Monthly Archives: October 2007

Fuck James Frey

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Know the book?  James Frey’s ‘A Million Little Pieces’?  The memoir of his trip to hell & back via alcohol and crack addiction?  The one that was wholly and entirely  debunked?

James Frey dreamed up an intricate composite of lies that don’t even pass as convincing fiction, slathered it onto 400+ pages, and then marketed it out as the greatest macho sob story ever told.

 

His defenders claim that he “manipulated facts.”   That is certainly not an accurate assessment.  In order for that to happen, the facts would first have to resemble the truth.  So many of these things just did not happen.  He’s been debunked.   Sure, exaggerating his DUI story could conceivably be construed as “manipulation of facts”, if that marked the apex of his swollen-headed fantasies.  (Although it is gleefully funny that he transformed a solitary charge of DUI with no witnesses to the incident but himself and the arresting officer– an incident that didn’t even facilitate the use of handcuffs– to charges of Assault With a Deadly Weapon, Assaulting an Officer of the Law, Felony DUI [a charge that didn’t exist in that state at the time], Disturbing the Peace, Resisting Arrest, Driving Without a License, Driving Without Insurance, Attempted Incitement of a Riot, Possession of a Narcotic with Intent to Distribute, and Felony Mayhem…all charges that required police backup, a beating with billy clubs, handcuffs, and a plea bargain to three years in state prison, five years probation, $15,000 in fines, 1000 hours community service, permanent revocation of driving privileges in that state, and a permanently marked record.  HA!)  He pushed the envelope so far and got so caught up in his own fantasy world that he made a clown of himself.  He’s a macho hooligan, and a complete literary dunce.  He has butterfingers for brains.  He took a huge gamble, and he didn’t get away with it. 

Yet another one of his defenses is that he was high all the time, and therefore doesn’t remember things accurately.  Of course addicts’ memories aren’t reliable.  So?  He also claims to know that he was only sober for six days in a four-year span.  Really.  He wasn’t aiming for accuracy.  He was aiming for fame, sensationalism, and capital.  True “hardcore” addicts, as James Frey himself would call them, don’t have to manipulate facts much to generate a novel full of depressing and horrific experiences.  Oprah picked the book for her club, and it spread like wildfire.  (She later had him back on the show and tore him to shreds, along with his publisher.)  If America was looking for raw and soul-bearing authenticity, they were had.  Badly.

Moderately manipulating facts and calling it “truth as I remember it” in order to make a story marketable is not the same as elaborate lying.  There’s being economical with the truth, and then there’s James Frey.  A fictional book admits that it’s exactly that…fiction.  It’s not a lie.  This is a lie of stunning proportions, and everyone I know bought it.

Most readers (unfortunate souls), especially non-addicts, bought into his propaganda before the big “exposure.”  However, even the first page was the biggest fucking hilarious lie I’ve ever read!  It was laugh-out-loud hysterical, and disgracefully transparent.  Come on America, James Frey has an embarrassingly limited intellect.  Kudos to The Smoking Gun website for exposing the truth, but really, was it necessary?  It seems explicitely obvious that the majority of Frey’s writing was elaborate bullshit.  Sadly, the exposure of lies that weren’t so outwardly obvious to uninformed readers (like being involved in the deaths of two classmates) reveal how low and contemptible Frey is for fictitiously involving himself in such factual tragedies.

The game is up, we’ve all had our laugh, and he made millions as he laughed his way to the bank.  Oprah is my hero for uncompromisingly calling Frey out so publicly.  He lied to a nation and made millions.  He deserves every ounce of ridicule he gets.

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Biggest Test of My Life

I just took my first test of the semester.  I had given up on school for more than two years.  Ugh.  I was so sure my brain was broken, that I permanently fried it like eggs in a skillet.  You know…once the heat denatures the proteins, there’s just no going back.  It becomes a jumbled mess of gooey melted cells that stick to each other and the pan and anything else they slop onto, and sorting them out is a biological impossibility.  That’s how I figured my brain was.  The MRI would show scrambled eggs.

 I aced it.  102/100, actually.  That’s not to say I can undo the damage I did, but I made it past a huge obstacle when I passed this test.  There’s a small glimmer at the end of the tunnel, egg-splattered or not.  

I know I’ve really screwed up.  In spite of my mistakes, maybe I can still get along as a functioning and self-sufficient person in this world.

Slainte!

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Piss Off, Dreams!

I have this exceedingly annoying habit of dreaming in vivid detail about things I need to finish or take care of, then I wake up thinking they’re done.  Whereas the unresolved circumstance may have been screaming bloody murder in the back of my mind all day, week, or month prior, I dream about it and wake up with a feeling of reslution and completion.  The feeling doesn’t fade, like lingering feelings usually do after a dream.  The result is that I go around subconsciously content that my affairs are in order, which deters me from consciously thinking about them, and I’m blissfully happy until the unresolved matter comes crashing down on my head.  This happens to me all the time.  It has to be one of the most annoying habits ever.

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Hillary Clinton

I’m one of those stereotypical people who doesn’t like a single candidate who’s running.  However, all other political matters aside, I think the very fact that a female is running (not the first time it’s happened) is an achievement.  I’m not exploring any political views regarding Hillary, because I don’t know myself.  Nonetheless, she fascinates me as a female candidate and serious contender. 

What about Bill?

Bill has been one of Hillary’s strongest assets.  However, lately he’s become so visible and vocal that he threatens to overshadow her.  The past couple of weeks have been especially bad with regard to Bill’s marketed publicity.  The race has a long way to go, and the couple is starting to make the impression (intentionally or otherwise) that it would be an equal or almost equal power duo in the White House.  Obviously, two sets of shoes cannot fill a job for one.  Hillary could wind up looking like she’s incompetent to lead without her husband “manning” the puppet strings.  (Sorry.  That was a horrid pun, for which I apologize to the Clintons and anyone reading.)  This fact exposes a challenge at the heart of Hillary’s campaign.  The attitude that a woman cannot or should not be President is fantastically transparent in its sexism.  This is an attitude that even now faces a potentially rich breeding ground.  I have encountered it all around me in the wake of Hillary’s campaign. 

Plenty of Americans sport the “Why an American President Must Categorically Have Male Genetalia” attitude.  If the Clintons’ roles were reversed (pretending for a moment that he didn’t serve two terms) and it was a potential First Lady making such a strong mark on her husband’s campaign, America would probably delight in such remarkable activism on the part of a First Lady.  Or maybe not; I’m not sure.  Granted, First Ladies can be damned if they do and damned if they don’t. Regardless, I hope we’ve come a long way since First Ladies were mere fixtures and icons of grace. 

As it stands, Bill can help Hillary tremendously, but she carries the tremendous weight of demonstrating her power, independence, intelligence, and leadership qualities as a female.  A sad state of affairs.

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Filed under Beautiful People, Beautiful World, Blogging

Chemical Sex

Use chemicals long enough during sex, and it becomes a habit.  Keep using them, and it becomes a dependency.  Keep on using, and it becomes essential.  Sex becomes impossible without the sustenance of a chemical lift.  The reality is that the chemical rush almost always dulls the sexual experience.  Of course, that’s often the idea, but it never fails to piss off the other person.  After a while, it starts to piss you off too.  It’s a ferocious habit.

Chemicals = de rigueur.

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Sixties Dichotomy

So I had a discussion tonight with my friend about sixties music.  Lucky for both of us, it was via text rather than in person, or else it probably would have been more of a brawl than a polite discussion where people take turns and treat each others’ opinions kindly. 

My list: Doors, Hendrix, Joplin, Velvet Underground, Dylan, Stones, Pink Floyd, Donovan, Cream, Simon & Garfunkel, Status Quo, Van Morrison, Grateful Dead, Jefferson Airplane, Strawberry Alarm Clock, Tommy Tames & The Shondells, Creedence.

His list: Marvin Gaye, Aretha Franklin, Little Stevie Wonder, Sonny and Cher, Pure Prairie League, The Mammas and the Papas, Peter Paul and Mary, Three Dog Night, The Turtles, Diana Ross and The Supremes, Neil Diamond, The Monkees, Righteous Brothers, Procol Harum.

He called my list drug spotted.  I called his squeaky clean.

The biggest difference between us?  Drugs.  I do, crave, need, and depend on them.  He loathes them. Ha!

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Filed under Drinking, Drugs, My Life, Rock 'n Roll, sixties

Carving Out

I will carve out my perfection.  Until now, I have been stagnant, idle, indulgent.  My willpower has been bested by weakness.  I desire perfection.  Pure, empty, clean, carved-out perfection.  I have a vision that permeates my thoughts.  Accomplishing it will take flawless persistence and discipline.  Self-control is systematic; neglect leads to atrophy.  I have decayed to the point of ineffectiveness.  Now is the time to strengthen it once again.

I will carve out a space for myself in this molecular realm.  The more I subtract, the more complete I will become.  AI will don an armor of my own creation as impenetrable as steel, as translucent as water, as light as air.  This armor shall keep and sustain me wherever I go.  Our world believes materialism and accumulation to be the highest good.  Use, take, do.  It does not reward abstinence.  It does not always know the sweet fulfillment or richness that comes when lucid clarity infuses the mind.  Basic and primitive forces cage us.  The result is that we are weighed down, unable to travel through life as we please, awkward in living.  We become prisoners of our own ineffectiveness.  Our intemperance is exposed by way of burdened captivity.  I wear invisible chains, molecular restraints.  I will once again discover that less is more; control is divine; simplicity is perfection. 

Perfection demands an understanding of one’s reality as well as one’s potential.  The body exists in the past, acting on fears, not understanding that antediluvian threats have subsided.  The wary mind exists only in the present, living for the existing moment, extorting the biological talent for survival as it falls away from sensible restraint.  I will journey toward the future. There, I will transcend weakness, become liberated from it.  Nature demonstrates the inevitability of cycles.  By journeying into a liberated future, I will return to my past origin, where I will once again remind my body of wholeness, because I can offer it that.  I will reconnect with my biological strength. I will learn intimately the makeup of my skeleton—that which upholds me—and contemplate every bone revealed beneath my carved-out achievement.

My body will be my tapestry.  I am an artist, a sculptor, free to fashion it as I please.  Now, my body shows signs of being bound by mental weakness.  I will scuplt it into what I desire, and ignore those who tell me I must be a certain way.  I do not exist for them.  I no longer want to please them or the world.  I want to live for myself.  I do not desire to identify with the masses.  They require each other’s endorsement like they require air; it is their affirmation that they are on the right path. I will carve out my own path, savor the victory of willpower over mind and body.  I savor the idea of not be subjugated by my body any more.  I dictate how far my body and I travel on this journey of creating art together.  I seek the heart of a lion.  I belong to the warrior in myself.

There are no illusions about this pursuit.  This gripping impulse to create art, my art, is not without viciousness.  Along with the viciousness of cravings, deep pains, interrupted sleep, and lapses comes the viciousness of this mindset overriding all others to the point of its own manner of ineffectiveness.  It becomes impossible to think of other things; it consumes everything.  I must test myself to see if I can do this.  In an ironic blow, the act of rejecting what I crave will cause my mind and body to become fixated on it.  Those intoxicating thoughts will invade all facets of waking life and give color to dreams.  Still, restraint offers rewards to those who practice it.  Senses are enhanced; the mind is sharpened; the body is perfected.  Every remaining molecule becomes fine-tuned, a work of precision.  What remains is flawless willpower, pure emptiness. Carved-out perfection.

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