A repetitive and hard to believe memoir that alternates between Moby’s childhood as a poor child juxtaposed with his future lavish, rock star lifestyle. Moby uses the memoir to name drop and self-aggrandize while simultaneously admitting he’s an ego-maniac that wants (wanted) nothing more than to be loved by the world. The excessive, alcohol- and drug-fueled, debauchery that he tells over and over and over again wasn’t the unbelievable part. It was the level of detail he is able to recall (ala: I then ordered 2 tequila shots and 1 vodka and soda from the bar) about events decades in the past. Who remembers the exact order and volume of drinks and drugs they consumed at a party 18 years ago – particularly when one is totally drunk and high out of one’s mind. It just didn’t pass as authentic, but the general trajectory of this life and events did. And they are sad. I went into this thinking he’s a weird dude and I walked away with the same impression. Perhaps I would have more compassion for his weirdness given his bizarre, poor childhood, but it’s offset by all the egotistical, self-destructiveness that I feel in a way he’s still a bit too proud to share.