A story about people in crises whose only support are other people in crises, and a sharply observed portrait of family dysfunction. Shot through with a partiuclar Midwestern malaise and set against the backdrop of fast food joints and strip malls, the narrator's lassitude reflected in the isolated stasis of his surroundings. West has a keen eye for detail and human idiosyncrasies, which, when filtered through the eyes of his observant, hyper-articulate but spiritually apathetic narrator, gives rise to a bleak, sardonic tone. This could easily lead to a novel that's depressing, overly cycnical or unnecessarily cruel, but West walks this line quite well. The cynicism is laced with a dry humour, the mockery doesn't tip over into outright cruelty (and, importantly, the narrator doesn't excuse himself from his own mildly derisive scrutiny) and while existential angst does permeate the book, West wisely stops short of going into full staring-into-the-abyss mode.
The eponymous diet is one example among many of a character reaching for something under the misguided belief that it will solve everything, or perhaps simply for the sake of manufacturing some direction. Failure runs through the novel, both in the typical sense and in the sense of failure by way of inaction, and as a reader we can see the inevitably of this failure as the characters attempt to repair the internal via the external, to remedy spiritual discord through material acquisition. There is grotesquerie here, but the novel isn't grotesque. This isn't satire. Kitsch, perhaps, but not unreal, and it's a kitsch world rendered in elegant, precise prose.
Listless but not depressing and humourous but not comical, My Father's Diet hits upon an all-too-relatable sense of time oozing away, simulataneously moving too quickly and too slowly, and of being a passenger in one's own life.