‘Hello, Friend, My Name is Melvany’By Jason SteinDorrance Publishing Co.$14

On the ‘Warning’ page of ‘Hello, Friend, My Name is Melvany,’ the titular character issues his first rule:

‘You cannot ever say you thought this was a good book, especially if you are my friend.’

Don’t worry, Melvany. I wasn’t about to.

In his latest novel, Stein delves into the ‘semi-autobiographical’ story of Melvany, a New York University senior (like himself) who locks himself in his dorm room for a week to reflect and write, largely about the stench patterns of his roommate, Dulf. The book probably would have been worthwhile had it taken some sort of direction, but the very thing that makes ‘Seinfeld’ great is what makes this book atrocious – it’s about nothing.

Between ranting about various inane topics, Melvany updates the readers on his progress with time-stamped entries, which appear as follows:

‘Sunday, 11:03 p.m.

Dulf just passed out three minutes later than I predicted he would. He is still wearing only the Butchered Bottoms. His falling asleep became apparent when the beer in his left hand fell to the floor and the rear of his head fell backwards onto his pillow. Because he fell asleep on his back and is not at all curled up, his height forced his feet to extend off the end of his bed so far that they are resting flat on the floor.

Thus far, this procedure has been quite enjoyable. Perhaps I will spend many weeks of my life in a room writing for you. For now, I am going downstairs to get a toasted bagel with cream cheese. After I eat it, I will wash my face, brush my teeth and do a cannon ball into bed, where I will prepare for tomorrow’s writing by doing some Sunday night contemplating. Then I will go to sleep.’

If this book were to be about something, it would probably have to be the exploration of Melvany’s neuroses. Right away, you notice something’s wrong – the pages have no numbers, and there are no chapters. Though Melvany provides an explanation for this – page numbers deter people from reading – it’s entirely illogical, because you feel like you’re getting nowhere. That’s because you are.

Now, we all have our own little obsessive-compulsive ticks (I refuse to eat farm-raised fish and hate babies), but Melvany’s diatribe of every single little thing that bothers him makes me realize exactly why he was able to spend a week in his room and not be missed. He spends at least two pages on each of the following topics:

Why he can’t wear Band-Aids

Brushing his teeth

Dreaming

Having to put too much in a suitcase

The intricacies of AOL Instant Messenger

Why girls play ‘the game.’

Not once does Melvany approach anything remotely close to emotional complexity. He makes at least three attempts to write poetry, but they’re about such deep topics as urination and going back to school. It’s not exactly Pulitzer Prize-winning material. Stein is pretty much the only person benefiting from writing this book, and he clearly loves to see his own words on the page. He probably also tries to pick up women by passing out copies of his latest work of literary genius, then realizes about four hours later that the things he reveals in the book make him look like a total psychopath.

There’s a time and a place for rambling on about how body odor makes you want to vomit. It’s called LiveJournal. So if your Internet connection was recently lost, pick up a copy of this book. Otherwise, head back into the blogosphere.

Published on April 10, 2006 at 12:00 pm