This is a sanctimonious, priggish, and pompous diary of the life of one of those cross-disciplinarian types (poet? educator? sociologist?) which California so bountifully spawns, during one apparent sexually over-exhausting summer in which the writer comes to terms with himself. In between sucking and fucking every lady who comes within sight of his irresistible bod, he spends his time traveling between the Santa Cruz mountains (where he conducts a weekly seminar for minority teachers on a topic so vague even he doesn't know what it is), his Santa Barbara home full of scowling earth-like wife, kids, and freaked-out guests waiting for the Apocalypse, and the various other West Coast shrines (Berkeley, Palo Alto, San Diego) where his inevitably freaky friends and current and ex-lovers live. When neither driving, flying, nor screwing, he writes a very New York Jewish intellectual's diary -- replete with boastful and verbatim descriptions of the endless dead-end shouting matches with his wife, self-conscious explanations of the workings of his ordinary bourgeois mind, anti-hippie rants, and rationalizations for his male piggotry. The absolutely enormous number of encounters this writer (and probably all of us) unknowingly run through daffy -- rip-off conversations and half-desired matings--should make the sensible reader head straight for the nearest deaf-mute sanctuary.