Despite the admitted satiric bite of the marketing-obsessed 1980s American wasteland that takes central focus, or central void, the actual narrative thread, the reversed decline of a washed-up ex-athelete, wouldn't really thrill me but for the not-unimpressive focus of the oulipan constraint driving every single line with surprising (un)ease. And I don't name-check the Oulipo lightly -- Harry Mathews and Sorrentino both couldn't leave this without a blurb. (Though they're amiss not to be reading Christine Brooke-Rose instead, naturally).
It's a not insignificant temptation to leave this marked "unread", but instead I'm going to leave it in limbo for now. I can't really get into the characters, and the reversed plotting leaves little-to-no actual narrative tension. The language might compel more if it didn't get tangled up in its constraints and fall over at times. Never mind.