I have some human friends, or as they prefer it, "acquaintances" who have read a book entitled "A Million Pieces" which is, I see, rather prominent in the news and on tv lately. It would appear this work of non-fiction may be as much fiction as it is non-. My, um, associates argue this author ought be punished for doing a disservice to the community of those in, or on the verge of, recovery. They asked me: P-man (not my real name), what do you think? I say to them: Hmmm? while thinking in my inside voice: Must type about book!
Maybe I'm too cynical, too closed-minded, to accept that large for-profit corporations are willing to put their muscle and money behind simple tales about ordinary people
, trying to find happiness in a largely strange and indifferent world, for the betterment of all
. Yeah, that's it. It's me... because apparently the publisher, owned by some megacorporation (resistance is futile!) had the best interests of society in mind when it decided to publish and promote the "memoir" of one Mr. F---, whose tale of debauchery, descent, and (what's the wrong word here...) redemption would speak to the masses- those whose lives have been touched by alcohol or drug use, and those touching those who have been touched, often while under the influence of alcohol or drugs. It turns out the "memoir" may contain some stuff the author kind of, I don't know how you say it, made up.
I intend to go on a bit here and I beg your indulgence. I have an appointment with the vet in July, after the birth of #2, and I must give a couple of shots before I am loaded with blanks. Now please excuse me while I fulminate.
Lest you have any doubts as to my disposition on this matter, I'd like to find the author in question, this Mr. F--, and kick him in the shmeebs. While I'm at it, I'd like to crazy-glue the pudenda of a certain CNN "news person" (How old is that fucking guy? I cringe as he vapidly lobs his puff-ball questions at his shit-heeled guests, all the while waiting to get plugged in to his Levitra drip so he can be wheeled into his love chamber, and bump his Methuselean knees against the mid thighs of his latest Hooters waitress bride? Do you watch this show? Did you enjoy the Menendez jailhouse call to his wife in studio? [Hey honey, make sure your folks are home Saturday between noon and 3, okay? NOON AND THREE. Thanks Larry.]) Oh, and the glue, I will glue Mr. Levitra's privates to those of a certain cultural industry of one whose name is that of a Marx brother in reverse, who shamelessly plugs books that her staff have doubtless read for her, and who shamelessly called in to the "news" show in question to offer support for her beleaguered pet author, who obviously was not getting enough support from his MOMMY, and needed the aforementioned cultural industry to speak into the phone one of her handlers dialed for her. (Of course, she and Mr. Levitra likely are on each others speed-dials, given how the "news" and "entertainment" are so thoroughly lodged in one another's various orifices as to suggest the image of Ourobouros
on The Island
.) I will apply the glue to these individuals so they may at last obtain from one another what they deliver to their audiences. I note Methuselah attempting to the explain the six degrees of clusterfuck between the company that owns him and the one publishing the "memoir" and the one producing the movie of the story- I mean- the "MEMOIR".
While I cannot say if Mr. F--- is lying in his "memoir" I proceed on the assumption that the "embellishments" to the truth he blithely referred to on tv are, in fact, fabulations of rather banal DUI-type idiocy. I have read the article impugning the author's credibility and I have heard some of his rebuttal which, I say by way of introduction, sounds like total crap. He is, while dissimulating through his ass, telling "the essential truth." Far be it from me to throw any stones at this phenomenally successful author whose success is derived not from writing such screen classics as Biosphere 2, or Porky's Revenge, but from a revealing tale regarding his addiction to alcohol and drugs, his frightening descent into outlaw behaviour, ill health, and imprisonment, and of course his recovery house experience, his exposure to a 12 step program, and his rejection of the program in favour of a program of his own design. FAR. BE. IT. I am, as I have stated before, a bitter, sad little man, who likes nothing more than to lurk in the penumbra of the glorious light of public affection shone upon the good and the righteous. (Dutch, you bastard
In fact, it is not that I am actually bothered by any of this, this patchwork of untruths packaged and marketed as truth, aimed at the sorry minds of alcoholics and addicts who are seeking some way out of their plight, desperate for something to pull them out from their miserable state (that is, other than AA). NOOOOO, certainly not.
If I could write a book, I think it would be a 'recovery' book- a book about my measly middle-class adolescent problems. I'll dress it up a bit, so that I shot the sheriff, or a man in Vegas, and went to jail where I was cornholed
by a porn star, with whom I fell in love, and to whom I later taught conversational French, before he died tragically in a laundry accident; so I found god, or rejected god; I developed a sense of injustice so great I campaigned for the rights of laundry workers worldwide upon my release into society after many years of carceral lovin'; I fell in love with a nice girl/prostitute/sea cucumber, but when I was needed I wasn't there; I was organizing an iron-in at a laundry factory/drunk in a gutter/at another aquarium, and the love of my life died, because of suicide/evil pimp/sushi chef; I rejected god/found god, but dammit I kept on pressing with my campaign, I wouldn't fold under the pressure... and go on in my life, behind the fab PR campaign, appearing on TV shows, making a butt-load of cash (which, of course, was modified in jail to permit storage of lucre), living in one of my wholly-owned luxury homes, all the while sitting on the dirty little secret that my actual crime was more mundane: merely that of being a prick, a limp one at that, and that the actual sentence I would bear would be living with myself, I would do it. No wait, I would NOT do that.
By lying to people, and trying to excuse the behaviour by insisting "I'm telling the essential truth" when caught in the lie, Mr. F--- has established the "essential truth" of his story: he is an egomaniac, an incorrigible liar, a selfish lout, worthy of little more than your contempt.
Ahh, I feel better.