Ehhhhhhhh. 
 I do not care about this man, whose story is told in the second-person. If it is a gesture to make me feel sympathy for him, I do not. I do not care about his job. I do not care about his cocaine habit. I do not care about his idolizing his supermodel girlfriend. I do not care about his parties. I do not care about his boss or his papery coworkers. I do not care about the clumsy Nicholas Sparks story of his dying mother. I do not care about anything he says or does. All of it is superficial, glimmering, an example of the era and lifestyle which it attempts to parody. 
 McInerney cannot decide whether he seriously loves that hideous era in American history, or whether he hates it. He has a voice, at times, and he can say something if he makes an effort. But very rarely does he have anything to say.