too bad ken layne
was so busy writing his novels and getting them published and finding
a fiance and traveling the world and getting innerviewed and throwing
fourth of july parties on the grounds of his hollywood hills manor.
for if he hadn't perhaps
he would have had time to pick up Lynda Barry's Cruddy. and then he
would have finally found a single worthwhile novel written by an American
in at least 10 years.
it's now even in paperback.