Most Helpful Customer Reviews
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26 of 29 people found the following review helpful:
5.0 out of 5 stars
Sorry, dude, May 20, 2001
It's me, John Weir, responding to the guy/girl who hated my book so much. Yo: I hate it, too. It's over-written, and I didn't make nothing in royalties. Plus, where was the hype? Was I hyped while I wasn't looking? Dude, it sold 4000 copies. Dave Eggers is hyped. I'm a clown who wrote a book. I won't argue that it's "silly" or, whatever, "trivial." Anyway, those are two of my favorite qualities. As for exploiting AIDS, well, I gotta ask: do the words "dying homosexual" make anyone *you* know run to the nearest bookstore? If I was gonna exploit something for laughs and personal gain, I would've picked a topic that sells. I wish I were more of an exploiter! Then I could pay the Parking Violations Bureau. It is of course true that all - count 'em - six of my blurbs were written by my friends and students. Apparently they hadn't heard that I give *A*s to everyone anyway. You should know that my next book is one long grim and unrelenting dirge about tragedy and loss. Of course, it's set in New Jersey.Bringing fine fiction to satisfied readers for over a decade, I remain, your humble author, John Weir.
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9 of 11 people found the following review helpful:
5.0 out of 5 stars
Author Rates Himself Again, February 13, 2006
Dear Readers: It's me John Weir, author of *The Irreversible Decline of Eddie Socket*, once again trying to pump up my rating by giving myself 5 gold stars. If you can do the math, go ahead and subtract my grade from the overall score. I just want to say that of everything I've published in the past 16 years - a novel, a bunch of magazine articles, a couple of short stories, a plea on Craig's List to sell an old dresser - nothing has gotten as much response as the snarky little blurb I wrote about my own book, a few years ago, on amazon.com. (See below.) People - strangers! not always cute! - come up to me on the street and say, "Hey, I read what you said about your book on amazon.com. Heh heh heh." Then of course they mention that they have never actually read the book. Just the blurb *about* the book. "Don't read it," I tell them, "just buy it," but they shrug and walk away. This brings me to a question: Should I in fact be publishing my next novel as a series of blurbs *about* my novel on amazon.com? A series of 1000-word excerpts, parceled out over several years? Because there is of course a new novel. It's called *What I Did Wrong*, and Viking is publishing it this March. I won't tell you what I think of it! You'll have to wait for my snarky response to aggrieved readers. In the meantime, I want to thank each of the 11 people who gave my book 5 gold stars, and I want to warn the two readers - Captain and Mrs. Bringdown - who did *not* like *Eddie Socket* that the new book is even funnier - and, I hope, more wrenching - about AIDS and loss and death and New Jersey, if those are in fact separate categories. Yours very sincerely, John Weir.
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2 of 2 people found the following review helpful:
5.0 out of 5 stars
I Was There and This Novel Rings True, June 2, 2007
I moved to New York City at the age of 29 on Halloween weekend in 1982. I didn't know I was entering the front door of a devastating health crisis which was going to target people just like me. Gay men. New York was always overwhelming and sexy when I visited in the 70's. In the 80's it was as overwhelming and sexy but men who looked just like me were beginning to vanish before my eyes. I became a volunteer at Gay Men's Health Crisis in part I think because I believed if I rolled up my sleeves and volunteered it would save my life. And it did.
The Irreversible Decline of Eddie Socket rings true to me. Every word. Every character. Every plot turn. Every wickedly funny joke. In the late 70's and into the 80's there were many Eddie Socket's roaming New York City in their pink Keds and many of them died. They didn't receive a featured Obit in the Times. They didn't win a Tony award. They didn't discover a cure to anything. They rarely rose above mediocre temp jobs and deep friendships with slightly overweight gal pals. These thousands of vanished Eddie's are mourned by their chubby gal pals and their divorced parents. But no one else.
John Weir gives story and face to people who walk by you on the street every day but who you never see. This is what great novelists do. It's really all they do. And it is more than enough. It is, in fact, heroic.
In many ways I think writing a review on [...] is the kind of lonely and slightly meaningless thing a character like Eddie Socket would do. Who will ever read this review? This novel is almost 20 years old. It wouldn't be considered a sensational book world success. But it is a success because it is a wonderful novel. The writing is lush and gorgeous and funny and sad. And I write this little review to witness and pay testimony to that gorgeous writing. Whether the book sold 10 copies or 10,000---it is a success in my eyes.
The added tragedy is that many of the Eddie Socket's who migrated to New York City from the farms of America considered themselves writers. Or painters. Or dancers. Or actors. But most died before they finished a book anywhere near as good as this one. Many works of Art and works of mediocrity were lost forever.
So we come back to this zippy, sexy novel. It's good. Really. If you don't think so, well, neither I nor Eddie really care.
Bravo, Mr. Weir.
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