Don't Get Too Comfortable: The Indignities Of Coach Class, The Torments Of Low Thread Count, The Never-Ending Quest For Artisanal Olive Oil, And Other First World Problems (2006)
About book Don't Get Too Comfortable: The Indignities Of Coach Class, The Torments Of Low Thread Count, The Never-Ending Quest For Artisanal Olive Oil, And Other First World Problems (2006)
So, I promised myself that I would stray away from the non-fiction universe after perusing a particularly disturbing online survey that noted that for the most part, unhappy people read non-fiction because they are unwilling to bask in the fervent imagination of a good fiction writer. This is to say that non-fiction writers are inherently unimaginative, and the people that read their work are depressed boors staving off suicide one "Chicken Soup for the _______ Soul" at a time. Of course, I would like to think that this isn't true, but given that my last few books have been "Stumbling on Happiness", "The Paradox of Choice" and other such fare, I had reason to give this completely non-credible sous-breast exam undeserved credence. Am I really that unhappy with my life? Am I really incapable of basking in the creative halo of the literary giants? Does one have anything at all to do with the other? Will reading Harry Potter finally subjugate what Slavoj Zizek refers to as the modern human's injunction to be happy?Well, I am happy to report that reading non-fiction has not affected my happiness in any way, nor has it taken away from my ability to don the glow of the creative writer's halo. In the best non-fiction books (or at least the most entertaining), most of the joy comes from observing an author work out their neuroses in a public manner with a mix of internal narration and running commentary that would rival any football game for its collection of witty repartee regarding inanity and banality. It turns out that the most creative writing, at least for me, involves taking an average, everyday scene and skewing its perspective by having it be recounted by the most neurotic painter that ever existed. The best non-fiction makes me gasp with amazement at the profound farces that other people outside of my immediate universe call "lives". How would a "normal" person react on a playboy photo shoot on an actual tropical island? So, fasting involves more than just not eating? David Rakoff seems particularly well-suited for the task of reporting back from the avant-garde of lifestyles, and thus I thoroughly enjoyed driving the manure truck of his imaginative bullshit. This isn't to say that I disliked this book at all-- in fact, I quite enjoyed it. But I enjoyed it the same way I enjoy reading an old journal entry: incredulous bemusement with a hint of embarrassment and self-loathing. Rakoff's tone is unshakable and cynically perfect, but it can be a little much to read. In the end, it turns out that reading someone like Rakoff makes me realize that I'm not quite as unhappy as I had previously thought, or in exemplary fashion, I'm not quite as unhappy as I could be. It takes a certain jadedness and, what's the word I'm looking for... CREATIVITY... to be able to take seemingly mundane, objective truth and twist it into a mangled psychotherapy session that gets published in Vanity Fair. After all, if I really were that unhappy, then I'd be a non-fiction writer myself.
This book is a collection of nonfiction essays about the American culture of excess. Rakoff turns his attention to the obscene extravaganza that defines the lives of many here and now. From Hooters Air to beachside luxury resorts, Rakoff roasts the completely unnecessary things we do while we pretend they are totally normal. His time spent with his own manservant during a softcore shoot on a private island in Belize boggled my mind. "Is this real?" I asked myself. Rakoff stumbles most charmingly through NY with the Wildman urban forager - I liked the Wildman. I was rooting for him. I delighted in Rakoff's visit to Martha's craft room. The cryogenics people freaked me out, but they always do. Not as badly as the Log Cabin Republicans, however. I can't stop thinking about those wild and crazy Log Cabin Republicans, and Rakoff breathlessly protesting, "But I can change him!" That moment was just one of the many reasons I was glad I listened to the audiobook. Rakoff's delivery is priceless. This is not an intensely profound or insightful book, but it is smart enough and funny. And this book is *not* "just like David Sedaris," which I was told plenty of times before I read it. I've read enough Augusten Burroughs thankyouvermuch. BUT David Rakoff's not like that. He's like the guy that Sarah Vowell would want to offer her services as a devoted fag hag. If David Rakoff were a martini, the vermouth would be John Waters. The vodka would be top shelf. By putting Sedaris out of my mind, I was able to appreciate Rakoff to a greater degree. There is no overt political agenda here, but as our opulence becomes more alarming and we see more trends toward simplicity, this book sits in an interesting position - written right before tiny houses and front yard food gardens became bigger each year, right after the "Shop, America, Shop!" rallying cries post-911, and situated in a moment in history where almost everything about our lives is disturbingly decadent to the point of embarrassment. Reading this exacerbated my feeling of living at right before the beginning of the collapse of the Roman empire. I live here, and you live here. This book is relevant and funny.
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I listened to the last disc of the audiobook while walking in the park this afternoon, still trying to absorb the sadness of his death. David Rakoff has made me guffaw so loudly (sometimes in public, since I'm often listening to him read his essays on my iPod), and he has made me cry, and he has made me think. Most of all, he has made me marvel over how extravagantly, unfairly smart he is, how he manages to be both savage to the deserving (Paris Hilton, Log Cabin Republicans, the producers of The Swan) and unexpectedly generous with everyone else. Few stylists in this or the previous century can turn a phrase so beautifully, make sense of senseless events without being reductive or dogmatic, shape paragraphs so that they cohere but still manage to surprise. His arguments are elegant without ever seeming contrived. Even though he admits, in a very funny essay about his obsession with doing Martha Stewart-ish craft projects, that he finds writing excruciatingly difficult ("Writing is like pulling teeth. From my dick."), he writes so gracefully, with such apparent ease and wit, that it's hard to believe him. His sentences seem as natural as a Fred Astaire routine: You know a lot of work went into them, but you sure don't notice the sweat. The Italian courtiers had a word for it: sprezzatura. Rakoff had sprezzatura in spades. The last essay in this volume, about cryogenics and our pathetic lust for eternal life, gave me a real pang because I really do find myself wishing that someone could somehow deep-freeze his brain or load it onto a hard drive for the benefit of future generations. We're all the poorer for not having any more Rakoff books to look forward to. But even though I'm sad that he had to die so young, I'm grateful that he left us with three terrific books and several wonderful radio segments. He doesn't need a stupid cryogenic vault at Alcon. His voice was so distinctive, his bile so brilliant, his humanity so all-encompassing, that I know he'll live on in the heads of anyone who has ever heard or read him. It comforts me to think that whenever I start to miss That Voice, I can invite it to inhabit my consciousness anytime I choose: all I have to do is pick up one of his books, and there it is.
—Rene Saller
So I've heard this guy on This American Life and thought I'd try his book out. Now, I think the David Sedaris comparison has been made, but it's unavoidable. The voice of David Rakoff is very similar: witty, sharp, biting, dry, highly observant. However, whereas Sedaris writes about organic experiences--things that occur naturally in his life, most of Rakoff's experiences are "experienced" purely for the sake of writing about them. He actually sets out to find odd experiences so he can write about them and it feels a little stilted and distant. Sedaris' writing feels more salient, and perhaps a bit more raw, because it's often emotional--it's biased observation. Rakoff feels emotionally distant from his writing--perhaps because it is so contrived, or appears so. There's no faulting his technique--the writing just doesn't connect to its audience--or rather, to me. After some research, I discovered that his other book, Fraud, is better. Turns out I have that lying around so I'm onto that next. Keeping my fingers crossed.
—kailin
If I could give a negative number of stars for a book - this one would merit it. I am just SO grateful that Mr. Rakoff wrote this book. Without it I would never have known how much better and smarter and more intelligent the author is than the rest of us. Perhaps this book should be required reading in schools so that more people will be aware of what a pompous ass the author truly is. There was no way to win me back after he all but mocked the happiness of the new citizens as they took the oath and received their citizenship papers. Yes, by all means, that is the perfect moment to point out how foolish all of those peasants are for actually showing joy to be a citizen of the US.
—Katie Christian
