"How We Got Insipid", indeed.
422 pages, the better part of a month out of my life, lots of characters with silly names and sillier theories, minutiae heaped atop minutiae seemingly for the sake of more minutiae, escaped tigers, stranded astronauts, three-legged dogs, gray fogs, endless dope-smoking, holes in the ground and hiccups. All that work and this was what I got?
This one and that last rock 'n' roll novel of yours; two strikes, Mr. Lethem, though I'm certainly pulling for you.
May I suggest more Lionel Essrogs and fewer Chase Insteadmans or perhaps a return to gun-wielding kangaroos. I'll be waiting.