My Inflatable Friend - The Confessions of Rollo Hemphill By Gerald Everett Jones

As an writer who blends wit with societal critique, I was interested in Jones' first work of fiction (he have written some 25 plant of nonfiction.)

Newly paroled valet de chambre Rolf Hemphill is a Los Angeles 20-something who's simultaneously fed up and intrigued by the people whose autos he Parks at a five-star hotel. In an effort to animate green-eyed monster in the miss of his dreams, he brands – and makes newspaper headlines with – a life-like inflatable dolly personifying an ageing but sexy actress who is staying at the hotel.

Instead of backfiring, Rollo's gambit lands him his dreaming job, eternal hard cash and booze, and a contract to be arm candy for the actress, Ms. Monica LaMonica, whose breasts are almost as pert as her ego. What follows is a screaming frolic involving silicone polymer and superhero underwear; the cast of fictional characters of characters scopes from a Magyar bellboy to a celebrity-stalking couple in a Winnebago.

Even though he's slightly hapless at first, I establish myself rooting for Rollo, who embarks on this escapade in the involvement of getting into a beautician's pants. (Haven't we all had that urge? Regular pedicures will make wonderments for any relationship.)

A screaming read, My Inflatable Friend is also a adroit pigeon berry in the oculus at celebrated person culture, as well as America's machination with the famous and infamous.

Let me warn you in advance, however, that the lone cat who sees any action in this book is the spouse of the inflatable dolly - but it's not who you think.