A socio/philosophical tilt at identity seasoned in straight wry. Expounded in that Smollett-to-J. Lennon playful gloom, the author takes the reader, via an autobiographical chronology of the seeker, on a three-ply journey to selfhood. Father was an Irishman (one of a chain of lies) and the son another weaver of lies who blows up an adolescent bubble-self personality. But then Father was a Scot after all, and where does that leave a son? ""I was looking for those perfect centers, those priceless medians. . . precious golden worthlessness."" Nowhere man. But alas, what he had achieved was: ""a truly perfect American. . . a kind of Mr. Pulp of all Existence, Everybody's/Anybody's Brother. . . ."" The final, yet preparatory stage is a kind of psychic housecleaning waiting for the resident, now absent, Identity to come home. Witty, stylish, convoluted with cleverness which could smother the casual reader. Intriguing but special.