This book is the origin of my loathing of Dave Eggers. Yes, I loathe him. I read this, and I had to admit that he can write. That he is very intelligent, funny, that he'd gone through something tragic, and that he is a wonderful brother, I can also admit. Despite all these things, this book made me want to punch him in his smug, talented face. Throughout the book, he is so self-deprecating, all the while begging you to notice how smart he is (I mean the title alone...). He's deliberately showy while constantly putting himself down, and it left me feeling that he was the most disingenuous, self-satisfied writer I would ever care to read. Blech. Perhaps I would revile him less if he'd stuck closer to a story about him and his brother, because I really don't care about his life in San Francisco, his magazine, his dating life. I *really* don't care about his dating life.
It has since come to my attention that people love his other books. They love _Zeitoun_. They love _What is the What_. Can I love them? I just don't know. It would mean rearranging my feelings about him when I've comfortably detested him for fifteen years. We'll see.