Tucker Max leaves book signing richer, more narcissistic than ever

I was very impressed by the time I managed to finish leafing through Tucker Max’s book “I Hope They Serve Beer in Hell.” Unfortunately, I was unable to make the signing held at Chop Suey Books the week before, but according to his Web site the statistics stood at 25 books sold, over 20 photos taken of fans and 35 books signed, not to mention one hookup for the infamous Tucker Max.

When I sat down to start going through the book, I wondered about how the content would stand compared to his Web site. Of the stories already published on the site, everything was pretty much the same, which is my first point of contention. I am of a firm standing that despite the popularity of the Internet and the growing standards of lingo for its use, everything that goes into print should be edited. I was more than amazed at how much even solid proofreading slipped through the cracks. It is unfortunate to think that literature is becoming more and more loose in taking care of itself.

However, I am very sure that most people were not reading Max’s stories to indulge in fine literature of high scholastic quality.

Rather, the plots of the stories that Max writes are really where the weight of the book pulls. I am a veteran reader of Charles Bukowski and similar “dirty old men” writers and poets, but some of Max’s material was a bit hard to swallow. While thoroughly humorous and easy to enjoy for the sake of comedy, the vomit, urine and drunken fluids that seem to soak the narratives are almost stomach-churning.

I found myself more than a bit at odds with Max himself, not so much as a writer but as a person. Perhaps some of the more difficult-to-read areas within the collection included such points as his blatant disregard for the feelings of others, his shallow and superficial views of women – which, despite his introspective “I was young and stupid” soliloquies, seem to persevere throughout even his most recent material – and his exceeding levels of irresponsibility.

The last story of the work, aptly named “The Worst Tucker Story Ever,” leaves the reader unable to really respond fully when Max writes about the evening he had to face two female bed-companions, one unhappily married and recently a victim of a miscarriage and the other pregnant with his child and diagnosed with cancer. I still do not know what to think of the conclusion.

When one takes a step back, the Tucker Max stories are works of humor, pitfalls,and humanity. Everyone has had those nights of drinking gone bad, and it is nature to share stories of the “best of times and worst of times.” Max is no more or less a person than most men out in the world: fearless in his method of living, completely regardless of anyone or anything that tries to stand in his way.

He is considered a hero not because of what he does but because of who he stands for: Himself. He openly and unabashedly gives his perspective, his experiences and his misdeeds. If there is anything that can be taken from this book, it is a sense of what lengths honesty will take you to and how many will stand to honor your openness.

Or maybe just read about how you ended up outside a Japanese restaurant without pants and with an alcohol level of over 2.0.

Is this a good thing? I will leave that up to the readers who pick up “I Hope They Serve Beer in Hell.” I just wouldn’t recommend binge-reading this in one sitting.