I read Mark Lindquist's Sad Movies on the plane ride back from Maine.  It was a quick read, mildly enjoyable, but half the time I kept thinking, 'He could have done better there' or 'I wish he had said something else.'  Still, at just over a hundred pages it wasn't torturous to get through and did a good job maintaining the self hatred of society that many of the 'literary brat pack' novels had during the eighties.