Well. At first I was amazed by the sheer speed of Andrei Codrescu's prose; I felt like I was on a bus in a foreign city, hurtling through narrow and unfamiliar streets and just hanging on for dear life, but somehow enjoying it almost despite myself. The first essay in this book, "Against Photography", veers wildly between his parents' relationship, which disintigrated sometime in between his conception and his birth, the existential experience of having his photograph taken by his mother as a child, and growing up in socialist Romania. It is perhaps summed up by this sentence: "The photographer, who is the watcher, is always the parent, the subject is the child, and the end result is always Stalin." There is wit and verve, startling connectivity, and an almost refreshing lack of concern for expectations. I loved it.
The rest of the book was, for me, a slight letdown after the first essay. There were other selections that I greatly enjoyed--especially the ruminations on television culture (or lack thereof) and the travel essays at the very end--but there were also essays that literally gave me headaches, perhaps also an admirable talent to exercise within the span of five or six pages. The nimbleness that initially enthralled me eventually just made me feel tired, the way an extended adrenaline rush will leave you limp and drained. I'd read more of his writing, but perhaps as an essay at a time instead of an entire book at once. But I was impressed by his eruditeness, and I learned a lot (particularly about the Romanian revolution, although the presupposed levels of knowledge about that event were sometimes a bit beyond me, which I suppose is my own problem when you get right down to it), and that's worth the occasional bit of frustration.