You need a book to read that will impress your friends and look great on your bookshelf for years to come. Dave Hill wrote just such a book. This is that book. You are welcome.

This is Dave Hill.  What you probably can tell from the photograph is that he is clearly a sartorially splendid specimen of sexy, sexy manhood—but what you probably cannot tell, just by looking at his photograph, is that:

1)      He is an internationally celebrated rock god (just ask anyone in Osaka—he’s HUGE in Japan).

2)      Despite his delicate good looks and his discerning eye for fashion, he is actually a kick ass former hockey grinder who’ll shove a biscuit down your throat if you even think about getting chippy with him.

3)      He is not actually British (I KNOW, right? He totally looks like one of the queen’s people, doesn’t he?), but a born-and-bred son of the U.S.A.’s very own Cleveland, Ohio.

4)      He is a comedian who is actually a really good writer (which is no small accomplishment —the two are not necessarily synonymous—but I won’t name names.  I’m a lady.) 

5)      He is obsessed with the joys of dressing up as Santa Claus, nude people (especially hot, naked chicks on the internet), Japanese toilets, guitars, and doing or saying whatever it takes to make you love him.  And not necessarily in that order.  [He’d really, really like you to love him.] 

Okay, maybe his membership in the “heterosexual man club” was a giveaway clue about his fascination with the unclothed human—preferably female—form.  After all, a quick glance at basic art history would indicate that most men like looking at nekkid folks, but how many can you say have written a BOOK that includes an essay detailing their riotously sexy romp on an all-nude dinner cruise?  Dave Hill has. Ha, so there.   

While I cannot, personally, testify to his prowess as a rock god, as a hockey player, or as a comedian (at least, not without stalking his vast array of youtube video credits), I can, however, attest to his writing abilities.  Having just finished his book, “Tasteful Nudes”, I will admit that I laughed—loudly, and frequently—at his sardonic voice.  I’m not kidding, my poor cat actually catapulted (no puns, please…let’s leave the comedy to the professionals, m’kay?) from my bed, leapt into the darkness, and bounced squarely off of my nightstand because my braying was so sudden and so unexpected.  What can I say?  Dave Hill has a hilariously dual personality that ricochets between the self-deprecating and the audaciously-confident…and it is a very appealing blend of madness.  [Also, he owes me $75 for my animal clinic visit and my kitty’s valium.  It was a very traumatic experience.] 

While his stage persona sort of radiates a feigning-sycophantic-nerd vibe, Dave Hill’s essays actually exude a charismatic, irreverent swagger—a pleasing “I don’t give a damn, I’m just putting this shit out there”-kind of tone.  However, what makes his literary voice particularly likeable is that you can easily imagine his puppy-dog face popping up regularly, head cocked, silently whimpering: “I didn’t mean it—I DO give a damn!”  It is in between the cheeriest moments, when his confidence wavers and the actual vulnerability behind the casually cutting humor emerges, that his writing becomes the most engaging and Dave Hill—the real man—becomes his most endearing.  

Don’t get me wrong—this guy is no hopeless schlub or anything like that.  He’s got some great stories—he lived in the infamous Chelsea Hotel, he worked in a homeless drug-rehab shelter, he volunteered to perform his stand-up routine for 300+ prisoners in Sing Sing, and he was a pedicab driver on the mean streets of New York City—and he depicts each of them with so much vibrant detail that they only kiss the hem of “Too much information!” without ever crossing the boundaries of “Oh, God, please stab this image out of my head!”  Some of the essays in his book are heartfelt, carefully crafted vignettes of the human experience—and some are hand-engraved invitations (printed on premium-quality gloss cardstock with velum overlays and satin bows—metaphorically, of course.  His writing is really good…) to revel in the glory, the perversion, the wit, and the insanity that is the average American male mind. 

(You know, the kind of American male who grew up with half-naked girl posters on his wall, who was hazed throughout high school by his teammates and friends, who lusted and longed and lived out loud, and who happily indulged in sampling the finest things life had to offer his generation—exceptional rock music, a quality liberal arts education, copious amounts of consequence-free drug and alcohol consumption, and generous access to internet pornography.  That American male.)    

Perhaps it is the fact that I have lived a fatherless existence, perhaps it is the fact that I am an only child who grew up without brothers or cousins—but frankly, I’ve always been especially grateful for up-close-and-personal stories from the male point-of-view.  I think that I’ve spent a lot of years trying to crawl around in the brains of men because no one in possession of the proper hardware (duh, a penis) was willing to inform me about the male perspective.  I mean, sure, after the age of thirteen, when my breasts decided to wake up and give the world a friendly “hey, y’all—what’s up?” I had plenty of offers to learn about what boys were really like up close and in person, but I was looking for an education where I could actually keep my clothes on and that went beyond the back seat of their Plymouth Satellites.  [God bless my wonderful mother for trying her best to explain the male beast to me, but 1) thrice-divorced, I believed that she was not without bias and 2) without the appropriate hardware (again, duh…), I figured her explanations were little more than theories.] 

Maybe the gap in this pivotal stage of my development explains why my formative years were spent making greater connections with the guys in my life than I ever really made with the girls—I suppose I found a certain measure of comfort surrounded by “the boys” because I was a bit of a double agent, covertly trying to decipher the codes of their behaviors and habits by hanging out, shooting the shit, bumming around town, and sometimes sucking face with them.  In retrospect, I probably [inadvertently] left behind a lot of blue balls during my reconnaissance work, but, in my defense, I swear I did it all in the name of advancement for the social and behavioral sciences. 

[However, in the event that there are any hard feelings (I swear to God that I did not intend that pun), would the following people please consider this a sincere, belated, public apology from a very naïve girl?]

Dear Patrick, Bobby, John, Tony, Tom, Matt, Mike, Sean, Joey, Craig, Jason and ______,

I’m sorry I wasn’t more of a slut and that I wouldn’t let you go past second base.  I really mean that. 

Sincerely.   

I’ve often paid private thanks to the novels of Philip Roth and John Irving and Vladimir Nabokov, the music of Freddie Mercury and Kurt Cobain and Tom Petty, for imparting much of what I know about my male friends and companions: these men were the fathers I never had—imperfect educators, certainly, but at least they were always there when I needed them.  Their collective works, along with those of their contemporaries, paved traversable routes for me to follow in my search for kinship and companionship with our masculine cohorts. 

[Parenthetically, ladies, I will share that, through these explorations, I’ve discovered that men are quite simple really—they tend to say what they mean, they are fairly honest, they have modest expectations, and ironically, they pretty much want most of the same things we do: love, laughter, companionship—a life free from drama, spent worshipping and being worshipped by the most attractive person that they can get to voluntarily come home with them (without resorting to the use of illegal narcotics or chloroform).  You know, just like us.] 

Once, in another life, when I was a teacher, I often dreamed about creating a contemporary fiction course where we would explore the desires and debauchery of men, as seen through 20^th/21^st century literature.  My fantasy curriculum involved examining books like “The Catcher in the Rye”, “Portnoy’s Complaint”, “The World According to Garp”, and “Lolita”—a sort of guided literary tour of the progressing (and often, regressing) maturity of the curious male creature.  I believe that Dave Hill’s essays would have fit very nicely into my proposed structure: each piece from “Tasteful Nudes” depicts a charmingly unsteady step taken by a silly-boy-man on his quest toward becoming a self-actualized-mature-man.  I’ll leave it to your reading to determine just how close he comes to his destination, but either way, I’m pretty certain you’re going to enjoy the journey immensely.

(Just make sure to remove any sleeping cats from your room before reading.  You cannot claim that I did not warn you and Mr. Hill cannot be held liable for any more veterinary costs.)