Dirt , or Shout at the Publicity Bid

Has anyone here read the Motley Crue memoir, 'The Dirt'? Fascinating more for what it reveals about the roots of hairmetal (which they never considered themselves a part of btw) than about their exploits. Although some of those are funny too. (Next time you're speaking to someone on their mobile, imagine where that mobile might be!)
Strangely, mastermind Nikki Sixx appears to initially have had in mind not a party-metal band but a LA-style goth-punk unit along the lines of 45 Grave, TSOL etc. (I've got a GRATE comp called 'Hell Comes to Your House', which captures this intentionally-going-nowhere-except-to-rehab-or-OD scene - also includes really early shit by Redd Kross and Social Distortion ["Lude Boy" has the best punk drumming I've ever heard that wasn't by John Maher] - and best of all, I got the CD for £2.99 in some probably-now-closed tiny record shop in Birmingham, how cool is that?) As most sui generii are, Sixx (actual name, it was changed by deed poll after his father told him to fuck off) wasn't a real Sunset Strip survivor (most of whom were teenage prostitutes anyway), but a refugee from the sticks who read about all the decadence in LA, decided he wanted of "Piece of the A...ction" and went there. More proof Sixx was a punk like Duff McKagan - superannuated (and Canadian, though they hush it up, wouldn't you? Although the Brazen Hussies don't!) guitarist Mick Mars was hired on the basis "He was an asshole with shitty musical taste, and I told him to get the fuck out of my house", and hilariously, the band showed their metal reverence for chops and manly reserve by jumping Eddie Van Halen and BITING HIS HANDS. Anyone who's suffered through latter-era VH albums can only cheer.
It's not all fun though. In fact, reading this book gave me successive feelings of "That's cool", "Wow, it'd be cool to be them", "That's a bit much", and finally, "I suppose I'm sort of lucky to not be as fucked up as they are." In fact, it gets downright ugly. The black hole at the center of the book is Vince Neil, a self-proclaimed sybarite, who is seemingly unrepentant about his vehicular calamities (although, diving into life-and-death matters far beyond my powers of analyses, a freakish karma struck when his daughter died age 4 from cancer contracted from a nearby toxic waste facility.) - and here's where the ethical dilemmas start - who/what inflicted all this damage on themselves and passersby, the nice-but-dim metalheads who understandably took what they could get (Tommy Lee's narrative is what you would expect - it turns into 'Wouldn't It Be Nice' halfway through, "Me and Pamela were encountering roadblocks that could've been negotiatied through discussion but she has a habit of just walking away from things when they don't work" - well, that's what people DO, Tommy, when they're a bit more sophisticated than metal drummers), or whoever it was who hired them, promising them heaven on the condition that they acted as antisocially as possible? Motley Crue - LA punk's ultimate revenge on metalheads, either for beating them up, or just for general punk principles? (Post-Crue, NOBODY will ever equate 'metal' with 'musicianship', 'heirs to Hendrix' etc. EVER AGAIN.) Or just another Khmer Rouge-style revenge of the rural repressed on the sick, decadent urbanites, who deserved their inevitable fate in Elektra Tuol Sleng Torture and Massacre Unit (LA - Phnomh Penh Network)? In any case, yet more proof that LA punk was by far the greatest 'punk' variety of the time - the stoopidest, most assholian, most shamelessly fake druggy glam garbage ever! AND its effects were enough to ignite the great unwashed Rawk Nation, which was more than any other 'punk' outcrop was able to do!