I've just started The Pale King by David Foster Wallace. It seems he deliberately chose to set it in the most boring place imaginable - a tax office in Peoria, Illinois.
The author's revered by a lot of fans of postmodern literature. You can't avoid comparisons with Thomas Pynchon I think, not least in the way that anything and everything, the tedious fragments of life, are brought into the scope of the book. Sometimes the effect is humorous, other times it feels almost despairing. (Perhaps not surprisingly from a writer who killed himself).