If there is one thing to say about "The Reluctant Metrosexual," it is that I managed to make it to the end. There were numerous times during listening to the audio book that I was tempted to put an end to my involvement, finding the book's pompous and supercilious tone off-putting. The introduction was especially precious and grating, the effect of the author's narcissistic desire to be comedic, shallowly topical and engaging. I nearly did not make it to chapter one. Only the (minimal) investment of having transferred the book to my IPod kept me listening long enough to reach deeper waters.
The book is a series of essays written about the dating and sexual life of a mid-30s New York writer. Peter Hyman is one of the breed of self-conscious, morality-impaired, culture referencing urbanites who populate shows like "Seinfeld." Except with less wit and barely more insight.
Hyman reflects on his Detroit childhood, his stint at law school, hsi first pair of leather pants, his few years as a fact-checker at Vanity Fair, and his many unfulfilled and realized sexual liaisons. The book achieves its maximum depth when Hyman ruminates on the great, lost love of his life -- a woman who seemed devoted to Hyman, but evidently failed to see enough that was worthy of her continued involvement with him. Hyman was unemployed and searching for himself at the time. But at his (and her) age, with dreams of parenthood dancing in their heads, there is no time to wait for someone who is commitment-neutral, or appears so. Hyman's tale of this tragic "amour manquA " is not deep, not especially revelatory, but had enough pathos to keep me listening.
I often found my attention wandering as I listened to this book. There was not enough detail, cultural insight or fascinating self-revelation to keep me riveted. Then too, Hyman's sloppiness and the boring state of his life were enough to make one long to look away. Sloppy? He compared the pain of a male bikini wax (weird enough in itself) to the rigors faced by "the first Apollo astronauts." At first, I thought this was a gruesome reference to the fiery deaths of three astronauts training aboard Apollo 1. But then I realized that Hyman meant to reference the rigors undergone by the "Right Stuff" astronauts of the *Mercury* program in the early 60s. If you're going to make your living making cute cultural references, at least get them right. Boring? Consider that a halfway socially-engaged human being would have no interest in pursuing anonymous 3-way sex just for the ability to write about it later. Nor spend time on internet dating sites. And let's not forget the aforementioned bikini wax.
There is little about supposed metrosexuals in the book. Hyman portrays himself as a hetero aesthete, but there is little in his life (aside from a few snotty opinions about Italian dress shirts, wine preferences and cocktail-party literary references) to justify this self-identification. Hyman's reading style is a distraction as well. He doesn't seem to grasp the complexities of the sentences he has himself written. His voice does not convey his parenthetical asides in a way that the listener can understand.
Yet, I completed the book, which is (perhaps) to damn it with faint praise. Though I would not recommend "The Reluctant Metrosexual" to any of my book-reading friends, neither would I discourage anyone from reading it. There is a certain fascination in encountering the banality of the life Hyman has chosen, or rather (since he seems to live without purpose) found himself living. His unhappy life -- devoutly wishing parenthood while living in perpetual hedonistic adolescence -- is in some ways a warning.
That being said, I wish Hyman the best in moving on to a new level of maturity that seems to have eluded him thus far. It might make his next book (and there will be a next book) more interesting. |
Reluctant Metrosexual: Dispatches From An Almost Hip Life Books In Print, Audio Books.