Rob "the Bouncer" Fitzgerald is not a writer, but well on his way. Clublife reads well, tracing crooked steps from the working class neighborhoods of Queens village to the rotten streets of West Chelsea at 0430. Along the way, Fitzgerald hits blackly humourous high points of attempted murder, sexual assault, extreme premature ejaculation, and, ultimately, redemption.
I confess to being a serial reader of the author's widely-read blog, from which many of the best exchanges of the book have been cannibalized. Truly, brevity is the soul of the Bouncer's wit. He's at his best in short exchanges, doing reportage style chapters that get hysterical quickly. That is, if you enjoy laughing at the refuse that litters New York's nightclub scene, which I certainly do.
Keep reading past that first chapter, because as a neophyte writer, Fitzgerald is still mastering the art of catching your attention from the starting gate. He tends to ramble a little when trying to provide background, and often takes too long to make a point, using ten words where two would suffice. The spectacular nature of the book (as it is mostly autobiographical) is actually that a bouncer with no real background as a writer could come out of the woodwork to create something so brutally honest and compelling. If his first creative "spurtings" are this productive, I am looking forward to when he ejaculates a fully formed load of work.