James Frey's Novel "A Million Little Pieces," as reviewed by Snide Cunty Goth Girl Who Needs to be Smacked Out Of Her Bauhaus T-Shirt

My ex gave me this book. This book with its strange and wonderful power. This was before his parents sent him off to military school. He stared at me with terrible feeling and an intensity I'd only dreamt of and pressed it into my hand and looked into me. Into me. Like he knew everything I'd ever known but locked away. In me. Like He'd found It. In some Corner of me.

Hiding. And He'd found it.

He'd never been one for Books. He was always far too Real and always Living on The Edge and always Alone and burning beautiful. He never had the patience for callow print.

Life, He said, is for living, not reading.

He asked me if I understood.

Do you want to live, He asked me?

Live. Not read.

I didn't make him up. He was real, realer than I, even. The same way that all the friends James makes in his two-month stay in rehab hell where he endured all the hell and pain and died for all us rich-fucks, for all our rich-fuck sins and lack of realness and came back and I forgot to tell you that he could've died, but he- didn't he survived and he doesn't need to believe in God to do it. And his friends are real. I forgot to finish that thought but it doesn't matter because real thoughts aren't ever finished. They just end. Like life. And his friends are real- Eddie, the Detroit steelworker… Miles, a black jazzman/judge… Matty, the black heavyweight boxer… Leonard, the orphaned mafia dude from Sin City… All of them real. Real Men. Real men that transcend the tired cliches of rich-boy posturing.

Like his Writing. So real.

It's too real to be lies. Not the puerile, sterile lies of a rich-boy-fuck fantasizing about the only thing he didn't have dumped in his lap by his preening rich-fuck parents: credibility and authenticity. Because only tough-guy badmuthas are authentic. And James Frey is one badmutha. He even has a tattoo of his motto- stripped down into an acronym and scrawled across a limb. That's how tough he is. Tattoo Tough. Rich-fuck rehab tough. Like Hemingway.
Tough but gentle.

Like an emo song that rings so crystalline in The Very Fibers of Your Being.

Like a song.

A song.

It made me cry.

Songlike.

That's what it's like. This book. That's what it's like.

This book made me feel again. Again. Holding James Frey's Book I began to feel. Again. His chopped up sentences. Are. Striking. And. His. Poignant lyricism, coupled with the so deft, so subtle use of repetition is striking. Truly striking. Again. His repetition is. And the way He capitalizes some Words. He gives them an understated importance (Repetition.) that would be impossible to render through simple narrative or dialogue. Or plot. His novel is too Real for that. Or descriptions. His Story is too real to be described. All you can do is Capitalize it. On it. Again. Repetition.

You see. I share Jimmy's secret. I too am a rich-fuck. And a Badmutha. A rich-fuck Badmutha. I too have beaten a French priest to death for coming on to me, as he so gloriously recounts. I too know the lonely halls of rehab clinics, where one moment's weakness can cost you Everything You Hold Dear. I too am an Alchoholic and an Addict and a Junkie and a User and Abuser and a Loser and a Snoozer and a Schmoozer and a Bruiser and a Boozer. And a Joker and a Toker. Some people call me the Space Cowboy. I too can write with all the focused intensity and stripped down poise of a lobotomized Hemingway/Jack Handy musing. I am that real. I too have felt. This pain and cold creeping urge. This denial and pure callused focused hate that climbs up into your lap and takes you by the throat and holds your eyes open and screams into you like a lap dance from hell because you're a rich-fuck and fuck it why not?

Into you. Not around you.

Not beside you.

Not underneath or above or adjacent to you.

Not behind you.

Into you.

You read this book and it fills you and you see for one clear moment that life is clear and worn and so sharp that you could almost cut yourself open on the edges and spill yourself out. And beyond. And lie there. Just lie there. Again. And find It. For one clear and lucid moment you can hold It.

Do Yourself a favor. Buy this Book. Hold It. Close. Hold it Close. Closer. Open It. Close it.
Open it again. Put it on your Head. No. I didn't say Simon Sez.

I don't have to.

I'm just that real.

Snide Cunty Goth Girl Who Needs to be Smacked Out Of Her Bauhaus T-Shirt is a syndicated Columnist for The LA Times.

All about that Damn Dave Eggers book... you know the one.

I toyed with the idea of satyr-razing (so to speak) this treacle but that would be far too fucking demanding. My time isn't entirely worthless, after all. So's howzabou I jest jomp oan in and make wit da review.

My mother gave me this turdbursting work of staggering gutfuckedness for antichristmas. I'm considering having her institutionalized, locked away in a nursing home. I can't believe that this anemic, dyspetic patchwork husk of shoddy writing and emotional pornography is taken seriously by any literate person. This is one of those books I use to test people. If someone gushes about how this book made them cry or opened their eyes or inspired any reaction beyond disgust, contempt or gales of petty laughter... Kill them. You're probably better off without that person in your life. Because that person is an easily swindled, fucking fool.

I can just see Eggers sitting there, observing his dying mother. Tapping his pen on his forehead. Notebook in hand, brow furrowed, searching for the right word combination to describe her agony in the hippest, freshest way. If only the bitch weren't so doped up on painkillers she could provide him with a phenomenological description of her demise, agony bracketed- give him the play by play. I'm sure she wanted her son to be a success, even if said success rests solely on a longwinded, bathetic, melodramatic reconstruction of her Death.

Or I imagine him on his knees, his fist working furiously in his lap by his dying mother- moaning quietly- he has some respect- oh god, it's sooooo good... Yeah, ohhh yeah, like that baby, just like that- all the love and pity and fame that's going to come his way now that she's kickin- hey! woah, hold on, don't blow your wad yet, Dave- better cooooool it down, we need at least two hundred more pages here. Aw but hey, we can drag out the little brother once the 'rents are disposed of…

Can you hear the muted, resinous string section, the minor key cadences rising and falling? Yup, Oh MY GOD! It's The Kronos Quartet. Dave has dragged them in to give the scene a bit more atmosphere… And hey- is that a video camera? Oh my God, it's indie darling PT Anderson, or whomever else is ripping off Scorsese these days, shooting the film adaptation. But wait, just wait is that, can it be? It is!!!- It's none other than would-be novelist, hack-director, pitiable-musician, Uma Thurman impregnator and monochromatic sometime-actor Ethan Hawke starring in the lead role!!!!!!!

…A sick desire for pity and hipster cred seamlessly blended with inept, community-college-style memoir writing. Yum. Makes me wanna t bomb a Barnes & Noble. This book is a sweet lil symbol for everything I hate about my generation, my class (effete post-college, liberal-minded, spoiled, unemployable, psuedo-intellects… well, what can I say, familiarity doth breed contempt) and my country. Thank you Mr. Eggers, I find that I can get three to five more reps per set, when I think about your shit book.