Most days, you have to work pretty hard NOT to end up hanging out with a washed-up drug addict.
But this is some pretty funny shit right here, this little blog essay about his new book tour:
"James Frey Protest: Mace, Hell's Angels, and Leaflets"
Frey is traveling the country, protected by the Hell's Angels, trying to do some kind of bad and lonely vaudeville act, all while smiling his haggard smile and loping along with the same dilapidated charm that got him in trouble in the first place.
But he has enemies who want to DESTROY him. His detractors are camping out at his readings and handing out old pamphlets about his crimes entitled "Whose Fault is Frey?" which condemn society for buying into a cheap con man. Perhaps these protestors are being unjust? I think it is important to keep the words of Kurt Vonnegut in mind whenever you are dealing with writers and their novels:
"Any reviewer who expresses rage and loathing for a novel is preposterous. He or she is like a person who has put on full armor and attacked a hot fudge sundae."
According to the blog post, James Frey thinks the "protest" of his book is "awesome." Who can argue? Who would not get a thrill from having protesters?
"And that's the trouble with writers," says the irate individual here who is giving Frey the stiff finger.
I guess he means that the trouble with writers is that they don't care why you are reading them. They just like it when you do. They are like the lonely little kids being taken out by men trying to sleep with their moms. They don't care why they are getting fistfuls of coins to put in the arcade machines, or why they are getting extra dessert. They will take it. They will take it wherever they can get it.
Posted by miracle on Mon, 19 May 2008 20:40:43 -0400 -- permanent link