An excerpt:
Of this wild trip, from Nixon-loving Catholic schoolboy to Democratic kingpin of the Soprano state, McGreevey is sanctimonious in the way that only reformed sinners and former addicts can be. And, of course, since the quickest path to public rehabilitation is to declare you have an addiction, McGreevey now views his life through the fuzzy gauze of the 12-step program. He claims to have been an addict all along; he was hooked, not on drugs, drink, sex or gambling, but simply on "being central in the world, to being accepted and adored in the way that celebrities are adored -- by strangers, in abundance." In other words, he is an egomaniac. He shies away from this word because to use it would call into question his motives for "confessing" in the genre of best-selling autobiography. But once the signal clichés of addiction recovery begin to make their way into the book, McGreevey's halfhearted apologia and barely submerged defiance begin to make sense. How can you be sorry for actions over which you "have no control," for a life you did not quite live? You accept them with serenity.