I dislike dismissing a toss-off B-side of a novel by a highly respected author, particularly an author with whom I have some excellent prior experience, but: come on, guys, this book blew. At least, it did, for me, when I read it as part of my post-Drowning Tucson pop-ish-lit rock block earlier this year. I suggest the context in which I read the book may have colored my attitude toward it, as this is the Johnson book that was originally written and serialized in Playboy part by part over the course of four months. Maybe it was more impressive, at the time, partaking in the feat of it, feeling a bit like you were part of something. But as a stand-alone book divorced from that context? Yikes. I understand it’s not air-quotes literary work, but as a book that failed to excite or entertain, as a book that was not much fun, it wound up being, for me, not much of anything. What really kills me looking back on it now is that I see a parallel between my situation, reading it at a time when I desperately needed something exciting and pleasurable to pick me back up, and Johnson’s situation, writing it when he was coming fresh off Tree of Smoke, his lauded Vietnam novel, which, though I have not read it, I suspect must been an intense and draining chore to write, a book I imagine an author would want to shake off a bit before moving on to the next serious project. That sort of parallel makes me think this should have been a match made in heaven, one book written with one reader in mind. No dice. Perhaps it was a release to write it but with such a highly unmemorable end product I can’t help but feel cheated out of my ten bucks. I loved Jesus’ Son and will read more of his work in the future, but for now, I wouldn’t mind reclaiming the hours I lost to this disposable, slight book.