This book was pretty engaging. There is a train-wrecky appeal and Clegg is pretty good with phrase. (I especially liked it when he described a woman's accent as "tricky.")

I would have liked it better if he had really reflected on the way his race/class kept him out of jail. While I was really fascinated by the idea that there are secret crack addicts everywhere, Clegg could have been omre reflective about the fact that addicts who can't check into Manhattan hotels to get high and order vodka for room service, who stumble home to buildings that don't have doormen-- these folks go to jail forever or die.

Maybe it's not fair to judge him for not having a social justice agenga, but I found myself wanting to shake him-- particularly when he is so high and disheveled that he can't check into a hotel--- I think it's the W-- so he goes to SoHo to buy a new cashmere sweater.

The writing is strongest and most self-aware when Clegg recounts some really painful moments from his childhood. He employs a risky device of talking about his child-self in third person, but he pulls it off.