Rage Against the Meshugenah: Why It Takes Balls to Go Nuts Book

One of my resolutions for the 2010 year was to read 50 books. On December 30, I was at 49 and needed a quick read to finish the year. A Christmas gift from one of her cousins, Steph suggested that I read Danny Evans' Rage Against the Meshugenah and after seeing its enormous typeface, I decided to go for it. I was 40 pages away from finishing when I got sleepy and went to bed on the evening of December 30. The 31st came and went and I forgot to finish it. So there you go: I failed my New Year's Resolution by 40 pages and simple forgetfulness. Alas ...

Anyway, this book started out great. I rarely ever laugh with memoirs that attempt to be funny, but this one had its share of hyucks in its first few chapters. For those who don't know who Danny Evans is (and I assume most do not), he's ... well, no one really. He was a regular middle-class Jewish male from California who lost his job four days before 9/11, the two-punch combination of which sent him into a downward spiral of depression. This book is therefore the tale of his life afterward and how he dealt with the chemical imbalance that caused him to hit rock bottom. At the same time, he begins to deconstruct himself in hopes that the life he re-pieces together will be a better one for himself and his family.

This is where I sound like an ass: I didn't like this book. The most simple reason was that Evans was a completely ordinary and forgettable guy. While this might be a draw for some readers, it isn't for me. His story begins with everything being normal, spiraling depression and then continues with milestones in his life, all the while using his depression as an excuse to get readers to see his photo albums, which, let's face it, nobody likes to do. But fine, a simple, everyday story can be told in a funny, witty and engaging way, right? Wrong. While Evans had a few good jokes at first, they it was mostly the subtle ones that I enjoyed most. His writing suffers from that killjoy technique of trying too hard - creating ridiculously overblown metaphors or going through enormous narrative histrionics in order to make a joke. When those don't work, he resorts to pandering to Jewish jokes that I just never got.

Maybe I'm just not cut out for memoirs or books with zany covers. But I won't give up on the genre. Maybe 2011 will be the year that I finally read a so-called "hilarious" book that doesn't force me to roll my eyes a dozen times a page (I'm looking at you, Augusten Burroughs and John Grogan). Happy New Year!