The title of this book/diary is also the license plate of Stein's Mercedes Benz, the one he got when he wafted into L.A., the town where ""you are what you drive."" Once a proper Wall Street journalist, Stein fled to L.A. to realize his fantasies: blue skies, lotsa candy, the discard-o culture, rented furniture, a Jacuzzi--the intoxicating ""impermanence of everything."" Sure, he's scripting for Norman Lear, doing a novel, other stuff, but in L.A. that's not work. The pages here are peopled with beautiful girls poolside, in the Mercedes, in bed. They make offers: ""Would you like to tie me up?"" They make promises: ""All I had to do was chant and I would get anything I wanted."" There are businessmen too, hustlers like the guy who was about to receive the exclusive franchise to sell Red Chinese ginseng root. He figured $10 million, minimum. The only rule is Thou Shalt Not Brood. Stein can't get enough of it: ""For me L.A. means doing and being free"" in all its existential joy. You'll wish it was a send-up, but it ain't.