Over the past ten years, Tom Wolfe has set himself up as the Bugs Bunny of American journalisma squeaky, impudent dandy with a glib eye for the lumbering victim. Toward the end of the '60s, New York appeared to be strewn with his targets, from rich Black Panther-loving liberals to the editorial staff of The New Yorker. It was also dotted with the lucky recipients of his approval: mayflies like Baby Jane Holzer, cultish ephemerids like Marshall McLuhan and social grotesques like the collector-exhibitionists Robert and Ethel Scull, all festooned in yards of...
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