I have no idea what I just read. I feel like the author was on something and just wrote, in stream of consciousness style, whatever came to their mind. ( )

To begin with, I was drawn to this book because of its writer, Gibby Haynes, who's never come across as a writer to me. He still doesn't. On the other hand, every book has its points, even though Haynes's style comes across much like that of a jaded raconteur, a man who's told a lot of tales, perhaps filtered through eons of drugs and alcohol, and, perhaps mainly, a man whose sense of style and plot follows the irregularities of his old band, the Butthole Surfers.

The book started quite uneventful, but suddenly changed direction:

Then one Friday, Oscar returned from school and Mr. Cigar was on Oscar’s bed instead of his usual place in front of the closet. Curiously, Oscar examined the closet to find the thing missing. Where is it? Oscar thought and sat next to Mr. Cigar on the bed. Mr. Cigar gave him an unfamiliar glance, then rolled over to reveal something remarkable.

There, clinging to Mr. Cigar’s underside, was an odd, doglike animal that was about five inches long. The little creature stared at Oscar with inviting, humanlike eyes and yawned, revealing a mouth full of tiny razor-sharp teeth. It had fur like a dog, four legs and a tail like a dog. The ears were smaller and pointier than a dog’s.

Most amazingly, however, this creature had wings—wings that were slightly fur-covered and batlike. Without regard to consequence, Oscar reached to touch the critter, and in an instant, it took flight. After rapidly circling the room several times, it landed on Oscar’s desk and then promptly disappeared. What just happened? thought Oscar. What had he seen? Was any of it real? After answering, I don’t know, to all these questions, Oscar realized the creature had not disappeared, but had somehow changed the color of its wings to match the color of its surroundings.

I won't go into detail because of spoilers, but Haynes's best trait is his fantastical descriptions, but throughout the book, I kept feeling that he could have done something with both plot and dialogue; where somebody like Jonathan Franzen can provide excellent dialogue, Haynes lets the dialogue turn into a lull, a kind of mindless drawl, almost, which doesn't really fit in with the rhythm of what the book could have been. An example of this:

I tell Mike, “I’m not feeling so good. I’m glad I’m not doing any of that Molly. I might not be able to handle it.”
“Double wow,” Mike says as we ease onto FM 66. “I assumed you saw me dump that huge blast into your Red Bull. I also put a little orange microdot in there. Just to round out the experience.”
“Uh . . . What’s ‘orange microdot,’ Mike?”
“Acid, dude. You know: the old Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds. It’s super clean . . . I got it off a totally legit deadhead in Copenhagen.”

I feel panicked.

“Holy shit, man!”
“Don’t worry, dude; it’s totally for reals. Homeboy got it from Petaluma Al in Amsterdam. You’ll thank me later . . . The colors are awesome.”

Oh, great, I regret to myself, Petaluma Al: the Pablo Escobar of Lysergic Acid Diethylamide . . . LSD

“No, you don’t understand, Mike. I don’t do drugs.” He laughs.
“That’s the same way I am, man. It’s a complete misnomer to call psychedelics ‘drugs.’ I think of ’em as a sort of a mind Band-Aid. When your reality gets scraped, you need a little first aid. I feel so-o-o good . . . Wow, cool, this is great. I’m never going to eat again. Cool. Wow.”

I laugh too. Wow. Wow, cool. Mike is kind of funny, though. Actually, really funny. Then he lets out this laugh that sounds like Richard Widmark pushing an old lady down a flight of stairs in a funky old noir flick. I’m not sure if I say this out loud or just think it.

“That’s what I’m famous for.”

He cackles and starts up in with the wow-cool-wow stuff again. It’s getting kind of crispy at the edges of my field of vision. Why am I laughing?

If only Haynes had let the fun of the twists in the book and allowed it to breathe more, it wouldn't feel as uncontrolled as it is. The boons of the book are its contorted twists and turns through a literary landscape where Haynes shows that anything is possible. This book is not predictable, at least when it changes direction.

For me, this book is too uncontrollable in a bad way; I love books that take you on a ride, but when they carry the sound of a completely neophyte author who is in need of a strong editor's hand, I can't help feel that a lot of promise has been wasted. I'm still looking forward to what I hope will be Haynes's second book.

P.s. Nobody who knows their music—especially that of the Buttholes—will miss the music references, e.g. "Locust Street" and "MC5". ( )