KIRKUS REVIEW
Generic “boy” fiction, 2007—penis jokes, sneering blogosphere hipness, NYC infatuation, alterna-band lyrics as Holy Writ, verbatim emails, groundless irony, unearned weltschmerz.
Jason calls his thing “Lil Petey.” Not quite Noel Coward, but, with first-time novelist and MTV producer Rosen, that qualifies as wit. He also plays Karen Carpenter’s bulimia, nuns, Korean cashiers, midgets, parents, children and hippies for yucks. In fact, he plays everyone but Jason, a Cornell honors grad (God help American higher education) who “works” a dead-end gig casting non-talents for ads but who is mainly—as he prettily puts it—“blinded by vagina.” Jason chases Petey through bars, gulping Vicodin and Grail-questing for “Cute Post-Graduate Hipster Girls Who Love Indie Rock And Are Certified To Teach Pilates.” Him? Geek-chic: “Jeans, Converse, old shrunken Izod, glasses.” Obviously pop-culture punch-drunk (he confuses Brando’s The Wild One and Peckinpah’s The Wild Bunch), Rosen typecasts everyone. Jason’s next-door neighbor? “The outfit was part Ted Nugent bow hunter, part Deadhead magic burrito maker.” Her name’s actually Patty, and she’s a sweet bohemian in her 50s dying of lung cancer. Shamelessly, Rosen plays this plot-point for pathos. Whilst not summoning crocodile tears for La Boheme, Jason’s on the trail of his favorite pair of Dickies, loaned out to a one-night stand. He’s also asked by some hapless lovers to officiate as rabbi for their nuptials, requiring him to exert himself to the degree of consulting the Internet about how to defraud Judaism, just as, back in college, he used the Cliff Notes New Testament to pass History of Religion.
<\b>Avoid. Unless you’re drunk, self-infatuated and 21.