*Absurdistanby Gary Shteyngart
(Random House, 352 pp., $24.95)*
To open the second novel by Gary Shteyngart, a Russian emigré, is to be whisked away to his fictional former Soviet republic with all those hallmarks of the Third World: sectarian violence, abandoned construction sites, and abysmal cell phone reception. Though the subject material--political corruption, militant violence, and oil dependency--is dour, Shteyngart's novel manages to remain lighthearted because its embellished reality is, well, absurd.
Our protagonist on this parodic romp between Absurdistan, St. Petersburg, and New York is Misha Vainberg, the embodiment of aristocratic indulgence, who can't seem to stop eating, sweating, or self-medicating with ample doses of Zoloftushka and Prozakchik. The son of a wealthy Russian entrepreneur, Misha moonlights as a liberal arts student at Accidental College, but before long he finds himself back in St. Petersburg with little direction save for satisfying his rampant appetite. In a failed attempt to acquire a U.S. visa, the well-intentioned dolt finds himself in Absurdistan, a parallel universe where even the prostitutes work for Halliburton.
Moved by the plight of the impoverished Absurdisvanis, Misha embarks on a global public relations campaign to encourage the flow of international aid. One Svani bureaucrat bemoans the main problem Misha's project will face: "The way 'Absurdisvani' is pronounced and spelled, it's utterly impossible for an American to feel anything for it. You have to be able to use a country as a child's first name to get anywhere. Rwanda Jones . . . Timor Jackson. And then you got this Republika Absurdisvani. Hopeless."
It is this sort of sardonic breeziness that makes Absurdistan such a pleasure to read. As with many satires, however, the jokes get repetitive. Hardly a page goes by without some mention of Misha's enormous girth, and Shteyngart has fun with the fact that his narrator is a narrow-minded halfwit. But Misha can only hit his manservant over the head with his shoe so many times before one begins to feel as though Shteyngart is hitting the reader over the head with these jokes.
Though the drollery grows stale at times, at its best Absurdistan is the epitome of 21st-century globalization. By turns an indictment of commercialization and a celebration of cultural hybridity, Shteyngart's novel would be a great addition to a time capsule, an instructive morsel for future generations who hope to understand the state of the world in 2006.
--Abigail Lavin
Club Life:
The Games Golfers Play by John Steinbreder
(Taylor, 192 pp., $19.95)
John Steinbreder makes no pretense about his contribution to the annals of human understanding: It sits squarely between the sign age at the club house entrance and the storm shelter at the end of the eighteenth hole. His book may not improve your swing, but it will give you a better understanding of the things that really matter about the game, including the men's grill room, club governing committees, and the diminished presence of caddies to haul your sticks around the course.
There is a special place in Steinbreder's heart for club admissions officers, club dress codes, club food, and club staff. He devotes an entire chapter to the subject of club logos, complete with analysis of his personal collection of garments adorned with club insignia from around the world. We also get his personal experiences with nasty club managers, his refined preferences on club food, his highly scholastic analysis of parking lot layouts, and where he thinks the best location is for a post-game cocktail.
While Club Life is funny, it does drag in places, especially near the end. At 192 big-type, small-sized pages, the book is a breeze, but the second half found me fishing for more of the hilarious anecdotes that decorated the first. By embracing its position as a quirky stocking stuffer for golf enthusiasts, and abandoning its pretense to be the bible of golf social commentary, Club Life could have jumped from a fun read to a must read.
Steinbreder's targets include those who insist on making phone calls on the course. He recalls "one of our members talking on his Nokia as he stood by a pay phone near the range, as if the transgression was a little less egregious since there was a legal land phone in the immediate vicinity. The caller looked so guilty and secretive, however, you would have thought he was selling crack rather than checking his messages."
His anecdotes are not confined to the mundane, however; in one, he makes note of a story about Willie Nelson on the links. When confronted by an employee of the course he was playing for wearing jeans, Nelson promptly dressed himself in proper attire from the clubhouse. The women's clubhouse.
Condensed to maybe half its length, with all stories and no analysis of "the sounds of golf," this book would be perfect. As it is, Steinbreder's repertoire of witty commentary and literary twists is enough to make this book a suitable gift for your father-in-law on his sixtieth birthday; perhaps, even, a step up from the usual golfing tees or club covers.
--Jillian Bandes