From the Boston Globe:
Ellis has made a career out of lazy nihilism and gratuitous viscera, and ''Lunar Park" marks the apotheosis of that career. It is by far the worst novel he has ever written. It may be the worst novel I've ever read. I don't make any of these claims lightly. Ellis earns them, sentence by sentence and page by page. The book is a faux autobiography, in which Ellis, a dissolute celebrity author who still snorts coke through rolled-up 20s, tries to reinvent himself as a sober suburban dad to his son.
Elsewhere, we are treated to gems such as ''My hand was a white-knuckled fist clenched around the .38" and ''We waited for what felt like eternity." Ellis announces that a ghost-detecting machine ''resumed beeping again." At this point, I began to wonder if the book wasn't some sort of elaborate prank.
Steve Almond is a joy. (HA! Get it!?)