Started out strong, but became tiresome for me maybe 1/3 of the way from the end. The humor is what kept me going (in general, anything that makes me laugh will not be abandoned, no matter how disengaged I am otherwise), and the narrator's voice is steeped in somewhat bleak humor rooted in the absurd, my favorite. There are countless profound observations on spirituality, ritual, family, identity, what it means to be a man and a brother, usually conveyed through lovely writing - however, I guess I'm either too old-fashioned or not smart enough to fully connect w/ a postmodern structure, which is sort of like no structure at all - anything can happen at any point, and maybe already did, and what the heck is happening? There's nothing concrete to tie me to the story, which lessens the impact of all the lovely observations - I think part of it is that the whole thing is so loose, the narrator so increasingly unreliable, you almost feel like a dupe for being moved by anything he has to say. I'd say this goes for the whole experience of reading the book - you feel almost silly for being affected by it, because in the end it's hard to tell if Antrim's just screwing around. I've never read anything quite like this, and I can see why he's so well-regarded by his peers (both George Saunders and Jonathan Franzen have written forewards for Antrim's books) because he really is a dazzlingly smart writer, and I may even seek out more of his writing in the future, but for now I need a break....