The Times s'épate la bourgeoisie with late-night parties (midnight counts as late), French, cross-dressing, and the smell of pot. It is hard not to be dismissive, and yet toward the end, a glorious nugget: "His own salary, around $150,000, is generous by literary-world standards." Ha! As my old man always advises: never begrudge another man his successful scam. You bet your tight asses that if I could get someone to drop a buck fiddy per annum on me for playing a "whippet-thin" cyproPlimpton, I'd buy the first round for the bar.