(NOT THAT YOU ASKED)

But he's telling you anyway

By STEVE ALMOND

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We've been through this drill many times. It's going to be painful, but if we just keep moving, it will be over quickly.

Steve Almond has a new book out.

Yes, the man who brought us all those dirty short stories, that one book about the candy, and who then elected himself Boston's official Dork-Stud Writer Mascot has been born again: He's an essayist now. No more having to invent characters. No more struggling for just the right genital euphemism or shaking down confectionary experts. Almond is finally focused on the one topic worthy of his writerly consideration. I speak, of course, of Steve Almond.

The cynical among you will, at this point, strive to classify (Not That You Asked) as an elaborate marketing plan. In fact, the book is something more tragically fascinating: a sustained act of literary masturbation.

There is no thought or experience too trivial to escape the gravitational pull of Almond's narcissistic onanism. This makes the reading of (NTYA) darkly reminiscent of a grade-school primer.

See Steve bitchslap Oprah Winfrey.

See Steve battle Sean Hannity on national TV.

See Steve stalk Kurt Vonnegut.

Almond's work has, of course, been headed in this direction for some time. He recognized early on that imagination was a loser's game, that the path to a profitable name brand resides in planting yourself firmly at the center of every story.

What will astonish even his most ardent fans is the haste and enthusiasm with which he has reduced himself from ringmaster to sideshow freak.

See Steve whack off in the family hot tub.

See Steve fantasize about spanking a nasty blogger.

See Steve fart in public.

The folks at Random House are pushing the book as humor. Which is just fine, if you find Steve (or especially his penis) funny. For the rest of us, this tag will seem odd, given that many of the essays are either:

a. Outraged

or

b. Rilly outraged

Yes, Almond wants us to know that he's not just a clown. He's an upright citizen, who is heartbroken at the state of moral decline in this fallen world. That's why he quit his job as an (adjunct) professor at BC when the school invited Condi Rice as commencement speaker. He was taking a stand. And then writing about taking a stand. And then selling a manuscript based on writing about taking a stand.

Elsewhere, Almond finds his humble life mysteriously invaded by a VH-1 reality TV crew that seeks to suck his soul out through his urethra. Fear not, gentle reader! After two days of slavishly obeying the TV crew, our hero finally, uh, takes a stand. He bravely refuses a request that he roll around in candy on camera. It's called integrity, people. Ever hear of it?

After a laugh riot tour of his post-college years -- fake tits! chest waxing! -- Almond arrives in Boston, where he immediately declares himself the Red Sox Antichrist. Those of you wondering how the Old Towne Team broke an 86-year curse may now rest easy. They did it just to spite Steve Almond.

Of course, egotism this monstrous always comes with a side order of false modesty. And Almond serves it up steaming -- time and time again:

"I have never actually owned a TV, a fact I mention whenever possible, in the hopes that it will make me seem noble and possibly lead to oral sex."

"Real people do not talk in porn clichés. They do not say: Give it to me, big boy. They do not say: Suck it, baby. That's right, all the way down. They do not say: Yes, deeper, harder, deeper! Oh, baby, oh Christ yes! At least, they do not say these things to me."

"The worst thing you can do is to use the funk of sexual success as a hedge against the appropriate depths of self-horror. Remember, you're probably clever enough to fool someone better looking for a while. But in the end, you're ugly. That's where you live, and you live there alone."

Hey, don't freak out, guys. Deep down, I think he means us, not him.

Of course, no Steve Almond production would be complete without a few grenades flung at the heartstrings.

In this case, it's the birth of his daughter Josephine, whom he loves so much that he exploits her for material from the moment of her birth onward. Check it out:

"In the hospital, the other dads and I promenade our newborns up and down the halls when they're cranky and nod to each other wearily, like we've just been through hell and back and boy aren't our vaginal canals sore!"

See, the joke is that Steve doesn't really have a vaginal canal, so his saying that he's been to hell and back ... oh, never mind. You get the point. The guy's not gonna stop writing this drivel until he gets a TV show. So just buy the stupid book and file it under "literary pityfuck."

Almond will be reading from (Not That You Asked) at Brookline Booksmith on 9.13.07. In the meantime, excerpts of his wretchedness are available at candyfreak.com. He'll also be dropping by the Booksmith on Thursday, 8.9.07, for a reading from Alone in the Kitchen with an Eggplant.

(NOT THAT YOU ASKED): RANTS, EXPLOITS, AND OBSESSIONS

WRITTEN BY | STEVE ALMOND

PUBLISHED BY | RANDOM HOUSE

AVAILABLE | 9.11.07

RANDOMHOUSE.COM