This fictional work may be the "confessions" of a self-help writer, but the confessions have very little to do with self-help writing. They are more the reminiscences of a misspent youth and adulthood. The whole thing really shouldn't work at all. There is hardly a real story or plot, but the book breezes along so quickly (after the somewhat ponderous introduction) and is filled with such memorable aphorisms or observations ("My God Virginia Ham is salty" or "There's something about aged liquor that makes you feel important, even when you're using it as a cleaner"), that as a reader you just fall in line and enjoy the ride. It is by no means profound or a classic, but it knows how to come to a finish while still in the reader's good graces. I suspect most of you reading this review might get a kick out of it. ( )