Flow My Tears, the Policeman Said, by Philip Dick

I try to like Philip Dick.  I really, really do.  I think my lack of appreciating of Dick is just a matter of taste.  I recognize the literary quality of his work, and the strength of his ideas, but his books always get me down.  Flow My Tears, the Policeman Said didn't do much for me.  It's not known to be one of his better works, but still, I expected more.

When a world-famous, fabulously wealthy media star wakes up in a seedy motel with no ID, and no one, including his close friends, his agent, and his girlfriend, recognizes him, he knows he's in trouble.  He has to figure out how to get around in this near-future dystopia, where being caught without ID can get you sent to a labor camp.  What could have been an interesting exploration into the psychology of identity and a look into parallel universes turns into a weak story of drug trials and perceptions of reality.  This isn't the first time Dick's stories have seemed too caught up in the drug culture of the 1970s.

He has great ideas for stories, or the kernel of stories, that frequently translate into terrific movies.  A movie version of Flow My Tears could be great, in the right hands.  I would just ask the filmmaker to make it better than the book.