We gave it a C-
Annoyingly emphasizing the me in memoir, this narcissistic doggie bag from the go-go Gotham ’80s (think Jay McInerney without the wit or introspection) traces Behrman’s mad spiral into manic depression and his eventual leveling out via electroshock therapy. Problem is, Behrman spends two thirds of the book chronicling his late-night hummingbird pit stops of anonymous sex, Barney’s shopping sprees, and art-world hustling with smug satisfaction. By the time the violins are cued and he gets around to his hospitalization, he’s squandered any chance at sympathy. In fact, the only part of the book that isn’t as shallow as a thimble is the ”About the Type.” Suggested alternate title: Bright Lights, Self-Pity.