How sure? Don't be too sure. Even though the author manages to come up with the penultimate in pseudo pornographic pandemonium he lacks, shall we say, a certain subtlety. It's like being banged over the head with a dirty joke book to make sure you get the point. Mortimer Griffin is our phlegmatic hero, a WASI married to a progressive thinker. Mortimer's son goes to a school where they study the works of the Marquls de Sado; Mortimer's best friend and idol is Warhol Renaissance but Mortimer himself remains helplessly middleclass ... until he is accused of being Jewish and starts to wonder...? Next he questions his own manhood and decides to pep things up with an affair with a colored librarian who thinks black. In the meantime he's fallen under the scrutiny of ""The Starmaker,"" a mysterious Hollywood mogul who has discovered the secret of a very unusual immortality-he/she/it has acquired certain spare parts which make he/she/it extremely self-sufficient. And so it goes. Tasteless todium.