No Success Like Failure: The American Love of Self-Destruction, Self-Aggrandizement, and Breaking Even

The title of this collection of reportage by a contributor to Esquire and The Village Voice (and a son of former HarperCollins senior editor Ted), suggests that an ironic, detached commentary a la Didion will bring the pieces together, and a hint of such emerges in Solotaroff's description of a Staten Island neighborhood (``I look out the back window, smelling rubber, WD-40, and steaks burning in the backyard''). The lack of any coherent pattern linking subjects ranging from trick-bike riders to Mark Gastineau is okay for a while, as Solotaroff's meticulously researched material and self-effacing, guy-next-door demeanor propel his writing (as when ``some imp of the perverse'' compels Solotaroff to try to block a shot of a street basketball legend, resulting in a slam dunk and a rejoinder: ``Let that be a lesson to you.'') He hits his stride in ``The Regulars,'' as he chronicles the antics of rabid Yankee fans like Ali Ramirez who ``hammers out an eight-beat salsa rhythm'' on a cowbell when he feels a Yankee hit coming. Still, by the time readers reach the piece on Charles Manson's followers, coming as it does on the heels of a report on Bobby Fischer's chess championship in Montenegro, they may be feeling a bit bewildered. (Apr.)