James Lipton has been many things -- an actor, a producer, a dancer, a pimp in Paris -- as well as, of course, the world's most celebrity-mad interviewer. I love his over-the-top Inside the Actor's Studio interviews; they are the only ones where actors actually get to discuss their craft seriously. I wanted to like his one attempt at writing a novel, since he's so talented in so many other lines of work, but alas it proved impossible. The same skills that make him a good interviewer make him a terrible novelist. He interviews his characters, in fact, and they are incredibly helpful in response. They give us information -- tons of it -- about the life of dancers in New York in, I guess, the seventies. It's hilarious because each character tells us everything we need to know about life there and then -- and it's all dated. The language is dated, the clothes are dated, the attitudes are dated. It has the same novelistic appeal as a 70s retro TV show. And not in a good way. This is a bad, bad novel. It's completely predictable, completely transparent, and completely forthcoming. The audience that this book would work well for is an audience of one: a sociology grad student studying the life of gypsy dancers in the 70s in New York. The rest of the world should pass.