Firstly, it took me a couple chapters to get into the mindset of the author's writing style. Then I thought to myself: "Self, give this guy a chance." Which I did until half way through, where I skimmed to the end and concluded it was the work of a strange dude jacked up on some psychotropic medication. I kid you not.
It's the work of a fellow who has huge disdain for American pop culture (...who doesn't?), and expresses it indirectly in this bizarre tale of a young man who travels between reality, and an alternate reality where there's every strange character you can imagine, mostly made up of dead rock stars. There's other plot elements that defy description as well... Let me quote a paragraph (this content is restricted to 18+):
I can see a popped collar on the Metrorail and a greased-shellacked hair-do in Grand Central. I can smoke myself a reality and trip myself a poison-pill tongue tip tranquility. And that's the new Hookah Lounge of the Headless Horseman. Now there's Uncle Sam sitting across from me in my dark room. He's wearing a seven foot scale model of the Washington Monument like a lesbian hayride strap-on around his lap.
It's the last half of the novel that turns more and more strange which begs the question: did his meds wear off, or did he start taking them again? It's a thinly-veiled diatribe that "rages against the machine" of mechanized idols, contrived music, and loss of originality in the arts. Fine, I get it, but wow - what a way to *not* get attention to your cause!
It was entertaining in spots, but not enough to exalt him as a genius writer. Unless of course, I had smoked a couple of big fat ones... In case you didn't know, I prefer Gin.
As creative as Trev was, I give him 2 outa 5. That's the rub and the tug! Later folks.
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