nonionay | (no subject)

I've been reading "Glimpses", by Lewis Shiner. Now, everyone who talks about this book online raves about it. It is indeed a well-written and (at first) engrossing read, but it also belongs to that popular genre, "Suburban White Man Angst," which is not one that I, a Suburban White Woman, am terribly fond of. It starts out all well and good, with the main character spontaneously making albums that Could Have Been appear out of stereo speakers. He hooks up with a producer in LA, and I'm all thinking this is totally going to be the Lathe of Heaven with Classic Rock. I was even content with the wish fulfillment of him hanging with Brian Wilson, because it really did make me appreciate the Beach Boys more. But then, the story decides to focus more on Ray's navel-gazing and attempting to come to terms with his father-issues, he has an affair, blah blah blah, and I got bored. There's just too much of that out there already, much of it equally well-written. Particularly since, twenty years after this book was written, the Baby Boomer longing for the innocence of the Sixties is already a bit of a joke.