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Offshore gambling pioneer Steve Budin's memoir Bets, Drugs, and Rock & Roll would benefit from a little more of all three and a lot less self-promotion.

With coauthor Bob Schaller, Budin takes us from his beginnings as a schoolyard bookie to the helm of an international sports gambling operation. At its best, the book gives us a look inside the Wild West days of an exploding industry. Budin's description of the messy extrication of his business from Panama is especially compelling.

But too many of the book's stories share the same point: Steve Budin is awesome. Of his salad days in Costa Rica, he says, "The office was my stage, and every move I made was watched by our 300 employees with the same focus and intensity as my fans who previously had gathered each Sunday night at the Talkhouse on South Beach to watch me rock the house, time and time again, without failure and without flaw."

I wasn't at that show, but I bet Budin's stint as a "rock-rapper" wasn't as glorious as he remembers. Not all of his stories seem so skewed, but throughout the book, just as he begins to build some genuine conflict or develop a character outside of himself or his beloved father, he reverts to the same bluster.

Every gambling book is basically required by law to contain a little bullshit. But as he presents himself, Budin doesn't have a compelling enough personality to make this a really enjoyable read. That makes his story, despite its legitimate place in gambling history, feel like low-stakes.