Customer Reviews

I Can't Believe I'm Still Single: Sane, Slightly Neurotic (but in a Sane Way) Filmmaker into Good Yoga, Bad Reality TV, Too Much Chocolate, and a ... Point Anyone Who'll Let Me Watch Football

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1 star:		(16)

 

 

Ever wonder why recovering alcoholics and drug-addicts are so often still happy to remain raging narcissists? Here's another shining example of one of them. I think it's high time for a thirteenth step in the Program.

This has to be the worst book I've read since Prozac Nation. Same narcissistic logorrhea. Schaeffer pretends to be honest with himself, but it's amazing how blind to his faults he remains throughout. I have enough confidence in yoga to think that if he keeps practicing he might get there, but as for this book, I found nothing redemptive in 317 pages. Schaeffer doesn't even like himself enough to breathe between dates. He's the guy you run from, believe me.

A much better, and more honest, read, though not a great book either, is Sex, Love, and Dharma. This guy hasn't found the one either, but he's a LOT closer, and his path seems way more genuine.

The book is just as verbosely self-absorbed as the title would lead you to believe. The author tries to come across as witty, urbane and self-deprecating, but winds up revealing WAY too much about his neuroses, his addictions and his deep and barely concealed misogyny. I can't remember the last time I read a book where the author came across as so deeply unlikeable and yet at the same time completely unaware of how unsavory he seems.

Not worth the time it takes to read it and definitely not worth the money the publisher seems to think this deserves.

My sister lives in the big city and for the past five years or so, I've listened to her stories about how terrible New York men are. I have to confess that I often wondered whether she and her friends were the problem (sorry, L!), wordlessly communicating something that triggered wimpy and, often enough, despicable male behavior. I changed my mind when she sent me a copy of "I Can't Believe I'm Still Single," which belongs in a psychiatry curriculum--Misogyny 101. Mr. Schaeffer acts like a spoiled teenager, either using women solely for his sexual satisfaction, or imagining a girl is "the one" when he has barely met her (if a girl did the same with him, I'm sure he -and anyone else- wouldn't hesitate to call her insane), expecting total devotion and attention from women he's known for about five minutes, belittling independence, and assuming that the women in his life must revolve around him. Should they be uninterested in life as a satellite, Mr. Schaeffer concludes they have a problem. And he wonders why he's still single.
If Mr. Schaeffer were twenty years old, his behavior would be somewhat excusable (I haven't forgotten some of the horrible things I did as a stupid kid whose main goal in life was getting laid, although I never dreamed of knocking a girl unconscious so I could have my way with her). But this is a forty-four-year old guy, a man who has already lived at least half of his life and, in the process, has obviously learned nothing. Women dump him, reject his advances, flee him; critics lambaste his movies--and still, he's convinced all of them are wrong and he's always right. It can't be easy to have a father who practices serial marriage, but at certain point a man has to assume responsibility for his actions, and Mr. Schaeffer past that point many years ago. The other thing I find shocking are the positive reviews , defending his behavior and ignoring the textbook signs of his misogyny, egotism and delusion. If that's what passes for "normal" in New York, then I'm making sure my baby sister gets the hell out of there (you hear me, L?)

Like all arrogant and delusional men, I've always believed that when I was ready, I could easily land a smart, funny, sexy, warm, loving wife. "When you build it, she will come." That's what I've been told all my life by my mommy, and she is very objective. "The girls are just going to line up when you say the word." Well, I'm ready. I've made several crappy movies that have been unanimously hated by critics and audiences everywhere. That's quite an accomplishment, wouldn't you say? After all, there are a lot of commercial movies that get bad reviews, and a lot of well-reviewed movies that do terribly in the box office, but both critics and audiences agree that my films suck.

All this and I can't even meet someone who will put up with my innocent questions on the first date (have you ever been raped by your father?), or who are attracted by my candor ("nice breasts"--also on the first date), or who feel sorry enough for desperate little me to marry me. There's no justice in this world.

I fooled my last girlfriend for quite some time, but in the end she saw the light and left me on my knee with a ring in my hands and tears in my eyes. Since then I've tried speed dating, Yentas, blind dates, Internet dating, meeting girls at the gym and yoga, on the subway and on the street. Actresses, models, lawyers, social workers, teachers, comediennes, even hookers, special massage girls and dominatrixes and nothing! I know I reek of desperation, but it's an attractive scent! Seriously. Just come near me and sniff me. I'll do the same with you.

I simply cannot believe I'm still single at 45. This is my story. Just a regular unattractive moron looking for love and unable to find it... for the rest of my life.

I know why you're still single, Mr. Schaeffer -- I was forced to sit through one or two of your films. Really, do we need another "self-help" book that is really thinly-veiled self-aggrandizement, not to mention an exercise in misogyny? For the good of womankind, I hope this man *stays* single.

"Men," Ingrid Magnussen said. "Now matter how unappealing, each of them imagines he is somehow worthy." When Janet Fitch wrote this in "White Oleander" she must have had in mind someone like Eric Schaeffer: a world-class loser with a ridiculously high opinion of himself.

The women-haters club bible for lonely, aging singles that believe a life full of rejection from women is either amazingly horrible bad luck for such amazing, accomplished, funny, smart, attractive, nice yet infinitely demanding men or all women are just messed up. Gasp. I mean when you bait a woman to make a molestation joke you were obviously thinking about before she made it SHE must be the one who is messed up..or her disgust at your inane and rude questions on your first date and your ridiculous racial assumptions must mean she's not interesting enough to take care of you and the child you want to make at age 50. When Eric Schaeffer realizes no woman will reproduce with him in 5 years let us all pray he doesn't decide to adopt.

In the end I actually encourage every woman on every dating site interested in middle-aged white men notorious for crappy work and a gargantuan ego that can only be explained by a long-lasting strange mother-son relationship reads this book, stays away from his mat during yoga class and passes it on to their other female friends.

Eric Schaeffer's writing underscores the fact that he hates women and thinks very highly of himself.

If you love reading the rantings of a self-centered misogynist, than by all means buy this book. Otherwise, steer clear of Mr. Schaeffer.

I must say... it is remarkable to me the level of vitriol that Mr. Schaeffer seems to incur in response to his art. I have seen all of his films. From my perspective, they range from entertaining (Never Again, If Lucy Fell) to brilliant (Fall, Wirey Spindell)... though, this is neither here nor there. As with this book, his detractors seem incapable of reviewing the effort rather than the individual. The consistency of this reality from both lay people and (for shame) professional reviewers leaves me astounded. The worst thing I can think of to say about Eric Schaeffer is that he has no pause button between his brain and his mouth. Do we really experience this as such a problem... especially in an artist? Quite frankly, I find Eric to have a lot of respect for people in general with not a no malicious intent whatsoever(except perhaps in the way he sometimes treats himself)... again, neither here nor there. No one is asking you to date the man... or to hang out with him. If you think he is a lousy filmmaker... fine. If you think he is a poor author... lovely. But who cares what kind of person he is? Yes, this particular book, and some of his films are inspired by his own experiences... though what artist is that NOT true about? The man takes more shots at himself than any individual could ever dream of doing. Within that fact is a deep humility and a fair amount of self-awareness... if only the rest of Hollywood could manifest the same. Okay, now that I have become part of the problem... the book is wry, astute, sharp and insightful. If you are interested in reading the well written diatribes of someone who has no fear of saying what the rest of us only dare to think, do yourself a favor. On the other hand, if you find yourself intimidated by the journey of truth... run.