Where's that great novel?

The Sun Also Rises captured forever the expatriate American experience of the Twenties. The Great Gatsby remains the Jazz Age tale non pareil. On The Road is deservedly holy writ about the Fifties. So why hasn't there been a great novel about the Sixties?
It was with this question in mind that I bought Jim Christy's Real Gone (Quattro Books 2010) at this year's Word on the Street. Set in 1967-68, during the delirious Summer of Love, we're on the road (yup, that's right) with six friends in a "fishtail Plymouth" and heading to San Francisco. I'm going with them this weekend and the usual stuff of Saturday and Sunday be damned.
I'm only few pages in but already a couple of familiar figures have appeared. There's the hippie chick awash in rings and bangles, and bloody-minded "narcs" determined to find dope. Jim's book won't be the definitive novel of that remarkable decade, if only because it's a novella, but I'm holding it, perhaps unfairly, to a higher standard than I do other narratives. You see, I was there. And yes, I remember virtually all of it.