I don't know why I grew to hate this book, even though it was fabulously written and told a very entertaining story. I started out loving it and gradually grew to resent every page. But by that point I was close enough that I had to finish. It's a book about a professor/novelist--Wait! I just figured it out!. It's because the whole nutty, misbehaving professor who can't deal with life thing has been so overused. And I hate it every time. I think that's it.
Anyway, so this professor has been trying to write the followup to his successful novel for seven years, and he has written 1,200 pages and is nowhere near finished and the thing sucks. And his whole life is falling apart. He's a pot-smoking, emotionally dysfunctional loser whose wife is leaving him and whose girlfriend has just told him--surprise!--that she's pregnant. Oh, and the girlfriend is also the chancellor of the university where he works, and she's married to another guy who's also his boss. So he goes on a bender with a suicidal nutcase of a student, and they steal a jacket once worn by Marilyn Monroe and shoot the girlfriend's dog and go to Passover dinner with his wife's crazy family and run over the family's pet snake and drive around for days--weeks?--with the dead dog in the trunk. And there is a transvestite somewhere along the way, and a crazy drug-addicted agent whose career depends on the guy's failed novel, and a stolen tuba that figures prominently. And at various points this guy is bitten by a dog, beaten to a pulp, hit in the temple with a baseball bat. And I don't think he ever sleeps during the entire course of the novel. And then he loses the only copy of his novel while being attacked by crazy people. And then at the end he marries the girlfriend and becomes a father and lives happily ever after.
OK, it's becoming obvious why I hated this book. It was ridiculous. I guess some people would find it funny, but to me it just didn't ring true in any sense of the word. That's it for me and Michael Chabon.