Eh. I like a bitchy tell-all about publishing and New York fame whores as much as the bext girl, but this one just never gelled for me. Toby Young can't decide if he's Dave Barry or David Brooks; strippergrams and Tocqueville are a difficult combination, and it gets even weirder when he refers to some woman's tits on every other page.
May be this is another victim of over-hypr though; I heard a lot about this book when it came out, and it was highly recommended to me by a friend as well, so I was really looking forward to it and it kind of fell flat. Though I do identify with his anger over his friends' success. Maybe I'm too much of a loser myself to appreciate books about losers who are trying to pretend that being a loser is cool, as long as you can admit it.
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