Deep Frey'd

"....[A]nd spectators, buy my CD twice..."

I have recently been following with horrified intent the fiasco surrounding the book Million Little Pieces. For those of you who don't know the story, you can read about it on any major news site. The skinny is that this book, which is a major "non-fiction," "autobiographical" best-seller, was found to have major factual inaccuracies. Here is a partial timeline of some of the important events:

1. A major scandal-breaking website reports that important details of Frey's life chronicled in the book are largely false, such as his description of his criminal background, time served in jail, "wanted" status, and, probably worst of all, being a "victim" of a fatal train accident that claimed the lives of others.

2. When confronted, Frey at first refuses to discuss the findings, but then gradually begins to admit that certain details of the book were "embellished." He contradicts an excerpt of the book where he vows to be open and honest about his past by telling people some details were fabricated to "build a wall around himself" and protect himself from the public.

3. Oprah Winfrey, who practically dry-humped the book on her daytime talk show, goes on television to announce her support for Frey and trumpet the book again, characterizing the mounting scandal as much ado about nothing.

4. As more details of Frey's lies emerge, and major news organizations confirm the findings of the initial website reports, Oprah does a double-take and invites Frey back on her show to discuss the book.

5. Oprah "rips into" Frey on the show (although I find the interview was not as hostile as the press reported, allowing the author and publisher many chances to explain themselves, wrapped around a few sound bites criticizing Frey). Oprah, for her part, apologizes for her earlier comments about supporting Frey (better late than never, big O).

6. Frey offers a weak mea culpa on the show, stating that he had to build himself up bigger than he was in order to conquer his demons such as drug addiction. He states he stands by the principal message of the book, however (note to self: I guess it's easier to beat drug addiction without organized assistance or religion, then write about it, when you pretend you're someone else. I'm glad that doesn't tarnish any of the central messages of the book, huh?).

7. The Publisher of the book, Doubleday and Anchor Books, feigns impotence regarding allegations that it could have nipped this problem in the bud, saying that it did not have the time, money, or skill to investigate Frey's fabrications. Doubleday is one of the largest publishing companies in the country, with billions in sales per year, prompting many media to comment how hollow this response was.

8. The "repartations" for this practical fraud on American consumers? A new version of the book is being printed, in its original entirety, with a foreword stating that some of the details may have been embellished.

9. We basically have here a failure regarding every aspect of this book, from creation to post-printing promotion, spanning multiple venerated instutions of American society. The worst part? The public's reponse -- people are still buying the shit out of the book.

What is this world coming to?

Note to readers: if any of my depiction of the events surrounding Frey's book are inaccurate, incomplete, or disingenuous, please let me know. I will gladly continue listing this post in its entirety, but with an epilouge which I will post a year later detailing the falsehoods. Thanks for your patronage!

He Got Game

“Who he attractin’ with that line/ ‘What’s yo’ name/ what’s yo’ sign’…”

“Wifey” and I witnessed a patently weird experience last week as we went to a bar near the O.C. Unusually crowded for a weeknight, we were told we had to wait at least 30 minutes for a table. Concerned that there were no other bars nearby that would stay open as late as we planned to stay out (it was already 11 p.m.), we decided to wait it out. As we sat outside on a bench, seated unusually close to us was an odd fellow. His hair was done up and he was dressed in a dress shirt, dress khaki pants, tube socks, and “Zips” Velcro sneakers. These were the shoes that all of us idolized as five-year olds, with two horizontal Velcro strips across the front of the shoes and no laces; shoes which since 1990 have not been seen again except on the feet of 70-year old men with artificial hips. Furthermore, it occurred to us not long after this that “Zips” was rip-roaring drunk, working on no-doubt his fifth or sixth Long Island Iced Tea.

Thankfully, Zips did not hit on my companion, but did proceed to hit on nearly everything with a pulse outside the bar. After a poor excuse of a drunk dial to one of his friends, he attempted to hit on a small, Asian girl who was seated near us. What followed was one of the lowest moments in manhood history.

To put this in context, it was clear English was not the girl’s first language. Perhaps thinking he could use this as an advantage, Zips proceeded to utter every stereotypical lie in the book to bed this Eastern maiden. Here are all the audible lies that we heard:

First, Zips asked the girl for her name. After she responded, with what I hope was a fakie, Zips started to don a fake Euro-trash accent which, putting it nicely, was very unlike the voice we heard him use on his drunk-dial. He stated to the girl that his actual name was some 60s motto, like “Free Love,” or “Do what you want,” or “Do what feels good,” or something like that. In fact, I wish I could remember the exact words he said made up his name, but you get the drift. He reasoned that that was his name because that’s what people were going to do, anyway.

Then, he stated that he was from Ireland. To be exact, he continued, he was “from Dubland.” That’s not a typo. Not Dublin, but, I repeat, “Dubland.”

Zips continued to proceed with an extremely hollow account of his life in Ireland which sounded like it was taken straight from a movie. You would have thought he was a poor potato farmer coming to the U.S. to find the city where the streets were paved with gold. He stated that he loved America and was tired of "Dubland." He continued that things changed a lot in his “home country” when they converted from their native currency, the “Ire-lish” to the Euro. [Clearly by now, you don’t need me to tell you that there is no such thing as an Ire-lish, now or before 1999.] He said that he came here because it was more fun and he wanted to share more stories with her.

After trying to lay it on real thick, the girl got a “phone call” – real or concocted, only God will ever know – from her “friends” at the bar and ran away. After watching Zips strike out a few more times we went to our table to enjoy a few spirits of our own. I had to comment that even though we had just come from a movie, that was clearly the best show of the night.

The Truth

Here's an unbelievable article by Randall Sullivan of Rolling Stone about the B.I.G. murder and the coverup that "most likely" (read: definitely) followed. It's the most comprehensive and unbiased piece I've seen about the case, and it confirms what most followers of the case already know -- that anyone with an eighth grade education could have figured out who the killers were, yet the "vast and dedicated" resources of the LAPD have failed to even interview key witnesses for the past nine years, as the case remains "unsolved." It also recounts with shocking detail the vastness of the cover-up not to implicate Suge Knight or the LAPD in the Wallace investigation, including a very troubling indictment of the L.A. Times.