As a prolific freelance writer and a regular commentator on NPR's This American Life, David Rakoff has stumbled across some interesting subjects. However, like a lot of comedic essayists, Rakoff writes about what's around him mainly as a pretense to write about himself. Fraud, his first collection of essays, takes the author all over the world in search of a good story, but whether in Iceland, Japan, or that old standby Manhattan, Rakoff's roads inevitably lead back to one place: David Rakoff. This wouldn't be much of a problem if his writing weren't so frustratingly familiar. As a sarcastic, gay, neurotic, Jewish New Yorker, Rakoff epitomizes a fairly common voice; his snide, snarky solipsism reads like a better essayist's twice-reheated leftovers. That's not to say that he doesn't get off a handful of strong pieces. His trip to Reykjavik in search of elves unearths a basis for faith in a cynical world. Similarly, a Buddhism seminar hosted by action star (and reincarnated lama) Steven Seagal points out that a scam is generally in the eye of the beholder, while a survival-school jaunt in rural New Jersey addresses the shortcomings of city living by demonstrating the strength, serenity, and perhaps even the superiority of natural amenities. Rakoff's sentimental misgivings about abandoning his Canadian nationality or preparing a troupe of idealistic Austrian teachers for work at one of New York City's biggest public schools address larger issues of identity from an intriguing vantage. But, more often than not, his narcissistic instincts get the better of him, and he's distracted from his various quests by personal crises. Mountain climbing in New Hampshire presents Rakoff with the opportunity (not the last) to complain about his shoes, and covering the Aspen Comedy Festival—ostensibly on a Robin Williams search-and-destroy mission—becomes just another excuse to dissect his career path. "Weren't you thinking of doing a one-man show?" someone at the festival asks him. "Oh, no," Rakoff replies. "I'm a writer now." Readers overwhelmed by his incessantly hammy first-person writing may question the distinction. There's certainly room for Rakoff in his essays, but too often his personal observations and realizations come at the expense of the rich, fascinating world beyond his navel. Note to public-radio trainspotters: Rakoff's passing account of Disney World overlaps with friend and fellow This American Life correspondent Sarah Vowell's own account, as included in her book Take The Cannoli. Is the planet so short on untouched material?