Bet you didn't know that acid_soda reads...

[acid_soda]

I just started reading "A Million Little Pieces" by that james frey guy...it's a really good book actually...and it's very intense and stuff...I dunno i just felt like posting a thread about it.

[Zens7s]

I did enjoy his writing style. However, the thought often ran through my head that he had to be taking the truth quite liberally.

Obviously I was right. It's too bad he didn't just submit it as fiction in the beginning. Then it would have tarnished the book so much less.

[JK]

I'm working on a book about my time in the service- the very first page states that some of the stories I was actually involved in, some I witnessed first-hand, some the stories I heard second-hand, and the some the stories are pure myth and legend. It's up to the reader to figure out which is which. Also, the names have been changed to protect the guilty (statute of limitations and all that) Like Doug Benson is now Dougie Bensen...


Yeah, like anybody would read it in the first place...

[Zens7s]

I'm working on a book about my time in the service- the very first page states that some of the stories I was actually involved in, some I witnessed first-hand, some the stories I heard second-hand, and the some the stories are pure myth and legend. It's up to the reader to figure out which is which. Also, the names have been changed to protect the guilty (statute of limitations and all that) Like Doug Benson is now Dougie Bensen...


Yeah, like anybody would read it in the first place...
I write that on my journal inside cover, but only because I don't want people to know that the best stories in there are true. ;)

[JK]

There is a little shadow of fear gnawing at the back of my mind because some of the stuff I can neither confirm nor deny involvement in could get a lot of people in trouble and the Navy might not appreciate at all. So I may just call the whole thing a work of fiction. Some of the stuff is funny as all get out, other stuff is scary, and some stuff was/is outright illegal. But, as the saying goes 'When in Rome...';)

[karmattack]

From Patton Oswalt's journal:


february 27th
WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO
OUR HIPSTER WANNABEES, JAMES FREY?

You've broken our hearts into a million little pieces, is what you've done.

Look, there aren't too many ways for rich, white people to seem dangerous, relevant and cool these days. Heroin addiction, with its Icarus-like trajectory, was supposed to keep us interesting at parties. The harrowing stories of beatings and betrayals. The spine-tingling tales of near-death and redemptive recovery. It's like we got to be Indiana Jones, without all the running around and, you know, adventuring.

So I'm so happy you've been brought down. Will it make up for the sadness and damage I've seen in the dreams and souls of my friends? In the shattered faces of my twenty-something pals, who were looking forward to their own stylish addictions? In my wealthy, above-40 Hollywood colleagues, who were hoping for one last grasp at least APPEARING to be young, chaotic and unforgettable? Probably not. How do you think they feel, now that they know someone can, like, MAKE UP all that shit? Can totally LIE about it and BULLSHIT their way onto the bestsellers list? You've almost made it seem that all addiction and recovery is, somehow, THE SAME BORING STORY OVER AND OVER AGAIN. So much so that someone can put down the basic, hacky beats, and everyone will believe it. Hipsters have suspected, for years, that everyone secretly finds addiction boring. But now you've gone and proved it, so now what are they left with?

So thank God you've been chased off the bestseller list. That's the territory of the talented, original and helpful. Like Kevin Trudeau.

His awesome book, NATURAL CURES "THEY" DON'T WANT YOU TO KNOW ABOUT, is everything your book should have been. Whereas you lie about plane trips and dental surgery, Trudeau's brave enough to lay out the fucking TRUTH, man! Truth like, "Don't drink tap water". Fuck yeah! Tap water is for fucking pussies! Municipal water filtration puts water through, like, 100 filterings, maybe more. But bottled water like Evian and Arrowhead go through as few as ten! Whoooooo! Rock and roll! The fuck are you afraid of, bottled water drinkers? Health?

Also, he says to "...stop taking prescription and non-prescription drugs." Aw shit! No you d'int, Tru-dog! Hey, diabetics! Stop with the fucking insulin!

He also says to wear all white clothing, 'cuz it purifies you or something like that. He must be onto something, 'cuz his picture on the book jacket makes me want to turn gay. He's one handsome, healthy looking motherfucker, who definitely walks the "only white clothing" like he talks it:

http://www.naturalcuresproducts.com/catalog/images/NATURALPIC.jpg

Plus, he's always throwing down bad-ass advice, like how you should watch what you eat and exercise. When I tried to bring that up with my doctor, he punched me in the throat and threatened to burn my house down if I suggested that to any of my friends. Then he made me eat eighty cheeseburgers and a glass of poison. Man, I wish Kevin had been there to throw some tap water in my doctor's face and melt his eyes!

So fuck you, James Frey. You're a liar and a fraud. You never did any jail time. Not like Kevin Trudeau, who did almost two years for credit card fraud. That's who I'll be taking life advice from, thank you very much.

Man, I hope you lose that class action lawsuit, James. Your readers deserve their money back. Hopefully, to spend on Trudeau's book!

[karmattack]

From David Cross:

Hey everyone,
I was lucky enough to get my hands on an advance copy of James Frey's newest book. It's a soul-searching and no holds barred look at his life since appearing on the "Oprah" show. This shit is crazy! What a tough life this guy has had.

-David

Excerpts From the Galley Copy of James Frey's Latest Memoir: "Lesson Learned".


From Chapter One - "I left the Harpo studios in Chicago in a state of shock. When I accepted Oprah's invitation to go back on her show and tell my side of the story, I didn't think that I would be treated so unfairly. I felt as if a couple of angry skate punks who "didn't like my attitude" ambushed me. It reminded me of the time I was ambushed by a bunch of angry skate punks who "didn't like my attitude". I had awoken from a nineteen-day bender to find myself floating face down in a canal in Amsterdam. I came to with a knife in my chest and a tattoo on my left nipple which mysteriously read: "100% Goth!!" I blurbled something in Arabic to a passing man on his bike and he was decent enough to stop and fish me out. After drying myself off, I raped him and stole his bike. I regret this behavior now of course. I knew it was wrong then too but that's what makes me such a monster. Or rather made me such a monster. That and all the drugs and alcohol I was addicted to. I'm better now thanks to rehab. But that's an entirely different true story, which has already appeared in my last book, "An Unverifiable True Remembering". Anyway, after getting myself a breakfast (consisting of a fifth of Popovitch Grain alcohol and some dirty socks I found in a garbage can), I set about looking for an explanation as to why I was in Amsterdam, and where I could get my next "fix man". I lurched forward towards the liedzenplaza to see if I could find Bruno Ganz who always did right by me when I was in town. I made sure to catch all the projectile vomit I could into an empty Burger King bag that I carried around with me for that express purpose, for I knew I would be hungry later and would spend every coin I had on my "next fix". I had perfectly lurched no more then 10 feet...or thirteen miles? Maybe it was thirteen miles. I can't remember exactly. This is a memoir and that's French I believe for "memory", which let's admit, is a little clouded by all the "drugs" and "alcohol" that I was totally addicted to. Anyway, I was walking along the plaza with my now useless leg. Wait, did I mention that I was so fucked up that I accidentally (?) let a transit bus run over my foot and didn't realize it until later that day when a young Amsterdamian child pointed to it and started to cry? Well, that did happen. I just remembered it just now so...yeah. Because of my now missing foot (I had it amputated without any anesthesia. I did this so that I could save $50 which I could then spend on getting a "fix" for my latest "high".) I was having a difficult time keeping my balance. Despite my best efforts I found myself bumping into a group of five gutter punks sitting on a curb. One of them got up and threw a kettle of boiling water in my face. They were making tea as I recall it. I said, "Hey now, what was that all about?" Which was difficult because the top layer of my face skin was peeling off. One of them mentioned not liking my attitude and I remember that setting off some crazy interior switch deep, deep inside me. Maybe it was because of my shitty worthless life or maybe it was all my self-loathing at not being able to make something out of myself despite graduating Summa Cum Laude from the Sorbonne and almost being nominated for a Noble Peace Prize for my work in the Congo, but when that switch switched it was as if my veins were drained of blood and filled with super strong adrenalized juicy juice. I got an odd and calm look in my remaining face, stared the ten of them straight in the eyes and said, "I'm bad you motherfuckers. I'm a really bad man. I am so jacked up on alcohol and various speeds, like, crystal meth, cocaine, ice, snowcaps, bobbyrocks, po-po's, jaggersticks, glass monkeys, and even two grams of pure Canadian sizzledots. That I can barely see straight. If you're not careful I just may eat your eyeballs with my rotting teeth (I had "meth mouth" from all the alcohol I had been drinking) Now if you don't mind, I've got a date with a bottle of 100 proof Bukowski". The twenty of them looked at me with the same curiosity that a Mexican Ranch Hand has when tending to the cattle, and he comes across a great big steaming pile of bullshit. They looked silently at each other and then back to me. After a tense couple of seconds the leader started to slowly but very deliberately clap his hands. One by one the others joined in and, picking up the tempo, parted themselves so that I may pass through. It was such a touching gesture filled with hope that it is seared into my memory and I will certainly never forget it. I walked through with a new found sense of humility and humanity. I walked for another couple of feet when I slowly stopped and turned around to express my gratitude. However, much to my surprise, they had all vanished. As I looked about for them I could have sworn I heard a tiny childs voice whisper to me: "You truly are the baddest mofo in all of the Netherlands. Go, and spread your word. But do it in book form. And not as fiction either. Good luck James Frey". And so that night I set down this tale on paper...

***

Chapter Two:
...Except the papers were confiscated at the border because it was determined that I was a security risk due to the fact that my vomit pants had blood on them. I had meant to wash either the vomit or the blood off the pants but had forgotten after I had gotten "high" by hyperventilating and spinning around as fast as I could after eating some Heroin cake I had bought from an African. So I had to set about trying to piece the pieces of the story together. Honestly there must have been at least a million pieces if not maybe a half dozen or so. I can't remember too well. I was so "high" on the fresh blood of the Burmese child that I drank in a "highish" haze that it's tough to get all the "facts" "straight". I'll do my best though. That's all anyone can or should ask of me. Forever. Just to do my best. Let's see, what happened? I talked about the one punky guy with the leather jacket throwing his cup of iced coffee at me and my face falling off and down on the dirty Amsterdam ground right? (My face is deathly allergic to certain iced coffees getting on it– it stings!) I talked about how they jumped me and made me take out my appendix without any anesthesia. Man, what a mess I was. I desperately needed to get some help or I was gonna die. I wasn't about to spend my last days of life rotting in some Prison in Ohio with a bunkmate named "Lefty" (serving six consecutive life sentences for raping and killing all of his cell mates. He was originally brought in on a misdemeanor for spray painting) and a ten-pound pet rat that I nicknamed: "Aeolis" after the Greek God of the winds. No way man. I decided that rather then get help, I would break out of the prison that night or die trying. Much later in life I would decide to get rich or die tryin', but that's another (this) story. I set about looking for my way out of this hell that was the Ohio Maximum State Prison. Officially* recognized as the most brutal prison in the world. I called over the guard who had stabbed me in the chin when I tried to beat him up for calling me a pussy the night before. He sauntered over and spit on me. I told him that that he just made a grave mistake. I told him how one day I would write a book and mention all the wrongs I had been wronged, and everyone who ever crossed me would end up getting their shit called on in book form. Who knows? Maybe I would wind up going on the t.v. talk show circuit and telling the truth about the brutality that goes on in American prisons. I'm sure Montel Williams or maybe even Dr, Phil would be interested in my story. After that he killed me.

More To Come Later,
Sincerely,
James Frey

*Prison Stuff Monthly

[jjcourtright]

This is my favorite part: I felt as if a couple of angry skate punks who "didn't like my attitude" ambushed me. It reminded me of the time I was ambushed by a bunch of angry skate punks who "didn't like my attitude".

[Zens7s]

I really liked:

After that he killed me.

More To Come Later,

[TLS]

This is my favorite part: I felt as if a couple of angry skate punks who "didn't like my attitude" ambushed me. It reminded me of the time I was ambushed by a bunch of angry skate punks who "didn't like my attitude".
Yeah, well the guy shouldn't have been wearing a fanny pack and rollerblading on their turf.