"It wades in boredom like a night/ Of bad TV and frozen pies... No, Lord Byron didn't write that--but he might have if he'd read this fictional mash intended to chronicle his adult life. Because, somehow, through this gawky assemblage--random scraps of correspondence, manufactured conversations and meditations, bits of Byron's poetry (flickering feebly like lost rubies in Jello pudding), mass upon mass of unexamined events—Lord B. emerges as a raging twit, and a tiresome twit at that.