Why do I search for anything at all to do to distract me from what I am supposed to do? I'll wait to the last minute. Make myself uncomfortable, almost on purpose, in order prolong, procrastinate, not do what's due till I'm sure I have no more time to do it. I promote myself to something bigger, better. On my mind lots, little, nothing, one thing. All at once, I'm looking at myself wondering why? how? now and then, it's a sure-fire sign, don't even know what that means, it just came to my mind, and now what, rhymning? This is getting fucking dumb.
I look across the room and see others. Some working, some wondering. Some wandering. I see myself in them. How I'm supposed to be here and nowhere else. I've got nowhere else to go. These fingers with nothing else to type but what comes to mind at this time. So I'll sit. Sloutch. Put pressure on my tailbone until it hurts and I have to get up. Stretch. I'll continue to push to the back of my mind what I'm here to do. But I'll think of you and if you'll even read this, have access, come across and see for a second what little bit it is I've published today.
And for a moment I think about my deadline. Then the dead.He says, "Good." A simple, encouraging word. Providing direction. Instruction to the next step with nods, and affrirming gaze. Pursed lips as the chin rises. Yes. Move one. Good move. Go head.
I saw you...
On the streetcar Wednesday afternoon. You were staring out the window and looked sort of tired. Didn't you sleep well enough, alone in your bed last night. Or are you just tired of it all. With your black computer bag, are you going to school or just pretending? Was it a real job that you came from or do you work for $8.78 and stuggle to make ends meet? I sure was willing to talk to you, just had a hard time grabbing your attention. Do you ever notice others? I don't think it's all that creepy to make eye contact on the street car, you should try it sometime. Maybe even smile. Find some feeling. Look up; talk more. I'm sure you have some sort of observation that I'd find humorous, or hadn't thought of, or was critically important to my day. The man in me: some girl on the streetcar you didn't notice, loves the woman in you: a sad-looking student with disheveled hair, in a well-worn brown sweatshirt, and dark circles under his eyes.
Delayed
Airplanes aren't the trouble, airports are.
So, before my trip to New Mexico (I'm already back, WTF!?) I was cleaning the garage (R.I.P. Garage Dweller) and came upon a tiny knife -- no bigger than my pinky. Absentmindedly, I picked it up. It was just a piece of junk I found and discarded into the trash halfway house I call my pants' pocket. I forgot about it until I was standing in the security line at PDX. When I remembered it was too late. I was past the point of no return. And it wasn't like I could pull it out of my pocket and announce, "HEY! OOPS, I FORGOT, I'VE GOT AN EFFING KNIFE HERE!" So, instead, I slipped it into my laptop bag, thinking, 'They'll either see it or they won't.' If they do I've got some s'plaining to do, if they don't I've got a story to report. Well of course they find it -- Homeland Security at its finest. I must have been put on some sort of watch, though, because the next thing I know I'm being asked to check one of my carry-ons. "Uhh, OK," I said, shifting things from one bag to the other.
By the time I reached ABQ, well, it was 11 p.m. and I was tired as shit. Down by baggage claim I waited formy now two bags. They were the first to come out, both my bags were. First out the shoot. And together. Red Backpack came out alright. Zipped and marked, easy to spot. Green Tent Bag, my trusty Green Tent Bag wasn't quiet right, though. It's zipper was split, and I didn't remember checking a split-zippered bag. Nothing looked missing, however, and I was too tired to look for someone to complain to. I flung the bag of dirty clothes into my mom's car and that was the end of it.
I'm sure I'm being monitored because when back at PDX I sent my ride a text message. Now, it might not have been the best choice of words (I think that now that it's too late), but I was sure they were accurate. When a plane lands you can't immediately turn on your phone. You have to wait until the plane taxis. I did that. And that what I texted just happened: JUST TAXIED.
My ride must have been confused (stoned) when he read this because he fired something back. A, REALLY? Or, a, WHAT? Or, I COULD HAVE SWORN TWO HOURS AGO WHEN YOU CALLED I WAS PICKING YOU UP? But I couldn't get those messages, see? And didn't until much later. My phone was on, the signal strong, but messages weren't coming in. So I didn't bother to call to explain that JUST TAXIED, was a simple sentence with the implied subject of THE PLANE (just taxied), and not animplied subject of, I WENT AHEAD AND (just taxied). So much of implications.
That's the problem with text messaging: Your messages can get mis-interpreted. There may be touch tones, but no sarasstic tones. You can miss your ride (though he did come back the forty or so blocks), miss the point, force a state of confussion, delay. So I'm powering down more often and focusing on what's in front of me -- a quarter of graduate classes, where they suggest that I not bring a knife.
So, before my trip to New Mexico (I'm already back, WTF!?) I was cleaning the garage (R.I.P. Garage Dweller) and came upon a tiny knife -- no bigger than my pinky. Absentmindedly, I picked it up. It was just a piece of junk I found and discarded into the trash halfway house I call my pants' pocket. I forgot about it until I was standing in the security line at PDX. When I remembered it was too late. I was past the point of no return. And it wasn't like I could pull it out of my pocket and announce, "HEY! OOPS, I FORGOT, I'VE GOT AN EFFING KNIFE HERE!" So, instead, I slipped it into my laptop bag, thinking, 'They'll either see it or they won't.' If they do I've got some s'plaining to do, if they don't I've got a story to report. Well of course they find it -- Homeland Security at its finest. I must have been put on some sort of watch, though, because the next thing I know I'm being asked to check one of my carry-ons. "Uhh, OK," I said, shifting things from one bag to the other.
By the time I reached ABQ, well, it was 11 p.m. and I was tired as shit. Down by baggage claim I waited formy now two bags. They were the first to come out, both my bags were. First out the shoot. And together. Red Backpack came out alright. Zipped and marked, easy to spot. Green Tent Bag, my trusty Green Tent Bag wasn't quiet right, though. It's zipper was split, and I didn't remember checking a split-zippered bag. Nothing looked missing, however, and I was too tired to look for someone to complain to. I flung the bag of dirty clothes into my mom's car and that was the end of it.
I'm sure I'm being monitored because when back at PDX I sent my ride a text message. Now, it might not have been the best choice of words (I think that now that it's too late), but I was sure they were accurate. When a plane lands you can't immediately turn on your phone. You have to wait until the plane taxis. I did that. And that what I texted just happened: JUST TAXIED.
My ride must have been confused (stoned) when he read this because he fired something back. A, REALLY? Or, a, WHAT? Or, I COULD HAVE SWORN TWO HOURS AGO WHEN YOU CALLED I WAS PICKING YOU UP? But I couldn't get those messages, see? And didn't until much later. My phone was on, the signal strong, but messages weren't coming in. So I didn't bother to call to explain that JUST TAXIED, was a simple sentence with the implied subject of THE PLANE (just taxied), and not animplied subject of, I WENT AHEAD AND (just taxied). So much of implications.
That's the problem with text messaging: Your messages can get mis-interpreted. There may be touch tones, but no sarasstic tones. You can miss your ride (though he did come back the forty or so blocks), miss the point, force a state of confussion, delay. So I'm powering down more often and focusing on what's in front of me -- a quarter of graduate classes, where they suggest that I not bring a knife.
Claro que si
The blog knows no Borders. This blog goes across the nation. It's Carsonation. So, I'm writing all the way from New Mexico. For the first time? Yes, I think so. It's dry here. Warm and windy. Typical New Mexican weather. Not so hot as to go loco. But, windy enough to delay games of table tennis. Bright enough to close my eyse. Not so bright as to never open them again. Bright enough to block them with my not-so stylish aviator sunglasses. Where Portland is green, Albuquerque is brown. When I feel close and tight knit in Puddle Town, the Duke City is spread the fuck out. When PDX makes sense, ABQ is confused. When River City riffs, Burque skips. I find it hard to come back, but respect this as my home. The diversity here, the history, the culture is something you can't ignore. I don't hate it, don't always agree with it. In the Rose City I don't need a car and do just fine (thanks for the ride). In Nuevo Mexico, if I didn't have a coche here I'd be up the Rio Grande with a turd for a paddle. Pinche VW. I'm here for a short amount of time, so better make the most of it. Eat more green chile, consider more nicknames. In the 503, I the future to look forward to. In the 505, it's the past that's still here.
Adios, mi amigos.
Adios, mi amigos.
When the dead come to your dream’s door
"Scooter," a whistling whisper said to me last night when I was in bed. The voice came in clear. I can hear in my dreams. I knew exactly who it was then, but had no idea why he said it.
It was Poppa. Dead for almost two years, hearing his voice is something that I’ve been waiting for. I’ve tried to write like I have. But you can’t fake fiction.
Scooter was a name that my father called me – he had tons of nicknames for his son – and a name the brother of a friend I once had called me. But Poppa, who was mostly deaf, never called me Scooter, and probably never associated the word with me, his youngest grandson.
My one-time friend Mike Stone had a brother named Jeremy. Unlike Mike and his other brother Derek, Jeremy was skinny and weak and coughed a lot. He was born with a disease that makes you shoot blanks, Mike told me at the time. Jeremy was always glad to see me, nice when he didn't have to be. I think about him often and know he is residing in the better of two afterworlds.
The last time I saw Jeremy alive was at University Hospital in 1996. He seemed OK with knowing that he was about to die. He was happy that I came with Mike to see him, and we played some card game that I don’t remember, and, before I left he said, “Goodbye, Scooter.”
I saw my grandfather alive for the last time in Presbyterian Hospital, the same one I was born in.
It was two years ago, and since I’ve been waiting for him to talk to me, waiting for his words so I could type them down. Remember them and live by them. He was supposed to be the voice inside my head that told me how to live – he lived to 99. He was supposed to say what I should be doing, how to spend my time, which way to go. But I’ve had to figure things out without him. I don’t blame him; I just wanted more of his words.
When I was waiting for his funeral service start, I found a tape that he talked into. That weekend I transcribed what he said. I wrote the story he told. When I turned off the recorder I hoped he would continue to speak to me. I always wanted more words from him. But they didn’t come until last night.
I'm in bed when someone looked in my room to check on me and said, “Scooter,” in a whistling whisper that I recognized as Poppa’s voice. And that was all. He referred to me by a name he never called me, but one that I recognize as me. One of my father’s nickname, a name I was also called by the now-dead brother of a friend I no longer speak to. "Scooter," Poppa said. He never called me by it living, but spoke it to me in my dream last night.
When the dead talk to you, you write it down. You remember what you hear and the voice stays with you. The dead aren’t around to give you advice. Just to remind you who you are.
It was Poppa. Dead for almost two years, hearing his voice is something that I’ve been waiting for. I’ve tried to write like I have. But you can’t fake fiction.
Scooter was a name that my father called me – he had tons of nicknames for his son – and a name the brother of a friend I once had called me. But Poppa, who was mostly deaf, never called me Scooter, and probably never associated the word with me, his youngest grandson.
My one-time friend Mike Stone had a brother named Jeremy. Unlike Mike and his other brother Derek, Jeremy was skinny and weak and coughed a lot. He was born with a disease that makes you shoot blanks, Mike told me at the time. Jeremy was always glad to see me, nice when he didn't have to be. I think about him often and know he is residing in the better of two afterworlds.
The last time I saw Jeremy alive was at University Hospital in 1996. He seemed OK with knowing that he was about to die. He was happy that I came with Mike to see him, and we played some card game that I don’t remember, and, before I left he said, “Goodbye, Scooter.”
I saw my grandfather alive for the last time in Presbyterian Hospital, the same one I was born in.
It was two years ago, and since I’ve been waiting for him to talk to me, waiting for his words so I could type them down. Remember them and live by them. He was supposed to be the voice inside my head that told me how to live – he lived to 99. He was supposed to say what I should be doing, how to spend my time, which way to go. But I’ve had to figure things out without him. I don’t blame him; I just wanted more of his words.
When I was waiting for his funeral service start, I found a tape that he talked into. That weekend I transcribed what he said. I wrote the story he told. When I turned off the recorder I hoped he would continue to speak to me. I always wanted more words from him. But they didn’t come until last night.
I'm in bed when someone looked in my room to check on me and said, “Scooter,” in a whistling whisper that I recognized as Poppa’s voice. And that was all. He referred to me by a name he never called me, but one that I recognize as me. One of my father’s nickname, a name I was also called by the now-dead brother of a friend I no longer speak to. "Scooter," Poppa said. He never called me by it living, but spoke it to me in my dream last night.
When the dead talk to you, you write it down. You remember what you hear and the voice stays with you. The dead aren’t around to give you advice. Just to remind you who you are.
What does River City mean to you?
I wake up in the morning remembering that I don't have a ride to work. I scramble to make up time. Second-guessing how I will get to work. Do I bike or bite off another "happening" for showing up late as all hell? Fuck, my bed is so warm and my eyes are so heavy. How did this happen?
Hearsay.
A friend fired.
It doesn't make sense to me. I only have half the story. Where's the other half? Missing. Miss-placed and unfound.
I curse as I step out of bed. There's some anxiety. My heart pumps my blood faster and I find the light switch. My eyes burn and I really want to hop back in with my mate. My single pillow. My queen (sized bed).
And my back-up ride. I have another friend, who's kind enough to pick me up in the morning. One not fired. One fine. One I think about: "Where do we stand?" She's off this morning. Regularly is on Thursdays. Will be tomorrow, too. Her vacation has started. And I knew this would happen. And I wonder, "How am I still standing?"
I move.
I make sure I have a job.
Money. I'm not going to lie, I'm doing this for the money. I want to eat. Am hungry. Will work for food. Is this how it's suppossed to be?
Hearsay.
A friend fired.
It doesn't make sense to me. I only have half the story. Where's the other half? Missing. Miss-placed and unfound.
I curse as I step out of bed. There's some anxiety. My heart pumps my blood faster and I find the light switch. My eyes burn and I really want to hop back in with my mate. My single pillow. My queen (sized bed).
And my back-up ride. I have another friend, who's kind enough to pick me up in the morning. One not fired. One fine. One I think about: "Where do we stand?" She's off this morning. Regularly is on Thursdays. Will be tomorrow, too. Her vacation has started. And I knew this would happen. And I wonder, "How am I still standing?"
I move.
I make sure I have a job.
Money. I'm not going to lie, I'm doing this for the money. I want to eat. Am hungry. Will work for food. Is this how it's suppossed to be?
Well no-fucking wonder
(I guess I forgot to post this one last week, when life was good.)
The index finger moves down the calendar weeks. Finger prints rub over time. Wipe your finger off the wall, and, if you look closely you will see, inbetween the lines that define you, time that has passed. These are the wrinkles that really define how old we are.
Look again. Squint if you have to. Etched in the creases. Deep in the valley are rivers of what was. Time defined.
People ask, "Where has the time has gone?" It's there. Seeped inside your skin. You have memories, even if you don't remember. They're in you. And there should be no question about where it went or if it was wasted.
"Time flies," people all too often say. But it doesn't. You're around for it until your demise. It's here and so are you. And it's what you make of it. It's going to pass but you're awake for it until you pass out.
"You take your chances," a 5-year sober alcholic told a wino who got kicked out of the library this day on the street car. He said he was because he was drunk and didn't care. He took a fifth into the library because it's a warm, dry place to drink cheap booze. He lost his privledges. And as the man shuffles off the trolly it's easy to feel sorry for him, but harder to try to help him. The empathetic often doesn't want to be the company of those they feel for.
And so, when I take the bus home tomorrow night from the Willamette Week for the last time, I won't be questioning where the last three months of my life went. I'm aware of where I was. And though my finger prints are worn down a little more by pressing the keys of the iMac I'm typing on, the ruts still house the memories made, the stories untold, and the time taken aback. Maybe it's the warn prints that make it seem that the memories are over-flowing the inset seems. Or maybe I just have more to look back on.
This intern is hungry, and is hoping to be filled in the near future. Time in front is what we have to worry about. It hasn't happened yet, isn't dead, isn't yet alive. Sure, it will be before we know it, as another time cliche spews out of me. But when it's here we'll know it. And should make the most of it. Because before we know it's gone and were awaiting the future once again.
The index finger moves down the calendar weeks. Finger prints rub over time. Wipe your finger off the wall, and, if you look closely you will see, inbetween the lines that define you, time that has passed. These are the wrinkles that really define how old we are.
Look again. Squint if you have to. Etched in the creases. Deep in the valley are rivers of what was. Time defined.
People ask, "Where has the time has gone?" It's there. Seeped inside your skin. You have memories, even if you don't remember. They're in you. And there should be no question about where it went or if it was wasted.
"Time flies," people all too often say. But it doesn't. You're around for it until your demise. It's here and so are you. And it's what you make of it. It's going to pass but you're awake for it until you pass out.
"You take your chances," a 5-year sober alcholic told a wino who got kicked out of the library this day on the street car. He said he was because he was drunk and didn't care. He took a fifth into the library because it's a warm, dry place to drink cheap booze. He lost his privledges. And as the man shuffles off the trolly it's easy to feel sorry for him, but harder to try to help him. The empathetic often doesn't want to be the company of those they feel for.
And so, when I take the bus home tomorrow night from the Willamette Week for the last time, I won't be questioning where the last three months of my life went. I'm aware of where I was. And though my finger prints are worn down a little more by pressing the keys of the iMac I'm typing on, the ruts still house the memories made, the stories untold, and the time taken aback. Maybe it's the warn prints that make it seem that the memories are over-flowing the inset seems. Or maybe I just have more to look back on.
This intern is hungry, and is hoping to be filled in the near future. Time in front is what we have to worry about. It hasn't happened yet, isn't dead, isn't yet alive. Sure, it will be before we know it, as another time cliche spews out of me. But when it's here we'll know it. And should make the most of it. Because before we know it's gone and were awaiting the future once again.
If only this was my non-pay internship
Well, I don't get paid to write here. Not yet. I don't get paid to write anywhere. It sucks, but that's life. I mean, I can barely spell anyway. Who's gonna pay me to write hogwash bric-a-brack? Yeah, no one I've met. Yet.
In the meantime I've been whoring my self out. Not just here. Not just for the evil empire I slave for for at $8.50 an hour. I do it for nothing for an alternative weekly that you, even outside of Puddletown, can read. You might even be able to find the bits I've written over the past two months if you click carefully. I've done two attributed snips. And gobs of little things not much longer than my name,and thus not attribution. But, I've accomplished what I came here to do, and that was to get a byline. I've been published again! That and an internship will get you a cup of coffee, is what I've learned. And not much else. As of yet, you say, you optimistic reader.
Thank you.
Oh, find my time-consuming sentence construction, along with loads of other writing by people actually getting paid on a simple, easy to remember site with lots of w's.
www.wweek.com
It's free. And it's not for long. Internship up March 1. Then, they'll have to pay me. Or then, I'll come back here to the nice warm blanket of unedited, uncommented (few exceptions), blog o mine. Please feel free to comment here, or on the weekly newspaper website. E-mail, call, or talk to me on the street. Mention for how much I'm loved and mean to the small world of afterthoughts.
Couldn't be here without each and every one of you. Until next time my cyber sidekicks...
In the meantime I've been whoring my self out. Not just here. Not just for the evil empire I slave for for at $8.50 an hour. I do it for nothing for an alternative weekly that you, even outside of Puddletown, can read. You might even be able to find the bits I've written over the past two months if you click carefully. I've done two attributed snips. And gobs of little things not much longer than my name,and thus not attribution. But, I've accomplished what I came here to do, and that was to get a byline. I've been published again! That and an internship will get you a cup of coffee, is what I've learned. And not much else. As of yet, you say, you optimistic reader.
Thank you.
Oh, find my time-consuming sentence construction, along with loads of other writing by people actually getting paid on a simple, easy to remember site with lots of w's.
www.wweek.com
It's free. And it's not for long. Internship up March 1. Then, they'll have to pay me. Or then, I'll come back here to the nice warm blanket of unedited, uncommented (few exceptions), blog o mine. Please feel free to comment here, or on the weekly newspaper website. E-mail, call, or talk to me on the street. Mention for how much I'm loved and mean to the small world of afterthoughts.
Couldn't be here without each and every one of you. Until next time my cyber sidekicks...
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?...
SEND
SEND
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,
Jimbo
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,
Jimbo
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