You have to pity anyone who reads this book and thinks it is about sex. The Iliad is about sex; Midsummer's Night Dream is about sex. Delicious Tacos' work is about masturbation. It is appropriate that his first full-length work was named after a part of the female anatomy, for there are properly no actual women in the author's work, only figments of them, their passing flesh. The one time DT actually tries to humanize a woman he fails, and it is this particular failure that keeps Finally Some Good News from being a superlative work. It is on the whole a nasty, ugly, brutal work, an appropriate reflection of our masturbatory age. But in the end DT cannot endure his own nastiness, ugliness, and brutality. He fails as an artist because there is still hope for him as a man--he still wants to console himself with humaneness, even past the apocalypse.
Unlike his first with that unpronounceable title, Finally Some Good News is a novel, and the novel form forces objectivity on the author and keeps him from lapsing into the over-emotionalism and self-pity of the first book, transforming what was merely pitiful into the pathetic. The novel’s protagonist is very clearly just a Delicious Tacos or perhaps a doppelganger and surrogate, but the conceit of the novel form restrains the author from indulging in the over-sharing from the first book.
The intertwining plots create claustrophobia. In the novels’ best scene, at least three plot threads come together, combing the narrator’s lust for Filipinas, the chaos of multicultural LA, and the offspring of a woman the narrator defiled. Whether the author intends to or not, the confluence of stories provides a kind of morality. The wasteland his licentiousness creates is a fitting correlative for the nihilism and despair that drives his conquests in the first place; but he is likewise forced to confront the developmental damage he has done to the son of one of his conquests, one that results in the boy's nihilism that is even worse than the narrators, and which ultimately damns humanity. The narrator feels a good deal of empathy for the poor boy victim; he suffers under the breakdown of order. But he cannot repent of his masturbatory obsession, nor can anyone around him, and so the children are defiled and the world is destroyed. The bare and tedious degeneracy of DT's first book is transformed from AA complaints into roving rape gangs. The effect is far more chilling and given the brutal subject matter. The moral awareness of seeing the son of the woman he defiled in front of the boy and united this with the apocalyptic main plot is the novel’s greatest feat. It is dark, demented, and completely earned.
But DT does not have the mettle to keep up the despair. Beset by roaming rape gangs in the post-apocalyptic world, the narrator encounters a woman in similar straits and grows attached to her. We have seen this before from DT; we know what happens: something goes wrong, the woman is either an anatomical assembly or something just less than the angels, and thus unreachably above the licentious narrator. Not here. DT does something unforgiveable: He makes her empathetic. He shoehorns in a gang rape scene to show why she ended up in her sad state. Isn't the hellworld experienced by the narrator enough? Why shove this hot-headed melodramatic vignette in an otherwise coolly-narrated story?
Why doesn't DT join the roaming rape gangs? We don’t ever really have a reason but for the fact that the narrator says he’s not into it. 300 pages of using women as toilets, and now we're supposed to feel sympathy for the female race? It doesn't follow. It in fact destroys the entire method DT has cultivated in all his work.
All of the sudden DT thinks he needs to start writing romance, about real love between human beings. But this is a betrayal of all his other work. DT is a pathetic masturbator. The roaming gangs of rapists are masturbators. Their cruelty is not that of the Romans carting off the Sabine women, but of a porn user. They hack up their body parts and leave them heaped on the floor. There is no reason for this. What better time than the apocalypse to start a harem? These men could have lineages larger than Ghengis Kahn’s. Yet when they are done raping these women, they hack them up and toss them away like a used kleenex. Nothing is wanted from these women besides pleasure, and after this is had, they can be returned to the constituent parts of what brought the pleasure.
The classics were better reflections of the sex drive. Not just pleasure but possession. It isn’t clear that sex needs explicit portrayal to represent it. Sex is already baked into the cake of a healthy romance. Observing it from the outside, as a batch of organs and sensations, severs it from the creature it is. This is why the romances and war stories of the past ages were better "sex stories" than those written by Roth, Lawrence, and now Delicious Tacos. To write explicitly about sex is to write an anatomy textbook or a book of onanism. This is what DT has endeavored to do; it is the life he has chosen. As this novel shows, he is one of the best purveyors of our onanistic modern wasteland. But it also shows that not even Delicious Tacos can bear not to try to peer out of it.