If you "get" Liz Renay, get this book. it's hysterical! She's like a cross between Marilyn Monroe and Penelope Pitstop! Danger seems to lurk around every corner for Ms Renay in her search for stardom--and if it isn't getting her, it's getting her kids! They fall out of second story windows, get attacked attempting to visit her in prison, and even end up stripping with her. Through all her trashy tales though, Liz manages to emerge as a lovable eccentric: a warm-hearted optimist, which saves 'My Face..." from ever becoming the maudlin "could-have-been" saga that it might have been. On a par with Mamie Van Doren, only more entertaining, Liz's quirky narrative entertains from start to pulpy finish. Oddly inspiring!

It's clear that despite all the mistakes and unfortunate circumstances of Liz Renay, she is clearly one of the happiest people alive. The camp value is definitely there and your hooked after the first paragraph - read between the lines and you'll connect with a woman who's happiness has been put to the test. Her belief in loving herself and to love others (as simple as it is) is an emotional level few people in life actually reach. Have fun reading this book - I sure did. Now, if only John Waters will make a movie version!!!

This book is very entertaining, and it's a shame that it's out of print. Liz, who is best known as a star of one of John Water's films (DESPERATE LIVING), was a woman with a lot of chutzpah and cujones. She was independent before being so was acceptable. She lived life her way, without regrets, and this book tells it in unadulterated detail.

This book describes the stance of the author in a rather pompous and very conservative way. It is definitely very small and unsignificant, pregnated with a dusty conservatism belonging to another age. The moralizing is almost nauseating. After puting into view her shrieking psychological mechanisms (displayed by dryly describing, allegedly drawn from the data of her own astronomic statistical density, the various categories of males into which all are to be fitted), thereby showing an uncommon narrowness of soul and lack of heart, the author condescends in delivering us the usual small-talk trash about prominent people (actors and so forth). A typical revealing lapsus is shown in the following sentence "I want to talk about more than just sex." Well, besides being a funny and astoundingly naive statement for a book with such a title, it implicitely reveals she never really enjoyed sex at all, despite her alleged numerable experiences. But what it really does show, is that for the author, just as for many other women, sexuality was not a goal in itself, but just a cheap available mean to reach certain goals and a certain social status. How sad, how depressing, how poor. Two thousand males, just to end-up with such a piece of garbage. What a waste... (of the males, of herself, of time, etc). The only little light shining forth is her description of a lusty, life-loving tranvestite named Michelle.