What at first came off as uncomfortably outdated modes of perception and expression became more glaringly self-adulating and misogynistic as this (non-fiction) book went on. I stopped reading at the part where McFadden goes so far as to casually condone another man's penchant for statutory rape:
"He claims he's forty-eight, but he doesn't like the older women. He prefers them between sixteen and eighteen. [...] Wherever you are, Lloyd Buttenham, I salute your honesty. And may you never run out of beer, teenage girls, or luck."
This book should be out of print.