I Don't Like to Complain, But . . . is a collection of essays on a variety of topics all of which share two traits: each topic touched or provoked the author in a special way; and in each case this provocation produced an essay that is sure to amuse the reader.
Mere amusement, however, does not appear always, or even most of the time, to be the sole aim of the essays—rather, a morsel of enlightenment should linger after the laughter. Several of them (MA-L,S,V; Dear Gloria; Knowledge is Boring; The End of Sex) take on certain quirks of modernity: the TV ratings guide, excesses of information and communication, even language itself. Others (Notes on the Impossible, De Gustibus, Sketchbook) offer glimpses, drawn from the author's years spent in France, of some special—sometimes delightful, sometimes annoying—aspects of life in that often misunderstood country. Still others simply follow out some telling experience that came the author's way—on the basketball court, in his car, in his living room, on a deserted, sandy beach in the middle of next-to-nowhere.
It does appear that the author has done a bit of reading over the course of his life, as literary and philosophical references from a variety of sources that might be termed "classical" (Shakespeare, Austen, Locke, Homer) can spring up in the oddest of places, though fortunately they are not so numerous as to become overbearing. They serve only to add one more perspective on the flow of events in life, and on the direction a particular narrative happens to be taking. But more deeply imbedded in the writing style than just passing references that might here and there cast a slanting light on people and events, is the inspiration the author has found in writers such as Robert Benchley and Dave Barry (and—in addressing the cartoons that are sprinkled among the articles—in the likes of James Thurber and Helen Hokinson).
From Dave Barry we can see lessons learned on The Fine Art of Digression. None of our experiences in life are "simple"—all that we experience is woven into a contextual fabric of indeterminate extent, and the author here takes delight in tracing out certain of the less expected threads that make up this fabric. (Some of Barry's digressions become the dominant element in his pieces. That hasn't been the case in the present volume; but perhaps the next one?)
From Robert Benchley the influence is deeper, hence less visible than any particular technique. Whether Benchley was being satirical, critical, descriptive, or was indulging in absurdity for its own sake, the adjectives that spring immediately to mind in describing his efforts are "delightful," "charming," "witty," "winsome"—never "bitter," "sardonic," "hopeless." It is clear that the writer of the present book is imbued with that same spirit.
Even a line such as "No—I won't surrender my land line until they pry it from my cold . . . dead . . . hand!" for all its seeming melodrama, is clearly meant to invoke the image of Charlton Heston speaking out on behalf of his beloved NRA, which, when imposed on the context in which it occurs in this book, should only bring a chuckle.
A few of the articles here seem to conjoin with one another: "Trouble in Paradise" and "Private Enemy Number One," or "The Last Hurrah" and "With Any Luck." But even in these cases the bond is hardly fast and indissoluble—the reader should feel free to settle down to read whatever title seems alluring. (Chances are, the piece in question will not be about what the title seems to suggest, anyway!)
So leave your worries at the doorstep, prepare to enjoy yourself, and dive right in—whether at the deep end or the shallow end is of little importance. The book will keep you afloat as long as you're holding on to it.
