by David Bowman
This is touted by the blurb to be a fine and energetic read, but this reader wondered if the people who reviewed it had actually managed to read beyond about half way. Indeed, the first half of the book is a fine road trip romp through recent American cultural history and the Southwest. Something, it seems, in the author's mind makes him certain Kurt Vonnegut is lurking in his pen. The second half of the book is a furtive and overweening attempt at mimicking Vonnegut's chaotic fantasy style, but without the brilliance. By its conclusion, the reader may find himself wanting to send the book back to the author for a rewrite. Its randomness and fantasy just do not satisfy. Beware, somewhere along the way, someone wrote a screenplay based on this novel. Bowman writes occasionally for Salon.com.)