For many, the decadence and frivolity of the Reagan 80's crumbled with the onslaught of HIV and AIDS. Gary Indiana's latest novel, Gone Tomorrow, recounts one version of this collision. As a memoir on the early 80s and a reflection on the advent of AIDS, Indiana tells the story of the Paul Grosvenor, the central player in a configuration of international characters reminiscent of Warhol's Factory. As a German avant-garde director, Paul orchestrates the drama both on and off film; his position is central to the novel's intricate and complex web. Gone Tomorrow is a remembrance of Paul, who somehow embodies much of Indiana's vision both of the 80s and of the violence of the plague.

The narrator, a jaded Greenwich Village type, tells two related stories: the first a recollection of a filming in Colombia, and the second a recollection of the first deaths back in Germany. Though the first narrative (of the filming in Colombia in 1984) sets the background and fills in the characters, it seems a bit superficial. Perhaps this is somewhat intentional. Indiana often slips into seemingly unnecessary and indulgent stylisms, which act as nothing more than glittery accessories. Though possibly a reference to the Accessories Decade, these long-winded descriptions (usually of sex, sexy characters, or drugs) come too frequently to be considered merely clever allusions to 80s excess.

The second part, set in 1987, which describes vividly the initial impact of HIV on this group of friends, flows with more finesse. At the very least, it is more interesting and of more relevance. Much of Indiana's poetic impulse, carried over from his chef d'oeuvre, Horse Crazy, shines through. The sex scene at a former Nazi Concentration Camp, as one can well imagine, carries a poetic power which teems with tension. It most creatively epitomizes Indiana's acerbic and incessant critique of Reagan's few and late policies on AIDS. It also embodies much of the nihilism (brilliantly conveyed in last summer's film "The Living End") felt by people surrounded by the epidemic: "...he and Chris had both tested positive for HIV, and had therefore dispensed with any kind of protection. 'We're just fucking ourselves into nonexistence.'"

From the glossy surface of Indiana's prose, small but powerfully political quips often burst forth. However, these moments do little to sustain the overall ho-hum drama which is meant to propel the novel. It reads as if a Dynasty script meets "Miami Vice" in Colombia followed by the same Dynasty script meeting. "The Living End" in Germany. And this is all retold, often second-hand, by a not so reliable narrator in New York sometime later. Oh, and a serial killer lurks about the pages. This allusion seems so cliche it's forgettable, but so irritatingly contrived that it's not easily forgotten.

To be fair, novels on the AIDS epidemic, necessarily, are tricky creatures. The impact of the disease has been as complex as finding a cure, and to capture somehow these complexities with words must be one of the most formidable tasks available to the contemorary literati. And, like finding a cure, the writing of the AIDS novel, or novels, will be marked by marry wrong turns, trial, error, frustrations, advances, despair and hope. Gone Tomorrow, though interesting in its premise and ambitious in its multi-oriented goal, seems like an experiment that leads to no major breakthrough. Though ultimately unsuccessful, it remains important for scouting out uncharted new territory.

Novels on the AIDS epidemic are trickly creatures.