If you love the ramblings of a thousand year old Jewish man as much as I do, you’ll love this book. It’s as good as Allen’s other three short (and I mean short!) story collections. But, maybe, in a way funnier, in that it is the year 2008 and he’s talking about answering services and EST.
The more out of touch Woody is, the more endearing, I say. He mocks California as a state overrun by new age shysters with names like Galaxie Sunstroke. His tales of film producers aren’t of slick young people in fashionable clubs, but Yiddish-speaking momsers kvetching over derma.
We shouldn’t wonder what happened to Woody to make him seem irrelevant. Instead we should ask where did we, as a culture, go wrong that we’re not on his wavelength anymore.
Anyway, if you saw me doubling over on the subway last week, it was because I was reading this book.
