I’ve read a number of P.J.’s books now, and generally enjoyed them. He
has an acerbic wit, and he’s a good observer; the combination makes him
interesting, and I often learn something. This, alas, is one of his
earlier books, back before he’d settled fully into his groove; there’s
too much sex, drugs, and inanities, and too little point for it to really
worth reading, especially given how dated most of the material is. Oh,
well.