With a K, by the way

I wasn't sure if I had to tell people about this thing. It's probable to read this without me actually telling you where to look. Should I be ashamed? Maybe. And I? I'm not. Look.. Dems da conditions. I'm on the web, fine. Anyone can read if they want. Kids are checking friendster and finding this that way. I guess I had forgotten I streamed it there. Whoops. I thought people were done with friendster, had moved on to myspace, and then offline where they belong. But, friendster is a good place to find someone you knew, thought you knew, or want to know. Or, you could ask them. Seems you could get in less trouble that way. I'm not trying to be mean. I mean it's curiosity that killed the cat, or the journalist. --beep-beep, man that was a good hour. But, you have to be careful what you look for. You have to be certain you want to read what you are looking up, I guess. That's fair. I'm accountable for what I write. You for what you read. You certainly don't have to. Me neither. You don't have to document the fact that you were here, saw what you saw. I won't be able to tell. You don't have to tell me later that you stumbled across something interesting on my, uh, blog(?). You don't. But you can. Can comment. Can leave remarks. Start conversations. Discuss. Can question me, that's for sure. But then again you don't have to. I'm not doing this for you. I like to hear myself type. There's a flow. The click, click, clicking makes my head agree in rhythmn. I'll do it when I can. I'll type for fun if I have to. No one on the other end?...


Carsonation Exclusive: James Frey response

Thank you, Carson, for you kind words at a time that seems most troubling to me. The shit I'm going through now compares nothing with the OD's, the gutter sleeps, the hangovers, but still it's not looking good. They can't take away my PT Cruiser, can they?

I agree with you that despite what I had portrayed as truth in my book, A Million Little Peices, I should still be considered one of the best writers of our time. I mean my knack for dialogue is superior to that of most of today's "writers". Sure, I didn't use quotation marks when talking to people in my head. The real people weren't interesting enough. And I had to write something. I'm just surprised that this came up so late. I can't believe how far I got.

I was born with a gift. An imagination. Sure some of the drugs I've taken over the years--I ate crack rock, mostly--has given me a "challenge" in remembering fact from fiction. But you have to admit that I set up a pretty good scene of me on my knees snorting coke of a dude's dick. Wheather that happened or not is besides the point (Who would make that shit up other than me?). I'm a crazy son-of-a-bith. No doubt. But Oprah loves me. Or she did. When The Smoking Gun article came out yesterday, I shit myself, no really. Literally, I should say. And after I cleaned up that mess I called up Harpo, or the number they had given me, just to make sure she still loves me, and, though she wasn't around, or didn't call me back. I can bet, and you can quote me on this one if you want, that she's not upset with me. I made her cry, kept her up at night, how could she hate me? How could my Oprah regret that she let me on her show (twice!). If you think that her bookclub's next book will be my other, My Friend Lenord, I hope your right. When she announces the title to her club's list this Monday, I'll be close to me set and encourage you to do so also. My Friend Lenord is classified as fiction, as I'm sure you know (working at that good-paying bookstore of yours), and her selecting this just makes sense. I mean MLP, as the kids are calling it these days, was is non-fiction (shelved in Recovery). Oprah's next books should be fiction, which is what MFL (the kids, again)is based on. They're making a movie about one of my two books. And who better to play a most fucked up fictional charcter than me. I'd make a great James Frey.

I'm wrting to ask for your support, your well-read blog's help. Help make me the James Frey character that I have created. Tell your friends that I was once a druggie, that I did preform homosexual acts for money and drugs, that I came out of it all alive, well, and fucking rich as shit. But, and I'll say this to you, as an internet exclusive: I am not a liar. I'm a writer. The best there every was. Is, I mean.

Your hero and mine,

More of this in '06:

Looking back, 2005 was bad -- not my year. I wasn't happy all that much. One thing is true, however, 2006 is going to do some major mopping of what 2005 left behind. That's the thing about '06, it cleans up messes. It's postive. It's happy it's here. Wants to be here. And I'm happy it's 2006. I'm happy again. That said. Here are my resolutions.

More bounce, some falls, but quicker get-ups.
Less apologies, so sorries; less mistakes. Less forgiving in '06; more forgetting.
More bus/bike rides, streetcar sits, MAX movement.
Eating more, greens, browns, reds and yellows. Not picky about foodstuff.
More kind words, thoughts, sentences; letters home.
Less critical of customs, more creative time, and creating more time to create.
Deeper breaths, out-of breaths, and, being left breathless more.
More crafts, less collecting of things that hold no value.
Rake more leaves, but leave less rakes out to rust.
Less TV, more movies.
Meet more people with names that I don't already know people with those names.
More chit-chatter with those I already know.
Less fines, tickets, wrist slaps, late-fees, past-dues, residue, redos, redux,
More rendezvous, runnaways, risky rants.

That's all I've got for now. But I promise* you this: you are going to love '06.

*Less promising in '06, more making things come true.