I love Bill Bryson. Really. He usually makes me laugh out loud.

But I have absolutely no interest in finishing this book.

I’m about 3/4 of the way through (well, I’ve got 3 1/2 chapters left), and I’m looking at it, and looking at all the other books I’ve got to read and thinking to myself, “Nah. Not interested enough.”

It was pretty funny; he’s one of the few authors that can make me laugh out loud. But, with that said, I have two problems with the book.

Point number one. Saying he grew up in the 50s is kind of like saying I grew up in the 70s. I didn’t, not really. I was 8 in 1980, and I consider myself a child of the 80s. I can remember the 80s (pretty vividly), while the 70s are pretty much a haze. He was born in 1951. He was 9 in 1960. Yes, he was a child in the 1950s (mostly), but “growing up”? Not so much. It bugged me that he spoke with such authority about a time period when he was just a little kid. I don’t know why. It just did.

Which leads me to point number two.

2) I’m amazed anyone can remember in vivid detail anything before they’re 8 years old. It seems to me that this book was just an excuse to harp on and explore the 1950s. I would have rather something more memoir-ish. He’s become (at least with the last couple of books) more of a “trivia guy” rather than a story teller. The book was littered with little bits of trivia about the 1950s, some of which was interesting, but most of which was just distracting and annoying.

I’m sure there’s more wrong with the book. There’s more right with it, too. It reminds me of Bryson’s book The Lost Continent which I couldn’t get through either (he crossed the line from being funny to being mean, in my opnion). It’s too bad; he’s written some of my favorite books. This just isn’t going to be one of them.