I don't usually read celebrity stuff (being not much of a TV/media dweller), but the book was on sale in my library for 80 cents and fit in with a bevy of substance abuse memoirs I found myself flocking to over the summer, thanks to Augusten Burrough's setting me on that path with his memoir, "Dry." With this one, I felt a little like a voyeur, with the attendant thrill of seeing inside famous people's closets but also left with a certain postcloset linty taste, or maybe it was the glut of exclamation points and too much tongue-in-cheekiness. I suppose it's good to know that Paul Simon is probably an asshole. It's also creepy and interesting to think of George Lucas owning Fisher's likeness to the point that her daughter can buy a Leia pez doll and snap her mom's head back to make a teenagery point or, worse, see herself as an anatomically correct doll whose dress you can look up at a trade show. I appreciate her indignance and resignation about the whole Hollywood scene, but also her narration of the environmental and genetic constellation that fueled her bipolar and substance issues. Fisher can be very funny, and often intelligent and warm in telling her story, using humor and a flippant irony to keep her memoir from dirging down into sappy pathos. She's probably great to see live. Her writing is at three stars, but her punctuation is one star--she hammers WAYYYY too many exclamation marks onto the pages, instead of relying on her wit and the ostensible intelligence of her reader. That said, I'm sure a ton of people would prefer reading her kind of punchy prose than, say, Dostoyevsky or Gertrude Stein's, and find her story at times uplifting, poignant, and funny!