The Crying of me trying to read Lot 49

I'm going to try and say this in the nicest way possible. I hated The Crying of Lot 49 more than any other piece of literature ever, except maybe anything by Gertrud Stein. There. I really did try to like this book. I expected a story about a band and the drugs and confusion of the sixties. Instead I got a book about...well...I'm not even sure. I expected a book full of symbolism and rich detail, and I got nothing. I got a flat story that leads you no where. For the greater part of the book I was confused about what was going on. What in the world does an underground postal system have anything to do with Oedipa. I'm still trying to figure out why she was so interested in the first place. It was not interesting. As for me, I believe that it was all a wild chase created by Pierce. But then how would he know that she would be able to fall into all his traps? For instance, how would he have been able to know that at the end of her wits she would be travel to San Francisco and end up in a gay bar called The Greek Way? I don't know the answers to these questions because the book fails to give you any. The ending was especially frustrating. Not being able to find out who the mysterious buyers identity was icing on the cake. How could Pynchon do that to me. I made it through the confusing play, and the 1003746382 different characters and then he's going leave me hanging. Although I believe that it was pierce and he was in no way deceased my theory is not enough. I need proof, I need to know! This book deliberately evades solutions to the hundreds of questions that are asked. As the reader you are plagued by uncertainty. But, I suppose the uncertainty that the reader feels is similar to the uncertainty that Oedipa is feeling. Perhaps Pynchon chooses to leave us in the dark so we can relate to Oedipa in her unanswered quest for knowledge. That's great and all, however, just as Oedipa is left feeling out of her mind, so am I.