Generation S.L.U.T.
by Marty Beckerman
MTV Books / 2004 / $11.95

George Tabb grew up in Greenwich, Connecticut in the 1970s, where (according to his own account) he spent his childhood in wholesome American activities such as sharing both an outfield position and team T-shirt with his younger brother; being called a filthy kike; getting beat up by (amongst other people) his manic-depressive father, wicked bitch of a stepmother, and severely handicapped schoolmates; and occasionally raped by the odd large dog. Eventually, he escaped to New York City, started a punk band called Furious George, became a world-champion video game reviewer, got a gig writing for the New York Press, and played bass for the Ramones for about five minutes. You know, the American Dream by way of the East Village. Playing Right Field is a David Sedaris-type collection of rather amusing stories about his experiences growing up, most of which seem to end with him being severely beaten. As the community pariah of Canarsie, Brooklyn, I could empathize.

Marty Beckerman, on the other hand, hails from Anchorage, Alaska, which is about as unlikely a place for a Jew to be from as Mecca, and seems never to have eaten a knuckle sandwich on rye in his life. (This may change soon: Currently, he's a student at American University in Washington, D.C., where the frat boys currently have a death warrant out on him.) His Generation S.L.U.T. is a mixture of chapters of what could be one of those pomo absurdist Chuck Palahniuk novels (one character is Trevor Thompson, a date-rape-drug-dispensing, orgy-throwing teenage investing genius who I suspect is a kind of Beckerman alter-ego), personal reminisce (including the charming "My Make-Out Session with Watermelon Tits" and the heartwarming "My Unforgettable (Almost) Prom Date with a Dirty Rotten Whore"), pages of statistics on teenage pregnancy and suicide mixed with quotes from the media and "real teens," and a liberal dose of self-reference (Beckerman has his characters make fun of both himself, and his publisher, MTV Books). Somehow, though, the whole thing works, putting together a shocking snapshot of Generation Y, the likes of which hasn't been seen at least since the days of Flaming Youth, which was, lest we forget, the most controversial picture of 1923.

The thing is, though Beckerman is arguably a better writer (or at least more clever, in his smart-assed way) he also finished writing Generation S.L.U.T.—his second book, for Chrissake—by the age of 20. More props to him; I wanted to have my first publication by the time I was 18, but the only thing decent I'd written by that age was a Dungeons and Dragons-influenced pastiche that read like one of J.R.R. Tolkien's lesser bowel movements. Success at anything usually requires a mixture of hard work and talent; Beckerman certainly works hard—he began by writing a column for the Anchorage Daily News, and then self-published his first book, Death to Cheerleaders, all before he was old enough to shave—and he's a talented, imaginative writer. But there's a third skill: Knowing when enough is enough. If the Passion of the Jim Goad has taught us anything, it's that there's a line between shocking people with your writing and wearing out your welcome. Pissing off the New York Press and inviting the readers and staff of Salon.com to (and I quote) "suck down the Seed from my massive Jewish cock" does not help one make friends and influence people. (Well, actually, I was pretty impressed, but that's me.)

Still, I understand where the kid's coming from: I've done more than my fair share of stupid things; in fact, I didn't even begin to resemble a human being until my mid-20s—well after getting the boot from grad school and fired from a couple of jobs. I still remember when I was 25 or so and picked up the replica human skull my doctor had on his desk and began doing Hamlet's "Alas, poor Yorick!" with it. I then dropped it on the floor, breaking it. It turns out it was an irreplaceable memento he had gotten in India. I had to switch doctors, and let me tell you, that was a BITCH to get past my HMO.

So what's the point of all this? It's that being older isn't necessarily a bad thing. Both Generation S.L.U.T. and Playing Right Field are well worth picking up, especially if you've been forgetting lately to be angry about how shitty it is to be a kid (though considering the former's published by MTV books, maybe you should just download it. . .). George Tabb's anger may be recalled through the hazy fog of memory (or experience), but he focuses it like an evil child frying ants with a magnifying glass. Whereas Beckerman seems to be saying, "Hey look at me!" Tabb seems to be saying, "Hey, look what happened to me!"

And so, we conclude with the Top Ten Things Young Writers Do to Screw Up Their Careers:

1. Not actually being to write very well

2. Believing their publicists' copy

3. Resting on their laurels and either not publicizing their book or taking forever to write something else

4. Mediocre sophomore effort

5. Attempting to retain "outsider" status by only using small presses and obscure indie bookstores

6. Attempting to portray oneself as "hip" and "edgy" when no longer hip or edgy

7. Pissing off the wrong people (no, not the Times Book Review or NPR - I mean Barnes 'n' Noble buyers)

8. Wrecking your publishing house's finances and disappearing into the Arizona desert all the while promising a biography of Karl Rove

9. Wrecking oneself with drugs, alcohol, and transsexual prostitutes. A certain amount of these is necessary, but it's delicate balance...

10. Violating probation

Extra special bonus reason:

11. Writing anything with elves in it, unless they're products of a drug-induced hallucination or you're J.K. Rowling