The Accidental Terrorist : NOVEL : SHOOTING ELVIS,<i> By Robert M. Eversz (Grove/Atlantic: $21; 217 pp.)</i>

The front of the book jacket says “novel,” the back says “hip, commercial thriller” and the publisher says “already an international sensation.” On the first two words of the second point, I can’t agree more strongly: If it were any more hip, it would require laser pelvic reduction. And commercial: Its ink fairly well drips with commerce. If you look closely, you’ll see the punctuation marks are actually little dollar signs.

But as to “Shooting Elvis” being a novel or any sort of sensation, let’s (just for fun) dare to differ and see what happens. In my definitions of art and love and air and such things, I’m probably far less conservative than Milan Kundera, but I do like to think of the novel as some form of poetic meditation on existence; poetic in a broad, broad way, such that, for example, Douglas Adams’ “Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy” gets thrown in with “The Brothers Karamozov.”

The extent to which “Shooting Elvis” is poetic is, unfortunately, roughly the same extent to which the pope hocks condoms on his day off. But apart from the word “novel” printed in large, cantankerous letters on the cover (judge not), Robert M. Eversz gives no indication that his intentions were anything but hip, commercial, thrilling and internationally sensational.

“Shooting Elvis” is essentially an action-adventure screenplay handily typeset and bound as a novel. Even though this nimbly paced little study in accidental terrorism and low-life romance makes all sorts of cute jabs at art, the art world and, to my slight delight, the work of Jeff “Kitschy-Koo” Koons, the author’s primary dedications seem to be toward (1) making a lot of money, (2) landing a movie deal and (3) making a lot of money.

If you’re someone who likes poetic meditations on car chases and torturous thuggery, if you roll in the aisles over the humor of Republican comedians and presidential candidates, you might have one hell of a good time following these exploits of a small-town SoCal baby photographer who inadvertently blows up an airport.

Mary Alice Baker, you see, had a very very bad and silly boyfriend. One of those “I want you to do something for me” types. So Mary does something for him: She delivers a mysterious package to a mysterious stranger at LAX. After the package, stranger and airport blow up, Mary goes into hiding from the FBI. She heads first to Hollywood to get drunk, dye her hair black and stick a metal rod through her nose (to blend in). Then she goes downtown to Gorky’s, to eat and to meet more silly and dangerous people, with whom she gets in more trouble; then (can you imagine?) Mary (now Nina Zero) gets mixed up with even sillier and even more dangerous people and then gets in even more really really big big trouble.

As I almost said, the author does have fine action-adventure control. (“Fire spurted under my feet. I kicked at the door, knew I’d been given the choice of burning or catching bullets as I ran. A bullet seemed faster. The door jerked open like a curtain to hell.”) Although such stuff may be the literary equivalent of the “ooh yeah ooh baby” pop song pounding from the idling jeep, perhaps Eversz will focus his talents on a more sophisticated composition after he’s made a few billion dollars off “Elvis.”