My dog is running up to me, pressing a tennis ball into my leg, then running away from me. Over and over, and has been for the last hour or so, since seven AM, so forgive me if this ins't the lucidest review you've ever read. See I live in this long, basement/garage/bedroom, where there's room for a pretty humble game of fetch, and there's nothing that dog likes more than a humble game of fetch. She especially prefers fetch to, like, hanging out and not whining while I sleep, or sleeping too while I sleep.
Anyway, okay, as maybe you know, I love it when a book ends by going completely off the rails into complicated, weird, unlikely conspiracy territory, and this one definitely does that. Which is nice. I'm ambivalent toward the fact that the first third is told in the first person plural, I hated the outline format the second part had (it took me forty pages or so to figure out that, while there are like 'II A ii r's and shit like that, I didn't need to understand where in the outline I was, and that frustration didn't really feel worth the obvious jab at the arbitrary organization of office documents; there's way better stuff in this book than that), and I love LOVE the third part, the sixty or so pages of yelling.
So, yeah. This is not the most life-changing book in the world, and the emptiness/weirdness/ridiculousness of cubicle life isn't really the most groundbreaking topic. But so what, right? Neither is three generations of life in a small Mexican town, or a Dominican-American kid who likes comic books. Or: a young middle-class white woman's work and romantic life in short story snapshots, while we're at it. I'm still not 100% sure how I feel about it (well, I feel four stars about it, apparently), but I enjoyed reading it while I was reading it, which is more than I can say for some books, MICHAEL CHABON AND DAVID FOSTER WALLACE.