Denis Leary makes me cringe. He also makes me laugh. And I don’t watch TV shows like “Rescue Me” nor have I watched an entire one man show such as “No Cure for Cancer,” and I’ve only seen a handful of his 30 some movies. But I did read his book Why We Suck (Viking) that’s due out this November. It’s clever, sardonic, offensive and punchy, which is probably what Leary fans extract from his comedy. His style is declarative and overt as he takes shots at GWB, the lazy fat American mentality and Dr Phil. But like any well-rounded s%&^ talker, he mixes in enough self deprecating digs about his Irish Catholic family upbringing to make his manifesto endearing, particularly in the tongue-in-cheek adoration he expresses for his quirky mother and patient wife Anne Lembeck Leary, who has a new book out this summer.
Leary seems intent on needling everyone of his readers in some way, many who he presumes are women. Yet, In his efforts to dog the gender imagery perpetuated by our society, Leary is off on a few points targeting the collective “you” women reader, namely when he tackles women race car drivers early on.
Setting the tone for his diatribe he writes, “Even if you somehow managed to convince yourself that you were Danica Part Deux and passed every physical and mental challenge in your path and got sponsored and officially suited up and officially entered and placed on a track—you would never win a single automobile race. EVER. Even if all the other male drivers were involved in an incredible crash that left them literally without the wherewithal to circle the track, you would be unable to maneuver around and between all the burning and airborne debris fast enough to see the checkered flag. Especially if you plan on having kids.”
Why? Women apparently have the genetic instinct to protect herself, and therefore would never subject themselves to this kind of misfortune.
It’s pretty clear that Leary is obviously not a motor sports fan. He takes shots at NASCAR fans as reflective of American culture, extending his assertion to Europe that this sport is based on car-crash waste and excess. In some ways, perhaps he’s right in reference to the well-fed hillbilly fans, but he does digress to sweeping generalizations that would be smarter if they were universally true.
For one thing, race car driving has much more to do with finesse than a death wish. Check out my chat with NASCAR superstars and their daily driving habits.
Of course, I smugly can’t resist pointing out that Patrick has never competed in NASCAR. She’s won attention for Indy, silly, which is a far more international sport. Perhaps a guy like Leary would say it’s all the same. I’m just saying. Interestingly enough, Leary’s father was an auto mechanic. Maybe his ideas of cars isn’t all that romantic.
Regardless, the guy stands for what he thinks — and puts his money where his mouth is as is the case with the his firefighter foundation, Leary Fire Fighters. The book is woven together by his assertions, but is stocked with enough personal reflection to border on memoir territory. Love Denis Leary or hate him, his satire is intended to make you — whoever you are — think, and have a laugh along the way, too. Good, unclean written entertainment.
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