week:

It has finally happened. I am tired of it all. If I have to look at more beautiful clothing or have another conversation about beautiful clothing or feign amusement at any more adoring anecdotes about what a caution one of the Ladies of Fashion is because, when being interviewed, she insisted upon a glass of straight vodka because, as she said, "I don't drink water -- fish fuck in it," I will start shooting. I want to go home and clean my bathroom, or anybody's bathroom, for that matter.

Editorial aside: Paris Fashion Week is probably not the best place to go for information about the mating practices of wildlife.

So: A dozen or so essays, none of which are about anything in particular, but all of which are filled with the immensely quotable authorial voice of Mr. David Rakoff. Here he recounts the process by which he obtains U.S. citizenship:

The naturalization application can be downloaded directly from the government's website. I have no problem with Part 7, Section C, in which I have to account for every trip I've taken out of the United States of more than twenty-four hours duration for the last ten years, including every weekend jaunt to Canada to see the family. I have kept every datebook I have ever owned. I pore over a decade's worth of pages and list all of my travels from most recent backward. I create a table with columns, listing exact dates of departure and return, plus my destination. It is a document of such surpassing beauty, it is virtually scented. Not since I threaded puffy orange yarn through the punched holes of my fourth-grade book reports have I so shamelessly tried to placate authority with meaningless externals.

One amusing story tells of the day he flew from London to NYC on the Concorde, followed by a flight from NYC to Myrtle Beach, South Carolina aboard an airline that unlamentably is no longer with us:

I walk the concourse three times, looking fruitlessly for my carrier. I break down and ask a security guard, my voice a discreet mumble, where I might find the check-in counter for Hooters Air.
The ticket agent is handling a number of airlines. He only asks me where I'm going. When I respond Myrtle Beach, we both know why I am there. Our transaction is encoded, like I'm visiting a whorehouse. I remind myself repeatedly that there is no reason to be embarrassed, paraphrasing perhaps the most un-Hooters Girl of them all, Eleanor Roosevelt: No one can humiliate me without my consent. Although it is not for lack of trying. At the metal detectors the security guard, an elderly Trinidadian woman, takes one look at my boarding pass and lets out a high, fluting "Hoot, hoot!" before breaking into cackles of laughter.

.

Just pages and pages of this sort of thing. I am truly sorry that I have read all his books and there will be no more. Rest in peace, sir.

**Warning** This book contains some profanity.

Why did it take for this man to die before I discovered how wonderful his writing is? His voice, too, for that matter, is distinctive and snarky and delicious. I was moved by the many tributes to him on This American Life, Wire Tap, and The Daily Show, so I put this book on hold. He is so funny! His writing is very personal and brilliant!

In this book he writes about becoming a US citizen after 9/11, luxury vs. simplicity, accompanying a Latin playboy shoot in Belize, gathering wild food in Brooklyn, flying the Concorde, scavenger hunts in Manhattan, male burlesque, working as a Pool Ambassador in Miami, Rockefeller Center, Martha Stewart and crafting, haute couture, Patrick Guerriero of the Log Cabin Republicans, plastic surgery, fasting, and cryogenics. Each story is a gem and will make you laugh out loud.

My favorite line in the whole book comes from the story "What is the sound of one hand shopping?" on page 23, in which David Rakoff writes about the excesses of luxury: "The man of a departing couple leans in and says something to his date. She listens, and gives an almost electric start. Like Warren Beatty and Diane Keaton in Reds who, caught up in the joyuous throngs of the ten days that shook the world, had no choice after witnessing something so glorious and world-changing but to race home and [] each other silly, the man and woman share a look of smoldering, unbridled lust. What did he whisper? "I was just told that they hadn't served that vinegar in twenty-four years!"

Audiobook: 04hr 36m

Instantly familiar from his work on This American Life and other such podcasts, the voice of David Rakoff kept me amused and engaged throughout this poignant, irreverent and deeply honest sociopolitical monologue. I felt like I was at the best kind of cocktail party ever, one where the conversation was sparkling, informative and regularly laugh-out-loud funny, and absolutely nothing was required of me.

Rakoff's tone is what you might expect if Eeyore suddenly and successfully left the 100 Acre Wood for a career in standup comedy. He has a knack for juxtaposition that highlights absurdity beautifully. He shies away from nothing and censors his opinions only when doing so makes a stronger point than saying things directly would be able to do. He's whip smart and knows it.

I'm glad that he was spared the political world of Trump, considering what he wrote here about Bush -- but I think the online discord surrounding the last President of the United States would have been just a little bit lighter had he been around to help with the democratic skewering.

Ironically, as a secular humanist who shows no patience for groups like the Christian Right, Rakoff actually practies what those groups preach: He hates the sin, but loves the sinners. Or rather, he hates the stupid, shallow practices of modern American life, but shows a certain empathetic tolerance for the people who practice them.

Rakoff's criticisms of the absurd and narcisstic aspects of modern american life are intelligently snarky and, even better, consistently ring true. He's especially effective when he goes after the thin veneers of depth or transcendentalism behind which so much hides today. But at the same time, he often betrays a certain kindness toward the people involved, seeking to understand what drives people down such misguided paths even as he doesn't shy away from his convictions.

But the most impressive part is the writing. Almost every word means and evokes exactly what Rakoff wants it to and is placed in just the right spot.

No spoilers.
Blurb: David Rakoff is brilliant, funny, wry and self-deprecating. If you appreciate the work of David Sedaris, this is smarter. If you like Sarah Vowell, this is sharper and more cutting. If you don't know those authors, go check them out as well.

Longer version: I've followed David Rakoff through This American Life, and occasionally read his works in various magazines. He's always smart, always a bit sad, but a genuinely talented observer of people. The hypocrisy of the first-world is called on the carpet, but he's out there on the carpet with us.
As an audiobook, this was perfection. Rakoff's timing is perfect for the one-line gems that make you laugh out loud, but you can also hear him wincing or smiling or rolling his eyes.
Rakoff is an openly gay man and while I can imagine readers who would only see him as a stereotype of the effete, delicate, overly intellectual gay man, that's their loss. This is a charming and sweet, caustic and sharp, beautiful and scathing look at love of fashion, sex, youth and ultimately, ourselves.
Listening to this right after Rakoff's death from cancer was crushing at times, and a voice like his silenced, is almost too much to bear.

I went to the bookstore looking for a Sedaris book because I needed to laugh. I was distraught to learn that I'd read everything he'd written!

David Rakoff, like his peer David Sedaris, has occasionally been featured on Public Radio's "This American Life." His (writer's) voice is not as dark as Sedaris'... but he is quite hilarous; I bought this book in hopes of laughing, and was not disappointed. The man knows how to turn a phrase. May I please quote a passage where he describes the experience of meeting a snotty designer while reporting at a fashion show. It's even more delightful if you know what Rakoff's speaking voice sounds like & can hear it in your head:

"All of the designers I have met up to this point have been very nice, although upon being introduced to Karl Lagerfeld, he looks me up and down and dismisses me with the not super-kind, 'What can you write that hasn't been written already?'

"He's absolutely right, I have no idea. I can but try. The only thing I can come up with at that moment is that Lagerfeld's powdered white ponytail has dusted the shoulders of his suit with what looks like dandruff but isn't. Also, not yet having undergone his alarming weight loss, and seated on a tiny velvet chair, with his large doughy rump dominating the miniature piece of furniture like a loose, flabby, ass-flavored muffin overrisen from its pan, he resembles a Daumier caricature of some corpulent, inhumane oligarch drawn sitting on a commode, stuffing his greedy throat with the corpses of dead children, while from his other end he shits out huge, malodorous piles of tainted money. How's that for new and groundbreaking, Mr. L?"

When I read the first chapter, sipping my coffee in the coffee shop adjacent to the bookstore, I was socially inappropriate with my riotous laughter. Pretty much the highest praise I can give to a book, I don't know about you.

So I've heard this guy on This American Life and thought I'd try his book out. Now, I think the David Sedaris comparison has been made, but it's unavoidable. The voice of David Rakoff is very similar: witty, sharp, biting, dry, highly observant. However, whereas Sedaris writes about organic experiences--things that occur naturally in his life, most of Rakoff's experiences are "experienced" purely for the sake of writing about them. He actually sets out to find odd experiences so he can write about them and it feels a little stilted and distant. Sedaris' writing feels more salient, and perhaps a bit more raw, because it's often emotional--it's biased observation. Rakoff feels emotionally distant from his writing--perhaps because it is so contrived, or appears so. There's no faulting his technique--the writing just doesn't connect to its audience--or rather, to me. After some research, I discovered that his other book, Fraud, is better. Turns out I have that lying around so I'm onto that next. Keeping my fingers crossed.

This was my second Rakoff book, and I liked it better than Fraud: Essays. Don't Get Too Comfortable still had some overlong sentences and unnecessarily long words, but the effect was less noticeable in this second effort. (And, I was happy to see, the en dashes in this book are used correctly—unlike the em dashes masquerading as en dashes in Fraud.)

As someone who dwells ever more often in the overlap on the Venn diagram between introversion and misanthropy, I found several passages that resonated with me:

I joined in at Jaime's urging because, like most people, I like to think of myself as being spontaneous, ready for anything, fun. This is the evening's second hard-won insight: I am neither spontaneous nor ready for anything. . . . I am no fun at all. In fact, I am anti-fun. Not as in anti-violence, but as in anti-matter. I am not so much against fun—although I suppose I kind of am—as I am the direct opposite of fun. I suck the fun out of a room. Or perhaps I'm just a different kind of fun; the kind that leaves one bereft of hope; the kind of fun that ends in tears (pp. 76–77, paperback edition).

But after a few hours with him it becomes clear that Sammy is as much the victim of cruel circumstance as he is of his own unerring capacity to misread situations and alienate others (p. 102).

Here's how it would go: thirty years hence, our connection long since sundered, these people are sitting around with their families, the gift in question is spotted, and all of a sudden time melts away and I am conjured up on a wave of pitying laughter that washes over the room. Their grown children lean over to their children and say, "Listen up, you'll like this story," and then a tale will unfold of the fellow who "made us this thing and came to our wedding and got so drunk. I wonder whatever happened to him?" they will ask, not really wondering and caring even less (pp. 128–129).

The final chapter details Rakoff's exploration of Alcor, the cryonics company, and the associated transhumanist/futurist movement. He's understandably skeptical about the dubious endeavor of having oneself frozen against the long odds of being brought back intact. Even though I'm an Alcor member (believing that even an infinitesimally small chance of being revived in the far future is better than the guaranteed zero chance if I do nothing), I found Rakoff's points about life's temporary nature illuminating. He's right that aging does bring meaning to our existence. But I do believe that aging is simply an accumulation of cellular and metabolic damage that can be repaired—or at least mitigated.

So, I promised myself that I would stray away from the non-fiction universe after perusing a particularly disturbing online survey that noted that for the most part, unhappy people read non-fiction because they are unwilling to bask in the fervent imagination of a good fiction writer. This is to say that non-fiction writers are inherently unimaginative, and the people that read their work are depressed boors staving off suicide one "Chicken Soup for the _______ Soul" at a time.

Of course, I would like to think that this isn't true, but given that my last few books have been "Stumbling on Happiness", "The Paradox of Choice" and other such fare, I had reason to give this completely non-credible sous-breast exam undeserved credence. Am I really that unhappy with my life? Am I really incapable of basking in the creative halo of the literary giants? Does one have anything at all to do with the other? Will reading Harry Potter finally subjugate what Slavoj Zizek refers to as the modern human's injunction to be happy?

Well, I am happy to report that reading non-fiction has not affected my happiness in any way, nor has it taken away from my ability to don the glow of the creative writer's halo. In the best non-fiction books (or at least the most entertaining), most of the joy comes from observing an author work out their neuroses in a public manner with a mix of internal narration and running commentary that would rival any football game for its collection of witty repartee regarding inanity and banality.

It turns out that the most creative writing, at least for me, involves taking an average, everyday scene and skewing its perspective by having it be recounted by the most neurotic painter that ever existed. The best non-fiction makes me gasp with amazement at the profound farces that other people outside of my immediate universe call "lives". How would a "normal" person react on a playboy photo shoot on an actual tropical island? So, fasting involves more than just not eating?

David Rakoff seems particularly well-suited for the task of reporting back from the avant-garde of lifestyles, and thus I thoroughly enjoyed driving the manure truck of his imaginative bullshit. This isn't to say that I disliked this book at all-- in fact, I quite enjoyed it. But I enjoyed it the same way I enjoy reading an old journal entry: incredulous bemusement with a hint of embarrassment and self-loathing. Rakoff's tone is unshakable and cynically perfect, but it can be a little much to read.

In the end, it turns out that reading someone like Rakoff makes me realize that I'm not quite as unhappy as I had previously thought, or in exemplary fashion, I'm not quite as unhappy as I could be. It takes a certain jadedness and, what's the word I'm looking for... CREATIVITY... to be able to take seemingly mundane, objective truth and twist it into a mangled psychotherapy session that gets published in Vanity Fair. After all, if I really were that unhappy, then I'd be a non-fiction writer myself.

Why’ve I waited so long to read Rakoff? He’s the perfect combination of two of my favorites: David Sedaris and Augusten Burroughs. I know, I know, I hate author comparisons, too, but I mean this as the highest compliment. Published in 2006, some of these essays are a bit dated, but that didn’t hinder my enjoyment. Rakoff left this world far too soon. I’ll honor him by reading his backlist.

I didn't love all of the essays included in this book, but the last few chapters (essays on the Log Cabin Republicans, plastic surgery, and cryogenics) were fabulous.

And then there is this, "If for example, it came to light that the dangerously thin, affectless, value-deficient, higher aspiration-free, amateur porn auteuse Paris Hilton was actually a covert agent from some secret Taliban madrassa whose mission was to portray the ultimate capiltalist-whore puppet of a doomed society with nothing more on its mind than servitude to Mammon and celebrity at any cost, I wouldn't be surprised."

I was not familiar with Rakoff's work prior to this book, I just picked it up because I typically enjoy satire and the title gave me the impression I'd be in for a good time. Joke's on me, I guess. I've since read a few reviews comparing Rakoff to David Sedaris -- wish I would have had that warning prior to opening this book. I seem to be one of the few people in the world that doesn't find Sedaris hysterically funny. Nor can I add Rakoff to the funny roster in my mind. Sure he's got the vocabulary and he writes some nice sentences here and there but a lot of these essays just felt like a chance to make cheap shot insults at people. Good satire has me nodding and saying "YES! Exactly!" but I didn't find that here. Instead of the work feeling organically funny, I kept getting this vision of him writing these pieces, basking in his own brilliance and imagining the masses eating it up. Judging by the high ratings, maybe that vision wasn't too far off the mark. To me, at least, the writing came off as a blend of jokes falling flat and unnecessary pettiness disguised as acerbic yet informed observances. I have heard the audiobook gives something more to the essays.