When reading the postmodern preenings of a Rick Moody or David Foster Wallace there is always a suspicion that behind the poses there might be a writer capable of an occasionally compelling sentence or metaphor, and that they simply choose imposture instead because of hubris or lack of self. With Thom Jones’ writing there is no such suspicion at all. He’s simply a bad writer.

How this — well, to call him a hack would be to convey that he was capable of what I just denied, so let’s call him a troglodyte; yes, troglodyte! No, that’s too rough. If PoMo writers are fey, he’s neolithic. That’s it! How this neolith not only got into print, but has also been lauded and awarded (his first book, The Pugilist At Rest, was a National Book Award finalist), acts as an object lesson in why demoticism in the arts is a terrible thing. After all, what published book isn’t nominated for some half-baked award?

Sonny Liston Was A Friend Of Mine is apparently Jones’ third short story collection, released in 1999, and follows mostly pugs, mugs, and losers, in a very masculist style of writing. But, Jones is no Hemingway — not even close, although Jones claims literary descent from him. And this comes from someone who thinks old Papa was vastly overrated.

Instead, he writes pretty much as you might think someone who proudly declaims he was an ex-Marine, ex-boxer, and ex-janitor would write. And that’s no slur — I’ve cleaned many a toilet in my three decades-plus of working, but I can create compelling poems, stories, characters, narratives. Jones writes — and, hell, let me go for the easy stuff just this once — like a guy who has been shell-shocked, punch-drunk, and inhaled too much ammonia and bleach together. His writing is horrible at worst, with only a dozen or so moments in the book that even rise above tedium.

I am used to Postmodern crap, PC crap, Romance-level crap, but this is just plain old bad, bad writing 101. And the editing of the book is bad, as well. I’m not talking deliberate colloquial misspellings of ‘want to’ as wanna, or the like, but misspelling simple words, with no attempt at rendering a character’s accent. Even the grammar and punctuation in this book is bad.

About the only thing Jones can claim is that he tackles topics no other published writer does. In fact, this was why I bought the book — for its title — as I have always been a big Sonny Liston fan. But, instead of even refried Ring Lardner I got comic book level writing — and not that of modern graphic novels, but that of the 1950s Comics Code level.