Yeah, this is it, the kid, Charlie's son, boy beatnik, busy blacksheep...See how he's run these many years. Many? Well the kid's only nineteen and he's written his memoirs yet...on how to be the disturbed son of a genius by really trying. Mike ran away to the good life of pot and pads in the London scene when he was fifteen. Why not? Like he was disgusted. The family had just come back from a world tour where they really didn't get to see anything. Too much red carpet bit, receptions, the press, etc. Charlie did take him to see a cave of bats. Mike loves bats and rats. But Charlie and he really didn't get along too well. Charlie had a ""late Victorian"" attitude and insisted that Mike go to school. Mike didn't like school. He did like older women and pranks like going out and cutting the local fisherman's nets at night. And later, letting his hair down to shoulder length, he liked London where ""I got to know a pretty interesting bunch of artists, students, ponces, fast car drivers, wild chicks and pushers of heroin."" And he liked pot even more even though it meant making his own bread by working in a Deli or trying his luck as a pop singer. But most of the time he and his two mates Red and Jippo were just jazzing around Europe, sniffing, popping, smoking...Red graduated to the big H. Then of course there was analysis, an abortive stint at the Royal Academy of Dramatic Art, and finally marriage. Mike paints a swinging scene. And the glimpses of the Chaplin clan may put this book into it's own Limelight.