A Million Little Fixes
I have something to confess. In the wake of various hysterical news stories about James Frey and how he supposedly manufactured out of whole cloth his history of self-abuse, police abuse, drug abuse, parental abuse, alcohol abuse, money abuse, and pretty much everything-else abuse with (hopefully) the exception of boinking the family pet – I have to get something off my chest to the all of 10 people who actually read this blog.
I did not actually shoot a man in Reno to watch him die.
There’s that story I like to tell about where I flew out to Los Angeles to interview Gary Oldman and we ended up in that highway standoff with the police, throwing Molotov cocktails as police choppers circled overhead and whatever bullheaded SWAT lieutenant nearly had an aneurism deciding whether to snipe our nation’s most beloved character actor on live national television. In truth, I took a few small liberties with that event. I spent that weekend playing ‘Civilization III’ and occasionally walking down to my mailbox to see if my Netflix had arrived yet. I have never met Gary Oldman, and hope never to do so without a sizable bodyguard escort, because I hear he preys on the flesh of the living.
I am not big in Japan.
The trauma of watching a beloved friend die when I was seven did not propel me into a life of debauchery, drugs and crime, climaxing with twelve months spent in a rehab facility sharing a room with a 400-pound tweak freak known only as ‘The Ram.’ In truth, I had no friends in elementary school, because I wandered around using words like ‘discombobulated’ and ‘juxtaposition’ and ‘asshole,’ frequently in the same sentence.
Thirty seconds ago, I announced to somebody that this entry was entirely my idea. I have to confess that I stole this idea from that piece by the ‘Daily Show’ writer in today’s New York Times. God forgive us all.
Seriously
I liked Frey’s book, despite his reluctance to obey the rules of proper grammar. He has skill; there’re not many authors who have the ability to make the decision over whether to drink a glass of beer as gripping as he does. But I think all the legions of fans who decided to affix themselves to ‘Million Little Pieces’ as a sort of Gospel of Addiction are feeling severely put out – I mean, if you tattooed ‘Hold On’ on your bicep, only to find that the entire narrative behind that particular phrase was a falsity, you’d probably be pretty miffed. Plus he angered legions of Oprah fans, who, like Gary Oldman, prey upon the flesh of the living.
I did not actually shoot a man in Reno to watch him die.
There’s that story I like to tell about where I flew out to Los Angeles to interview Gary Oldman and we ended up in that highway standoff with the police, throwing Molotov cocktails as police choppers circled overhead and whatever bullheaded SWAT lieutenant nearly had an aneurism deciding whether to snipe our nation’s most beloved character actor on live national television. In truth, I took a few small liberties with that event. I spent that weekend playing ‘Civilization III’ and occasionally walking down to my mailbox to see if my Netflix had arrived yet. I have never met Gary Oldman, and hope never to do so without a sizable bodyguard escort, because I hear he preys on the flesh of the living.
I am not big in Japan.
The trauma of watching a beloved friend die when I was seven did not propel me into a life of debauchery, drugs and crime, climaxing with twelve months spent in a rehab facility sharing a room with a 400-pound tweak freak known only as ‘The Ram.’ In truth, I had no friends in elementary school, because I wandered around using words like ‘discombobulated’ and ‘juxtaposition’ and ‘asshole,’ frequently in the same sentence.
Thirty seconds ago, I announced to somebody that this entry was entirely my idea. I have to confess that I stole this idea from that piece by the ‘Daily Show’ writer in today’s New York Times. God forgive us all.
Seriously
I liked Frey’s book, despite his reluctance to obey the rules of proper grammar. He has skill; there’re not many authors who have the ability to make the decision over whether to drink a glass of beer as gripping as he does. But I think all the legions of fans who decided to affix themselves to ‘Million Little Pieces’ as a sort of Gospel of Addiction are feeling severely put out – I mean, if you tattooed ‘Hold On’ on your bicep, only to find that the entire narrative behind that particular phrase was a falsity, you’d probably be pretty miffed. Plus he angered legions of Oprah fans, who, like Gary Oldman, prey upon the flesh of the living.
posted by NiK @ 5:03 PM
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