Several reviewers make the accurate point that the book isn't really about bullies or bullying in the sense of dispensing practical information. Nor does it go too deeply into the author's personal experiences being bullied (he says he never bullied other people). It's more about a subculture of bikers who were bullied as kids and grew up to be bullies who operate on the fringes of society. Bullying isn't the point -- violence, anger, aimlessness are. And those problems create a need to belong to something -- in this case, a motorcycle club/biker gang.
The author has a deep man-crush on the former antagonist of his youth, Trevor, who was the co-founder and is still the leader of a motorcycle club in current day Oakland. The city itself is the epitome of dysfunction and the stratification of American society. Mostly, it's dirt poor and violent. Blacks and Hispanics sit around in dilapidated houses with nothing to do and no prospects. Homelessness, violence, drug abuse, blind-drunkenness, setting of intentional fires are daily or hourly occurrences. A few miles away, both still within the city limits, and then also in nearby San Francisco, astounding wealth continues to accumulate for our era's golden age.
The author is one of those few who can kind of cross from one to the other. Raised by an abuse, mentally ill father (after the death of his mother), he has become a freelance feature writer and an adjunct professor in the New York City area. His frenemy as a youngster is Trevor, who is the too-cool-to-be-believed head of a motorcycle gang in Oakland. In order to exorcise his demons, Alex contacts Trevor through Facebook, writes an article for GQ, and a few years later decides that a fuller book-length treatment is merited.
The result is a year's "embedding" with the Rats Motor Club. It's one tale of violence after another during a drunken night, punctuated with quick sex in an alley. Club nights are all about fights -- informal boxing matches between any two chumps that need blood to break through their unhappiness. The violence spills out into the bar and then the street, and then someone races off into the night on a Harley.
I find it incredibly bleak and scary. I'm not a violent guy, and I wouldn't want to spend 10 minutes in the clubhouse. I'm sure that I'd tire of the repeated stories of that time that J.J. punched out that guy who was mouthing off, or Trevor shot out all the street lights, or whatever. But I'd also have respect for people who aren't afraid to live on their own terms and without much of a look to the future. Their horizons are grim, and they are short -- doubt most of these guys anticipate reaching age 60. So they will drink their dozen beers, patch together their bikes, and enjoy the camaraderie as long as they can.