This reminded me of when I started reading earlier in my life when it seemed like every book I read would bring me an author who was doing totally new things that I didn't know could be done in lit. Back in the days of Barth, DFW, Flannery O'Connor, Marias, DeLillo, etc, where I was like a sponge in reading all all, to me, new and brilliant stuff. After reading quite a bit over many years, those experiences don't happen nearly as much as they did back when. That's why when I actually read a book that makes me want to check out the rest of the author's oeuvre, it strikes me as a big deal. It also makes me ask myself why the hell I haven't read Gary Indiana before and why I've barely heard of him. Somebody who writes this good and entertainingly should be read much more than he is--which is my assumption since some of his books are out of print.
He happened to have an interview in Bookforum's summer issue that caught my eye, so I grabbed this book on a lark and really couldn't put it down. It's a hilarious, sad, disturbing, and eminently readable story with characters that, although often making terrible decisions, are wholly relatable to most of me, and I assume most of us who have spend a good part of our 20s and 30s doing questionable things in the strange city of Los Angeles. Speaking of, this is now my favorite LA novel by a mile. You can tell an author who writes about LA without actually living in the city. And Indiana nails all aspects, especially the slightly lurid underground of the city that is nowhere near the beach.
I'm definitely checking out rest of his books.