Booty Nomad, by Scott Mebus

I’m glad I didn’t read the hype surrounding this book before reading it; the discussion of “lad lit” and whether this genre aimed at males, the XY equivalent of chick lit, those frothy feminine paperbacks, spearheaded by this very book, could ever attain the same status as its insanely popular female counterpart. (The conclusion overall, by the way, seems to be “no.”)

Thus, I got to read this book with a completely open mind: I picked it off a shelf at my friend’s house and, knowing nothing but the jacket cover blurb, began reading.

My final impression, therefore, independent of any market gossip or professional critical judgement, is that if lad lit never makes it off the ground, it’s certainly not due to quality; while this book is certainly no prize-winner, it’s competently written and eminently amusing, which is more than can be said for many of the chick-lit bestsellers.

The story of a 20-something single guy in New York City and his dating adventures, Booty Nomad quirkily showcases the male perspective on this story, which has already been told and re-told by females. While the male perspective is not something the female reading demographic may want—the main character is promiscuous and, what’s more, in the habit of forgetting the names of his amours; he therefore nicknames them soi-disant clever things like Bendy Girl, who practices yoga, or Opera Girl, who is all about “me, me, me,” or the Eater of Souls, his ex-girlfriend about whom he is still heartbroken—it is a slightly different twist on the story and therefore entertaining in its own right.

Mebus is also reasonably talented as a jokester, if not a prose stylist; his description, for example, of the main character’s job as a producer of a children’s television show, to which he is indifferent, made me laugh out loud. (Dave claims, probably not without truth, that the episodes, which teach life lessons like don’t take candy from strangers, brush your teeth every day, and don’t staple your dog to a bus, are all simply copied off Sesame Street; in a similarly lackluster spirit, he recites a litany of mistakes the show has made, including giving God a producer’s credit to check the level of editing and, unfortunately, reading “Niagara Falls” as “Negro Falls” for the entirety of one episode.) Though often sophomoric and rather juvenile, both in its approach to relationships and in its humor, there are moments of genuine quality shining through; I guess that’s another element of its similarity with chick lit—overall, a throwaway, meant to be devoured in one sitting and passed on to the next friend with several hours to spare, but with a few, only a few, moments to make it worthwhile. Indeed, this is like a mirror image of the majority of the chicklit genre, telling the same “searching for the One” story, only with everything exactly reversed—more farts, less shoes; more sarcasm, less tenderness; more sex, less love.