I read Bill Clegg's first memoir, "Portrait Of An Addict As A Young man" last year and I thought it was an exasperating read but oddly compelling. I don't really think I liked it that much: it made me really antsy and uncomfortable. Well, what do you know. "Ninety Days," the follow up to it, is just as tiring to read. Clegg starts fresh, but goes to relapse a couple of times until the end of the book where he seems to have it all together. But for how long, I think to myself. Perhaps at this very second, as I type this, he is using again. I want to root for him, but there were times, int his book, when I wanted to shake him and say, snap out of it. But maybe that is the appeal of the memoir. I mean, I couldn't put it down even if I wanted to strangle him half the time. He puts his readers on a couple of emotional roller coaster loops, and maybe what makes this very interesting for me is that I know the areas where he walks and lives around, making his story familiar. For his sake, I hope the next part of his memoir is about his work and achievements, not more relapses.