And up in the upper left-hand corner is this:
"obama?"
Why must they taunt me so?!?!?!?!?!
Why!?
Sunday, October 15, 2006
Tuesday, May 30, 2006
Monday, April 24, 2006
Friday, March 10, 2006
Tuesday, February 21, 2006
It's been a year?! Damn. It's already been a year.
The other day, while I was taking the boys to school, I switched the radio tuner to the Mancow show. I am not ashamed to admit that I listen to that show, along with whatever strikes me on NPR, Jonathan Brandmeir, and WXRT (if there is a good song on). I am a joy to watch telvision with.
I happened to catch a part of the show where he did a phone interview with Anita Thompson, Hunter's widow. I stopped listening shortly after he said that he wrote his book, Dad, Dames, Demons & a Dwarf, was written in Thompson's style. It was a lackluster interview on the whole, and I couldn't tell if it was Mancow or Anita Thompson who made it so, but I had to get the boy into school, and with the move and all, things just don't seem to interest me as much lately.
I had the revelation described in the title of this post this morning, and thought that I'd post my own tribute to Hunter's style. It's not the first, and it probably won't be the last. Enjoy, please:
I’m careening down Lake Shore Drive at 75 MPH, accompanied by two Puerto Rican hookers, ten cans of warm Pabst Blue Ribbon, and enough ghetto-cut crank to dispatch a South African Cape Buffalo, twice over. It’s a mild April evening, and my trip back from Logan Square is going swimmingly. We’re heading south towards the “S” Curve, and I have no doubt that the archdiocese’s new midnight blue Lincoln Town Car can make the turn at 55, although there is the possibility of some partygoer at the Drake Hotel being at the window just in time to see Archbishop Bryan Roth and his companions jump the guard rail and plow into the first floor of that very building, a landmark of Chicago architecture.
There would be headlines, of course. And Walter Jacobson, that beady-eyed, big-nosed weasel, would probably do an editorial on Fox News about how he knew about me and my predilections all along. That punk’s had my number since he went undercover as a communion wafer to expose the “Silent Seminarian” scandal of 1985.
Whatever. It’s in God’s hands.
Jomayra and Maritza are good stock: thick, sassy bold young things who aren’t afraid of a little chaos. I bailed them out of jail earlier this evening, and now they are feeling very grateful. What is there in this world if there isn’t forgiveness?
They are from hardworking, churchgoing families, and they are discreet, which in my line of work is essential.
Because of this, they have enjoyed experiences their schoolmates could never fathom. They’ve entertained congressmen, visiting dignitaries, and
more than one local children’s television celebrity.
Maritza is snorting a line of crank off of Jomayra’s exposed, ample bosom as I bank the Town Car into the first left-hand turn of the curve. They squeal and wrap their arms around each other, chattering in Spanish something muerte… They’re both 21 and, when naked, could pass for twins.
I churn the wheel to the right, and shout Hot Damn! There’s gonna be some home-fried reckoning tonight, girls! I punch the ceiling of the car and laugh maniacally, my eyes bugging from the crank, my breath sour from beer.
We’re in the straightaway, now; I’ve made it again. Taking a long, deep pull from the beer can, I pray: O my God, at the end of this day I thank you most heartily for all the graces I have received from you. I am sorry that I have not made a better use of them. I am sorry for all the sins I have committed against you. Forgive me, O my God, and graciously protect me this night. Blessed Virgin Mary, my dear heavenly mother, take me under your protection. St. Joseph, my dear guardian angel, and all you saints of God, pray for me. Sweet Jesus, have pity on all poor sinners, and save them from hell. Have mercy on the suffering souls in purgatory.
Illinois Avenue! I pull off at the exit and snake through the side streets, approaching the rectory of Holy Name Cathedral from behind, the way I take Maritza when she is sufficiently wasted and randy. I am 57 years old; she needs a little ramping up for that job. I understand the hazards of her business, and I am willing to help in any way I can.
I pull the car up to the gates, and they open like they always do. Manny, the usual attendant is not there. Instead, there is a small man; his profile distinctive, wait…
Jacobson! You rat-faced swine! I hurl and empty beer can at his head, but I miss. He stands in a false
stoicism, believing that justice is on his side.
Roth, you degenerate chicken-hawk! I’ve got you now! There’s no way you’ll get out of this one. You
thought you had me in ’85. Made me look like a fool, you thought. I’ve caught you, now, you pervert! The uniform he is wearing is too small (Manny is quite small in stature), and he keeps pulling at the bottom of the jacket as if he can make it grow two sizes by sheer will.
First of all, Jacobson, you need to get your facts straight! I have never, nor will I ever, diddle any young boys. Nor old boys, for that matter! I drain my beer and chuck the empty can, this time hitting him directly in the center of his forehead. He doesn’t move.
You can believe what you want, Archbishop! But I was there! There were thirteen naked seminarians wandering the Michigan Dunes, tripping balls on windowpane acid! They all mentioned your name more than once in their insane babble! Explain that one!
His voice is growing shrill, and I realize I will soon need to come up with a plan to calm him down, or three cars full of pissed-off Chicago cops would be arriving at the rectory, and there really would be no way, with such a well-known media icon present, of them overlooking the archbishop of Chicago cavorting with two half-naked Latina prostitutes on a spring evening two weeks from Easter.
Ten of them swore they felt closer to God that night than ever before! I say, opening another can of beer.
Jacobson snorts and pulls at his jacket. Sure! Was that after you had your way with them!?
This time, I throw the full beer at him. It hits him square in the chest, and he flinches slightly as the brew splashes onto his stolen clothes and up onto his face. Let’s get this straight, you treacherous, rotten little sot! You have caught up to me this fine evening escorted by two young, beautiful, Latina women. They have had a rough go of things, and I am comforting them in their hour of need. Hell, in light of the Catholic Church’s recent hits, I should be canonized a saint for my actions! They’re over 18, they’re women, and, good God, they’re talented!
He sneers and finally removes the coat. I can have a news van here in twenty minutes! He shouts, pulling his cellular phone from his pants pocket.
Jacobson! If murder wasn’t a sin, I’d have Maritza’s cousin bash your brains in with a Louisville Slugger, then cut your testicles off and sell them on Ebay!
He closes his phone and leers at Maritza, licking his lips; then, his hands involuntarily come together in a gesture that resembles a fly bathing in its own vomit. Here is my window of opportunity.
Maritza senses my plan and stiffens. It’s true, she may be placing her life into the hands of a psychotic media slut. There’s no telling what this maniac is capable of. But she’s a good girl, and it’s for times like this that her sweet little behind never sits for more than an hour in the holding cell at the Logan Square police department.
Jacobson! Why don’t you and Maritza go up to my room and make yourselves comfortable? I should be up shortly. We can watch CNN, or maybe play a board game.
Maritza kisses me on the cheek, takes the remainder of the crank, and leads Walter Jacobson up to my room by the hand. He follows, muttering incoherently.
I happened to catch a part of the show where he did a phone interview with Anita Thompson, Hunter's widow. I stopped listening shortly after he said that he wrote his book, Dad, Dames, Demons & a Dwarf, was written in Thompson's style. It was a lackluster interview on the whole, and I couldn't tell if it was Mancow or Anita Thompson who made it so, but I had to get the boy into school, and with the move and all, things just don't seem to interest me as much lately.
I had the revelation described in the title of this post this morning, and thought that I'd post my own tribute to Hunter's style. It's not the first, and it probably won't be the last. Enjoy, please:
I’m careening down Lake Shore Drive at 75 MPH, accompanied by two Puerto Rican hookers, ten cans of warm Pabst Blue Ribbon, and enough ghetto-cut crank to dispatch a South African Cape Buffalo, twice over. It’s a mild April evening, and my trip back from Logan Square is going swimmingly. We’re heading south towards the “S” Curve, and I have no doubt that the archdiocese’s new midnight blue Lincoln Town Car can make the turn at 55, although there is the possibility of some partygoer at the Drake Hotel being at the window just in time to see Archbishop Bryan Roth and his companions jump the guard rail and plow into the first floor of that very building, a landmark of Chicago architecture.
There would be headlines, of course. And Walter Jacobson, that beady-eyed, big-nosed weasel, would probably do an editorial on Fox News about how he knew about me and my predilections all along. That punk’s had my number since he went undercover as a communion wafer to expose the “Silent Seminarian” scandal of 1985.
Whatever. It’s in God’s hands.
Jomayra and Maritza are good stock: thick, sassy bold young things who aren’t afraid of a little chaos. I bailed them out of jail earlier this evening, and now they are feeling very grateful. What is there in this world if there isn’t forgiveness?
They are from hardworking, churchgoing families, and they are discreet, which in my line of work is essential.
Because of this, they have enjoyed experiences their schoolmates could never fathom. They’ve entertained congressmen, visiting dignitaries, and
more than one local children’s television celebrity.
Maritza is snorting a line of crank off of Jomayra’s exposed, ample bosom as I bank the Town Car into the first left-hand turn of the curve. They squeal and wrap their arms around each other, chattering in Spanish something muerte… They’re both 21 and, when naked, could pass for twins.
I churn the wheel to the right, and shout Hot Damn! There’s gonna be some home-fried reckoning tonight, girls! I punch the ceiling of the car and laugh maniacally, my eyes bugging from the crank, my breath sour from beer.
We’re in the straightaway, now; I’ve made it again. Taking a long, deep pull from the beer can, I pray: O my God, at the end of this day I thank you most heartily for all the graces I have received from you. I am sorry that I have not made a better use of them. I am sorry for all the sins I have committed against you. Forgive me, O my God, and graciously protect me this night. Blessed Virgin Mary, my dear heavenly mother, take me under your protection. St. Joseph, my dear guardian angel, and all you saints of God, pray for me. Sweet Jesus, have pity on all poor sinners, and save them from hell. Have mercy on the suffering souls in purgatory.
Illinois Avenue! I pull off at the exit and snake through the side streets, approaching the rectory of Holy Name Cathedral from behind, the way I take Maritza when she is sufficiently wasted and randy. I am 57 years old; she needs a little ramping up for that job. I understand the hazards of her business, and I am willing to help in any way I can.
I pull the car up to the gates, and they open like they always do. Manny, the usual attendant is not there. Instead, there is a small man; his profile distinctive, wait…
Jacobson! You rat-faced swine! I hurl and empty beer can at his head, but I miss. He stands in a false
stoicism, believing that justice is on his side.
Roth, you degenerate chicken-hawk! I’ve got you now! There’s no way you’ll get out of this one. You
thought you had me in ’85. Made me look like a fool, you thought. I’ve caught you, now, you pervert! The uniform he is wearing is too small (Manny is quite small in stature), and he keeps pulling at the bottom of the jacket as if he can make it grow two sizes by sheer will.
First of all, Jacobson, you need to get your facts straight! I have never, nor will I ever, diddle any young boys. Nor old boys, for that matter! I drain my beer and chuck the empty can, this time hitting him directly in the center of his forehead. He doesn’t move.
You can believe what you want, Archbishop! But I was there! There were thirteen naked seminarians wandering the Michigan Dunes, tripping balls on windowpane acid! They all mentioned your name more than once in their insane babble! Explain that one!
His voice is growing shrill, and I realize I will soon need to come up with a plan to calm him down, or three cars full of pissed-off Chicago cops would be arriving at the rectory, and there really would be no way, with such a well-known media icon present, of them overlooking the archbishop of Chicago cavorting with two half-naked Latina prostitutes on a spring evening two weeks from Easter.
Ten of them swore they felt closer to God that night than ever before! I say, opening another can of beer.
Jacobson snorts and pulls at his jacket. Sure! Was that after you had your way with them!?
This time, I throw the full beer at him. It hits him square in the chest, and he flinches slightly as the brew splashes onto his stolen clothes and up onto his face. Let’s get this straight, you treacherous, rotten little sot! You have caught up to me this fine evening escorted by two young, beautiful, Latina women. They have had a rough go of things, and I am comforting them in their hour of need. Hell, in light of the Catholic Church’s recent hits, I should be canonized a saint for my actions! They’re over 18, they’re women, and, good God, they’re talented!
He sneers and finally removes the coat. I can have a news van here in twenty minutes! He shouts, pulling his cellular phone from his pants pocket.
Jacobson! If murder wasn’t a sin, I’d have Maritza’s cousin bash your brains in with a Louisville Slugger, then cut your testicles off and sell them on Ebay!
He closes his phone and leers at Maritza, licking his lips; then, his hands involuntarily come together in a gesture that resembles a fly bathing in its own vomit. Here is my window of opportunity.
Maritza senses my plan and stiffens. It’s true, she may be placing her life into the hands of a psychotic media slut. There’s no telling what this maniac is capable of. But she’s a good girl, and it’s for times like this that her sweet little behind never sits for more than an hour in the holding cell at the Logan Square police department.
Jacobson! Why don’t you and Maritza go up to my room and make yourselves comfortable? I should be up shortly. We can watch CNN, or maybe play a board game.
Maritza kisses me on the cheek, takes the remainder of the crank, and leads Walter Jacobson up to my room by the hand. He follows, muttering incoherently.
Wednesday, February 08, 2006
The Real Reason Tom Wants Katie Out Of The Spotlight
The group has been a little flighty lately:
I think this about sums up... EVERYTHING.
Back to the desensitization chamber with you, Kat! Another dose of Top Gun will make you a docile little Kitten!
PHOTO CREDITS: DAVID SHRIGLEY, http://www.davidshrigley.com/index.html
Sunday, January 29, 2006
Before the Media Beast Known in these Circles as "O" Comes for Me...
I have a confession to make.
In light of recent events, I know that there will be many more checks and balances for this sort of thing. So, I will head off any bad press at the pass:
I published a web log entry on Wednesday, August 3, 2005 regarding a transcript of a fax received from Hunter S. Thompson, Doctor of Journalism, sent to me from beyond the grave. I did not actually receive the fax, but fabricated its text in its entirety. I do not feel that I have conned anyone, as I stand by the message of perversion and borderline pedophelia one-hundred percent.
I do, however, stand by the authenticity of the fax I received from Charles Bukowski.
I also posted a reply or two on the standby_bert web log, "Chicago's first and foremost source of news, right fucking now (Even sometimes before it happens. Uncanny!)!", in which I referred to Oprah Winfrey as "biggest fake in the history of media".
I regret writing that post, and I have to say now that I am truly sorry.
OK. No I'm not. Fuck Oprah!
Last night, I was finally able to sit down and watch the episode of Oprah mentioned in the standby_bert web log; the one with James Frey; the one that all the news channels are talking about.
If you have no idea what I am talking about, seriously, just Google James Frey or Oprah or A Million Little Pieces, and you'll be up to speed about what I am talking about her. I'm not going at warp speed here. I barely know what I am saying.
So, I watched the show, and as I'd expected, I became infuriated with many, many things. Karen says that it doesn't matter what Oprah says or does, I will be critical. That may be the case. Maybe I sealed my opinion of her a long time ago, but I wonder if I am the only person in America who can see just how much her show revolves around her, and how everything she does, she does to make people talk about her.
This situation with James Frey just pushed me over the edge. Karen actually had to leave the room (O.K., she fell asleep, but she had to "check out" in some way because I was getting ridiculous).
I understand that he fabricated and embellished some of the events and details of his memoir. I agree that he should be called to the carpet for it, and maybe have to answer in front of America. I do agree with that. He wrote an account of his life that he called "truth", and he promoted it as such. He was found to be fraudulent in some of his claims. That's not good.
There are a few things to keep in mind, though. The first is the marketing and promotion. Anyone who is close to the publishing business --not that I am, but I do know a few people who are, and that is how I have fashioned the following opinon-- knows that the memoir is the genre of literature that is being pushed by the publishing companies as of late. Since the mid-nineties, creative non-fiction has been a bigger seller than fiction, when it sells. If memory serves me (and I don't have sources at my fingertips right at this moment), didn't Frey try and publish a similar story to A Million Little Pieces as fiction, but it was turned down? And wasn't it suggested to him that if the same story (because a lot of it was HIS story) was published as a memoir, it would sell a whole hell of a lot more units? This may be me talking out of my ass, but I can swear I read that somewhere. If any one of my four readers knows this not to be true, please let me know. I will edit accordingly.
Oprah Winfrey latched on to this book and added it to her Book Club. She put Frey in the chair opposite her's and interviewed him and talked about how inspiring his story is and everything...
So, this past week, when she had him on and claimed she was "duped" and that she thought all along that the events of this story were just too unbelievable to be true... I wanted to reach into the television and strangle her.
This entry is really about Oprah, I have to admit. All of my issues with her came out in that James Frey interview. It's funny, but I agree that he needs to be grilled, but by Oprah? Oh, man! I am not sure I can condone that. That's just too cruel. That's like having to attend a loyalty workshop run by Judas and Pontius Pilot.
Oprah called into Larry King to defend Frey. I'd love to see how that scene went at the Winfrey/Graham household:
O: Stead! I gotta call in. They're frying my boy!
S: Honey, why don't we see how this plays out. Don't make any rash decisions.
O: Bitch, what I said was rhetorical. If I wanted your opinion, I'd give it to you! (dialing the phone.)
S: Yes, dear.
Then she regretted it, and decided to work that shit out on national TV. She can do that. She owns national TV.
So, she put Frey in the chair opposite her's, and grilled him like a fresh salmon, instead of frying him like Larry King attempted to do, like Mary Karr did (and quite effectively. In fact, it should have been left at that.)
A few years ago, before I purchased an IPass, I was pulling into the line at the Aurora tollbooth after a hard day of dealing with precocious adolescents. I misjudged my brakes and bumped the car in front of me. The guy got out, of course. He asked if I was OK. I told him that I was, and I got out and checked for damage to his car. There was no damage. We were both very nice about the whole thing, at first. It was obviously my fault, and I acknowledged that. It was right then that he changed, and began to shout at me, telling me that next time I'd better pay attention to what I was doing, or there's no telling what might happen to me. I say, "OK, dude. Just get back into your car and go. There won't be a next time."
It's a very strange phenomenom that happens to human beings when they are in control of a situation where one person has made a mistake and they have a choice of whether to exploit that mistake or deal with it and then bury it. In my experience, I have seen that very weak and insecure people make the decision to exploit the mistake. Oprah made this weakness into an artform last week.
Her pursuit of Frey was unconscionable. Shetwisted the knife the Smoking Gun had rightly put into Frey's credibility, and ventured into territory that she had no business going into. Her insistance that the "Lilly" suicide had to be confirmed was terrible. This was obviously something that was close to Frey, and he was very obviously upset about talking about this particular detail in particular, but Oprah had to dig in and get him to give the details of how this woman took her own life.
Again, I completely agree that Frey needs to own up to those details he embellished in his memoir, but I don't agree that he needs to have his personal shit ridiculed on national TV. Her mode of questioning about the death of "Lilly" was unprofessional and just plain rude. Plus, she mocked him by sarcastically stressing "Memoir" at every chance she could. I know that I seem to be pulling at straws, but these are the things that stood out about her attack.
She surrounded herself with sycophants to push the fact that she was embarrased. It's funny that Frey made all the mistakes, but that hour of television was ALL about her. How many times did she mention how embarrassed she was? How he made her look bad... It is true, but when she says it, it somehow becomes cheap and insincere.
Maureen Dowd said that Oprah should "kick Frey's bony... non-fiction ass." What the hell does that exactly mean? I have a translation:
I am just so psyched that Oprah asked me to chime in on James, who? Lipton? Frey? Yes. Frey! Just think of all the reads I will get on Monday! Maybe I can finally finish that memoir! It'll be published for sure! Note to self: hire extra fact checkers!
Same goes for Joel Stein. Same exact fucking thing.
And, I liked their writing before this.
Frey looked genuinely remorseful, and maybe that's his M.O. But this is about Oprah, so it doesn't really matter.
I think if anyone lost credibility in my book, it's her. And I am sure that is going to go a long, long way.
In light of recent events, I know that there will be many more checks and balances for this sort of thing. So, I will head off any bad press at the pass:
I published a web log entry on Wednesday, August 3, 2005 regarding a transcript of a fax received from Hunter S. Thompson, Doctor of Journalism, sent to me from beyond the grave. I did not actually receive the fax, but fabricated its text in its entirety. I do not feel that I have conned anyone, as I stand by the message of perversion and borderline pedophelia one-hundred percent.
I do, however, stand by the authenticity of the fax I received from Charles Bukowski.
I also posted a reply or two on the standby_bert web log, "Chicago's first and foremost source of news, right fucking now (Even sometimes before it happens. Uncanny!)!", in which I referred to Oprah Winfrey as "biggest fake in the history of media".
I regret writing that post, and I have to say now that I am truly sorry.
OK. No I'm not. Fuck Oprah!
Last night, I was finally able to sit down and watch the episode of Oprah mentioned in the standby_bert web log; the one with James Frey; the one that all the news channels are talking about.
If you have no idea what I am talking about, seriously, just Google James Frey or Oprah or A Million Little Pieces, and you'll be up to speed about what I am talking about her. I'm not going at warp speed here. I barely know what I am saying.
So, I watched the show, and as I'd expected, I became infuriated with many, many things. Karen says that it doesn't matter what Oprah says or does, I will be critical. That may be the case. Maybe I sealed my opinion of her a long time ago, but I wonder if I am the only person in America who can see just how much her show revolves around her, and how everything she does, she does to make people talk about her.
This situation with James Frey just pushed me over the edge. Karen actually had to leave the room (O.K., she fell asleep, but she had to "check out" in some way because I was getting ridiculous).
I understand that he fabricated and embellished some of the events and details of his memoir. I agree that he should be called to the carpet for it, and maybe have to answer in front of America. I do agree with that. He wrote an account of his life that he called "truth", and he promoted it as such. He was found to be fraudulent in some of his claims. That's not good.
There are a few things to keep in mind, though. The first is the marketing and promotion. Anyone who is close to the publishing business --not that I am, but I do know a few people who are, and that is how I have fashioned the following opinon-- knows that the memoir is the genre of literature that is being pushed by the publishing companies as of late. Since the mid-nineties, creative non-fiction has been a bigger seller than fiction, when it sells. If memory serves me (and I don't have sources at my fingertips right at this moment), didn't Frey try and publish a similar story to A Million Little Pieces as fiction, but it was turned down? And wasn't it suggested to him that if the same story (because a lot of it was HIS story) was published as a memoir, it would sell a whole hell of a lot more units? This may be me talking out of my ass, but I can swear I read that somewhere. If any one of my four readers knows this not to be true, please let me know. I will edit accordingly.
Oprah Winfrey latched on to this book and added it to her Book Club. She put Frey in the chair opposite her's and interviewed him and talked about how inspiring his story is and everything...
So, this past week, when she had him on and claimed she was "duped" and that she thought all along that the events of this story were just too unbelievable to be true... I wanted to reach into the television and strangle her.
This entry is really about Oprah, I have to admit. All of my issues with her came out in that James Frey interview. It's funny, but I agree that he needs to be grilled, but by Oprah? Oh, man! I am not sure I can condone that. That's just too cruel. That's like having to attend a loyalty workshop run by Judas and Pontius Pilot.
Oprah called into Larry King to defend Frey. I'd love to see how that scene went at the Winfrey/Graham household:
O: Stead! I gotta call in. They're frying my boy!
S: Honey, why don't we see how this plays out. Don't make any rash decisions.
O: Bitch, what I said was rhetorical. If I wanted your opinion, I'd give it to you! (dialing the phone.)
S: Yes, dear.
Then she regretted it, and decided to work that shit out on national TV. She can do that. She owns national TV.
So, she put Frey in the chair opposite her's, and grilled him like a fresh salmon, instead of frying him like Larry King attempted to do, like Mary Karr did (and quite effectively. In fact, it should have been left at that.)
A few years ago, before I purchased an IPass, I was pulling into the line at the Aurora tollbooth after a hard day of dealing with precocious adolescents. I misjudged my brakes and bumped the car in front of me. The guy got out, of course. He asked if I was OK. I told him that I was, and I got out and checked for damage to his car. There was no damage. We were both very nice about the whole thing, at first. It was obviously my fault, and I acknowledged that. It was right then that he changed, and began to shout at me, telling me that next time I'd better pay attention to what I was doing, or there's no telling what might happen to me. I say, "OK, dude. Just get back into your car and go. There won't be a next time."
It's a very strange phenomenom that happens to human beings when they are in control of a situation where one person has made a mistake and they have a choice of whether to exploit that mistake or deal with it and then bury it. In my experience, I have seen that very weak and insecure people make the decision to exploit the mistake. Oprah made this weakness into an artform last week.
Her pursuit of Frey was unconscionable. Shetwisted the knife the Smoking Gun had rightly put into Frey's credibility, and ventured into territory that she had no business going into. Her insistance that the "Lilly" suicide had to be confirmed was terrible. This was obviously something that was close to Frey, and he was very obviously upset about talking about this particular detail in particular, but Oprah had to dig in and get him to give the details of how this woman took her own life.
Again, I completely agree that Frey needs to own up to those details he embellished in his memoir, but I don't agree that he needs to have his personal shit ridiculed on national TV. Her mode of questioning about the death of "Lilly" was unprofessional and just plain rude. Plus, she mocked him by sarcastically stressing "Memoir" at every chance she could. I know that I seem to be pulling at straws, but these are the things that stood out about her attack.
She surrounded herself with sycophants to push the fact that she was embarrased. It's funny that Frey made all the mistakes, but that hour of television was ALL about her. How many times did she mention how embarrassed she was? How he made her look bad... It is true, but when she says it, it somehow becomes cheap and insincere.
Maureen Dowd said that Oprah should "kick Frey's bony... non-fiction ass." What the hell does that exactly mean? I have a translation:
I am just so psyched that Oprah asked me to chime in on James, who? Lipton? Frey? Yes. Frey! Just think of all the reads I will get on Monday! Maybe I can finally finish that memoir! It'll be published for sure! Note to self: hire extra fact checkers!
Same goes for Joel Stein. Same exact fucking thing.
And, I liked their writing before this.
Frey looked genuinely remorseful, and maybe that's his M.O. But this is about Oprah, so it doesn't really matter.
I think if anyone lost credibility in my book, it's her. And I am sure that is going to go a long, long way.
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