FTBSITTTD

As I watched Oprah rip James Frey a new asshole for "embellishing" the truth in his memoir, A Million Little Pieces, I couldn't help but feel sorry for the guy. Yeah, some of those things didn't go down exactly like he said. He lied... Big deal... I haven't read his book, but seeing today's Oprah really made me want to. What's all the fuss about?

Having had quite a go at it myself (with substance abuse), I can relate to James Frey and what I've heard about his book. The thing I kept thinking whilst Oprah laid into him, asking "Did Lily even exist? Did this happen? What really happened?", was that she probably hasn't had a major drug problem. Addiction warps your sense of reality. It warps your brain, sometimes permanently. I think he must have written about the reality that he was experiencing, as the addict, not the arresting officer. But, like I said, I haven't read the book, just the internet "expose." The "Smoking Gun" is pretty much on my shit-list anyway because of the witchhunt, self-righteous attitude it keeps wagging in my face.

If I were to write a memoir about my days as a tweeked out speed freak, it would most certainly be tainted with the delusions that I often entertained in those days. Everything seemed so immediate and important and profound, but was probably very mundane to the outside observer. In order to illustrate the "realities" of drug addiction, would I compromise "reality"? Hell yeah, I would. I would have to...Because when you are under the influence of mind-altering substances, your reality IS compromised. One may argue that in writing about these experiences you could simply say "it was as though" or "It felt as if" or "it was like" but to do so really takes all the punch out of it.

Oprah feels duped. Is it because she was actually moved by the book, when she thought it was all true? Does the redemption have less import if it didn't actually happen exactly the way it said. Who can know anyone else's truth anyway? Just like the JT Leroy controversy, the truth is not always black and white. In the age of quantum physics, our ideas of "reality", "facts" and "fictions" will have to change in order to accommodate a new paradigm.

What is a memoir anyway? A narrative composed from personal experience? Who can say that another persons experience or memory of is not valid? People have "near death" experiences and go into the light, are met by dead relatives, actually SEE heaven, but the reality is "No, you didn't go to heaven. You were laying right here on this table the whole time! Dead as a doornail!" Should these books be listed as FICTION? Should the authors be publicly shamed and called liars? Will the "Smoking Gun" show photos of them clearly NOT in heaven. No...They won't because the reason they are picking on James Frey is because of Oprah and her book club. It's part of the cannibalism of our culture. We love to tear down the things we build up. Devour the celebrated... I bet if you "fact-checked" almost any memoir, there would be discrepancies with the "real truth" and not because the author was LYING or trying to fuck with Oprah. But because the truth is subjective. HERE is a link to a great little article about the nature of TRUTH by Ariale M. Huff. In it, she talks about several things that I find indispensable when discussing truth. Like, how there is no such thing as absolute truth and that it is not always best to tell the truth.

Didn't anyone ever tell Oprah, you can't believe everything you read?

Top Drawer

It's not that I don't care, it's just that I can't be bothered to give a shit. The blogosphere is filled with people's day to day accounts of their lives, I am not, however, a diarist, a journalist, or even a good note-taker. So, if you come here hoping for a blow by blow - you are out of luck. As much as I would love to indulge my ego and regale you with stories from my day, I just can't. At least not when nothing is going on, and that seems to be the case lately.

Think of this as my underwear drawer. You know, that top drawer where everyone keeps their "unmentionables." Feel free to rummage around and look at all my dirty secrets, weird stuff and yeah, my underwear. There is a lot of pretty great shit in here if you rummage around a little. Go ahead, I'm not looking...

Today I cried when a TV character died

To the dissenters I say: Even if JC ex-ploded in your mouth, you have no rights whatsoever to define this so-called, as it were, reality terminal-vision situation we call our lives, when in fact you invited him to do so. Now, said explosion aside, don't let's discuss reality in terms of truth anymore. Belief in such a thing is as much a fiction as redemption; in the form of a carpenter or plumber, per se, of the depths of your soul, a bottomless pit traversed by leviathan after alien into the dark night of your stupid soul. I cried when Boone died. I sobbed over Jack. I will never get over the fact that I might have been loved by someone I barely noticed.

That is all.

Unmasked

I opened my inbox today and found several messages informing me that JT Leroy had been unmasked. For this news, I was grateful but, as I have said before, it doesn't really matter to me.

For the full scoop on how I feel about it you could read what I wrote on JT's birthday, a couple months ago: JT Leroy: How the Spectre Grows

MORBID! PALE!

I'm feeling like half a person these days. Work demands so very much of my time that it seems to be the only thing in my life. I have separation anxiety. I have a headache. And I have another job to do next week.

"Careful what you wish for" is probably the truest phrase I have ever heard. Yeah, I manifest my reality but I am not so careful. What does that even mean? There is glass between us.

Arizona was not very interesting. Or maybe it was just me. The whole trip just seemed like a dream, like a really sunshiny dream with babies and Holly and all that special jazz.

I went out with JR and his friends one night and realized that I am older now than I was before. Yeah, just point me to the barstool and bring me fresh booze every now and then. Make Grandpa happy. Highlight of the evening: watching a goth kid projectile vomit under a streetlamp...four times.

I can't get into too much without getting into too much, so I won't. Let's just say: I had five seconds to spare. This is the story of my life.