Bland and disappointing book from the author whose meteoric rise seemed so sure with Leaving Atocha Station. Now that I think about it, perhaps you can only take reading one book from this author. His style is “poetic” mixed with realistic descriptions of what’s around him, be it Upper West Side of NYC, Brooklyn Heights, or Malfa, Texas. It’s a fairly stupid story– author’s best friend wants to have a baby with him, to decide his involvement in parenting later. They are close but not a couple, this involves his producing a stream of porn-induced semen (are men the only ones who are obsessed with sex?) to invitro-fertilize her, plus some awkward scenes of them “doing it” meanwhile he’s involved with a different woman who could care less when he “dumps” her to focus on the best friend. Tangle all that blandness in with a fake book written and the prospect of faking celebrity author emails and a writer’s retreat to peacefully disconnected Malfa, Texas. He also uses “unseasonably warm” a record number of times in 240 pages. It’s like listening to a cracked record with a slight echo that perhaps is meant to be poetic but comes off like he’s scrounging for adjectives and coming up empty. Add to this weak mix a few inflated vocabulary words to make him seem smart (I didn’t bother to look up or note any of the words, they just seemed too contrived). Hilarious, just read a review on Amazon that likens the book to a mediocre meal at the expensive restaurant- too painful to abandon, but too unpleasant to enjoy. “A miserable pretense to be an intellectual while being just pretentious.”