John Mellencamp is a whore

I say that because his damn song, "Our Country," is getting played during every commercial break of Sunday night football tonight, and it's driving me crazy.

But seriously, letting Chevrolet sell trucks using your treacly, faux-patriotic "rock" diddy? Whore.

Self-promotion

I'll be on C-SPAN at the cruel and unusual time of 9 am Saturday to talk about student loans, of all things. It's a live call-in show, so, you know, harass me if you want.

This month's post....

Is about Las Vegas, which I just visited. Entirely pleasure, no business.

The airline: American. Better seats than Delta, at least -- and I saw that big crater in the Arizona desert on the way there. Cool. Hottie stewardess ("Doris") on the way back; too bad I was catatonic.

The hotel: Luxor. The whole pyramid thing is starting to feel dated, and it's obviously appealing to your lower class of Vegas visitor. Like, well, myself. But the pool's great and you can't beat the blackjack, where it's never hard to find a $10 table for you and at least one or two of your buddies and late surrender is allowed.

The food, in order: Sam Adams beer place at Reagan airport (good fries and beer); Bellagio dinner buffet (excellent); Luxor lunch buffet (not excellent); Fatburger (not bad for slow fast food, one cabbie says In-N-Out is better); Luxor breakfast buffet (a little gross); Chin-Chin at the NY-NY (very good Singapore noodles); Chili's at the St. Louis airport (I wanted to sleep).

The drinking, from what I can remember: Nefertiti's Lounge at Luxor (surly waitresses, way overpriced imitation Red Bull and vodka); Island Lounge at Mandalay Bay (hilarious band, equally hilarious prostitutes, silly drunk girl trying to score); $1 beer at O'Shea's casino (terrible blackjack rules -- to be avoided); the Wynn sportsbook (awesome place to watch a game); Ghostbar at The Palms casino (either the greatest or second-greatest bar ever, as I told the cabaret dancer; no celebrity sightings); back to Mandalay Bay (more prostitutes and bachelorette parties, and no, I didn't); margaritas and Coronas and Patron shots at the Luxor pool; nap time; back on the vodka tonic train at Chin-Chin; Mandalay Bay again, after winning $100 at blackjack.

The gambling: Couple quick points -- never play craps unless you have a shitload to spend; video poker is a stupid but easy and inexpensive way to kill a half-hour and $20; blackjack is my game. Linda at the Wynn kicked ass, even though she took my money, and so did Donald at Luxor, who didn't.

Pics to come.

P.S. -- My buddy Ben has completed a much more detailed and amusing report on the weekend's activities, which I post with his permission, sans his last name, because apparently he's got enemies who would use his reckless gambling and drinking against him ...

Subject: Vegas: An Appreciation

We all had our moments. Alex almost became a pedophile in the pool, Ben discovered names for his fantasy football team and his first-born son, Rommie redefined what it means to pack light, Emily took Rommie to meet the Muppets, Ryan managed to dance with a woman named Alex, and Dan opened our eyes to the joys of monorail.

I had to write this down. I want to remember it. I want to re-live it. I want to be at a blackjack table right now. Has it already been a week since the trip began?

What follows is a recap of our adventure. Follow along if you like. We will be doing this again.

Thursday:
_ Noon. DC crew meets at Reagan Airport. Ryan declares he's not making any decisions on this trip. Alex says he can only deal with Vegas every 3 to 5 years.

_ 6:15 p.m. Vegas time. We check in at The Luxor. Rommie shows up in a plaid-shirt/khaki pant combo. We would all come to know it very well.

_ 7 p.m. The much hyped Bellagio buffet does not disappoint. Alex "four plates" Wayne, Ryan and Dan all enjoy the good eats but fail to give props to [Ben] for suggesting the idea 27 times. Ben does not get pissed until Dan beats him to the only bathroom stall in the restaurant.

_ 9:30 p.m. Neffertitis time. Rommie tries to sing Ben the "thong song" but fails to connect when all he does is shout, "Thong! Thong!" Ryan starts itching to gamble and struggles to avoid leading a charge to the casino. "I'm not making any decisions on this trip," he reminds us.

_ 10:33 p.m. The first round of gambling at the Luxor. Ben splits a pair of nines, then splits again when he gets a third nine. Dealer slaps down three glorious face cards in a row - 19, 19, 19. Ben is feeling it. Then dealer draws to a 20. A new name for all things bad is born: Triple 19 Ass Fuck.

_ 11:44 p.m. Emily inexplicably heads to bed after being up all day and night, ensuring her fate as the woman who always misses the good shit at Mandalay Bay. A drunken woman named Alex asks Ben, "Who did you vote for?" Annoyed, Ben passes her off to our man Alex, who makes up shit about being a gay Canadian, and Ryan, who becomes her dance partner -- twice. We all watch as a band member dances and pumps his right arm like Milli Vanilli in epileptic shock.

_ 2:45 a.m. Back at the Luxor, Ben hits a long lucky streak at roulette, erasing an early $160 deficit. Then he cleans up at blackjack, pocketing a tidy $320 profit. In his 7th trip to Vegas since 1999, he remembers that Vegas has a way of taking a punch and coming back fighting before the weekend is out. Ben chooses to ignore this and thinks he owns the town.

Friday:
_ Noon. We make it just in time for the breakfast buffet to miss breakfast.

_ 1:22 p.m. Ben considers buying an ugly $177 orange tie-dyed shirt to go clubbing at Ghost Bar. "There's always a first time," the salesman woos. The group wisely talks Ben out of it, leading him over to Urban Outfitters, where he settles for a $10 pink shirt like a Rhinestone Cowboy. Alex finds a flask that says, "What wouldn't Jesus do." He decides may 3 to 5 years is too long to wait for his next Vegas trip.

_ 2:26 p.m. We head off for a tour of the Strip. In 94 degree heat, Rommie shows up in the plaid shirt and khakis, saying he hadn't thought to bring shorts to a trip to the desert. Dan, in a precursor of monorail things to come, takes us on a misguided search for the MGM sportsbook. We head to a pit of a place called O'Sheas, looking for midgets who pour shots down your mouth. Instead, we see Ryan's spirits lift when he wins by listening to Dan and letting it ride on black.


_ A strange period of time ensues. We travel by the Dan Walter monorail south on the Strip to head north to the Wynn, where we take a shuttle to get in. Emily looks at a tired Rommie and declares, "He doesn't do well on vacations."

_ 4 p.m. The female dealer pegs Rommie for a software accountant. When told what Rommie really does, she takes one look at him and says "An entertainment reporter? YOU?"

_ 4:22 p.m. A jolly man from Southern California joins the table and wins big. Ryan takes a picture and dubs him "San Diego Splits."

_ 6 p.m. Ben, Ryan, Dan and Alex watch the end of the Pistons-Cavs game in the epic Wynn sports book. The basketball quickly becomes an afterthought to the sublime, leggy cocktail waitress. Dan aptly points out that it is hard to no where to look at her first. Ryan insists the waitress is too good looking to even exist.

_ 6:04 p.m. Ryan reminds us he isn't making any decisions on this trip.

_ 7 p.m. Nancy the cab driver takes us on the fatburger express. Someone asks what the thing is we're passing. "That's supposed to be a projector," she said. "I ain't seen it project shit."

_ 7:08 p.m. Nancy rides up on the ass of a wimpy Prius driver from California, who responds by meekly flipping us the bar. Alex, with gusto, flips him back. Nancy pleads with us to make sure Fatburger does not give us any precooked patties. "Tell them to make it fresh! FRESH!"

_ 8:14 p.m. Dan falls in love with their free sample of Coke Blak on the walk back to the Luxor. Alex, with a Red Bull in his other hand, does the same. Caffeine + Caffeine = Good.

_ 9:22 p.m. One cab to the Ghost Bar gets there in minutes. The other, containing Ryan, Dan and Ben, gets stuck in hellish traffic on the Strip. Ryan challenges the cab driver's decision-making, drawing only mutters and silence. In Ryan's mind, if he were making decisions, we would have been there by now.

_ 9:33: Ben's efforts to get on this lGhost Bar list, via Dave Austin and Dan, pay off. Sort of. We are ordered to wait in an embarrassing holding pen of red plastic rope lines. A mutiny starts. Ben, at the front of the line, starts feeling the heat from his buddies. He eagerly offers his ID, some paperwork, whatever will get the bouncer's attention. He is ignored.

_ 9:45: Bouncer lets us in. "This is only to jump the line," he warns. "You still have to pay."

_ 9:53 p.m. We're in. We like it. We would soon love it. The drinks flow. The shots arrive. The view is grand. The women dance with themselves in ways we should have to pay for. Emily takes pictures. Dan likes the music. Ben decides to name his first son Ghost Bar. "We'll call him Goby," Ryan says. Alex asks a Cabaret dancer if this is the best bar ever or the second best bar ever. This makes no sense to her but she still warms to him. Ghost Bar lives on forever.

_ Midnight. Seeking change of venue, for some reason, we cab over to the Mandalay Bay. It is not as good as the night before, but at least Emily is with us this time, until she and Rommie go their own way for what they describe as room service. We are drunk. We try another bar. Alex checks out the Cougars.

_ 12:43 a.m. Ben loses money at blackjack at the Luxor. His friends seem to keep winning. Ben gets a little jealous. He is so tired that he falls asleep during the middle of a hand. Showing unusual maturity, he calls it a night and heads off. To a roulette table. He loses more money.

Saturday:

_ 10:45 a.m. We make the buffet in time for breakfast. Under repeated questioning, Rommie cracks and admits that the show he is going to with his wife on Friday night involves puppets. We mock him. Emily comes to his defense. "It's supposed to be riotously funny," she says.

_ 11:23 a.m. Ryan clarifies that he is allowed to make decisions for himself on the trip, just nothing that affects the entire group.

_ 11:58 a.m. Alex, Dan, Rommie and Ben go to the MGM Grand sports book and make fun of the oddsmakers for giving the Cavs nine points against the Pistons. Three of us put money on this. The Pistons would end up winning by 18 or so. Vegas quietly laughs at us.

_ 12:14 p.m. The fearsome foursome heads off on a long, hot search for the perfect blackjack table. No room at Paris. No affordable tables at the Venetian. We finally find it _ exactly where we started, the Luxor. We are so excited to see empty seats at a $10 table that we don't notice Rommie is already sitting there.

_ 12:15 p.m. Ben asks Rommie why he is wearing a "Luxor Las Vegas" T-shirt. "As we've established," Rommie says, "I packed too light."

_ 12:42 p.m. Ryan snaps at Alex for asking questions during a round of craps. Alex employs the guys' method of conflict resolution: Whatever, dude.

_ 2 p.m. The crew, sans Rommie, is all at the pool. Ben asks why we have a three-hour layover in St. Louis the next day. Dan and Ben begin debating how we could spend the time. This somehow ends up with plans for Emily to get an associate's degree in truck driving. We are all deliriously overtired.

_ 2:38 p.m. Emily gets the hiccups. Alex says he can help. He encourages her to ignore all distractions, including the hot women leaning against the edge of the pool. Noticing that a girl nearby heard him, Alex says, "Not you. You're just a kid."

_ 3 p.m. Ben waits in the line to get drinks at the pool. A chatty guy tells him that Barboro broke his leg in the horse race that day. "Is he going to have to be killed?" Ben asks. Dumbfounded, the guy says, "I'm not a vet."

_ 8:10 p.m. The DC crews gets Chinese food at New York, New York. Full of noodles and no sleep, Ben decides to take a nap before.

_ 9:18 p.m. Alex snaps at Ben for not coordinating his nap schedule. The whatever dude defense works well again.

_ Midnight: Ben wakes up so he can downstairs and lose for a final time in blackjack. Emily shows up. Asked about the quality of the puppet show, she says, "It was riotously funny, or whatever."

_ 2 a.m. The men go back to Mandalay for the last time. They see a fight outside the House of Blues. It never really seems to end. Unfortunately, the trip does.

_ 4:11 a.m. DC guys take a cab to the airport. The cab driver tells us a vivid story about a woman servicing a guy in his backseat. Asked several times if he has cleaned the seat since then, he finally says, "It's been cleaned up by the asses of the last 50 people who sat back there."


_ 4:38 a.m. We wait for our 6 a.m. flight home. Alex goes successfully hunting for a screwdriver. He comes back with a double. He begins plotting a trip to Vegas for a football weekend this fall.

_ 4:40 a.m. There is nothing left to stay. Still, Ryan comes up with this gem: "I like Rommie's hair."

I wish I were in Gainesville tonight

My football-school alma mater just won the NCAA national basketball championship.

My hometown is gonna burn.

I'm stone sober.

This ain't right. And yet it's so very right.

For fellow Gator fans' entertainment: the national championship game discussion thread at Fark. My favorite line:

UCLA wins "most made to look like girly-men in a final" award

Directions to the House of Laughter

My good friends Matt and Nancy Cravey just had a baby, which they named Isaac even though they're not Jewish. They are funny, however, so there you go.

Check out the adventures of the helmet-headed child at Matt's blog.

Since Hamlet, anyway

I don't know much about this ridiculous controversy over these Muhammad cartoons, but I do have this question: Who figured that they could prove Islam is a peaceful religion by burning down an embassy?

Oh, and also: Is this Denmark's 15 minutes of fame? Discuss.

Sticking up for James Frey

Yeah, he's a lying jerk, but this is just stupid.

Now I'm just a simple caveman reporter, and all your modern ways confuse and frighten me. But don't plaintiffs have to prove, like, damages, to win lawsuits in this country?

Sorry you've got to pay a lawyer to get this silliness dismissed, Mr. Freyed. I suspect life's bad enough as is for you right now.

Disclosure

I deleted a recent post. No one asked me to do it, but a friend suggested it might be a good idea. I decided the friend's advice was sound.

Now playing on my computer

Battlestar Galactica. Another one of those shows I hope doesn't get cancelled because of my neglect.

I remember it, vaguely, as a super-cheesy, late '70s Star Trek/Star Wars knock-off. And I guess as the inspiration for the name of the best coffee in the world.

But this dude Ronald D. Moore took that old, crappy show as inspiration to create the best sci-fi series on television today -- by far -- and one of the best dramas. It's like the West Wing in space, with better writing and acting and the best CG effects I've seen on TV (better effects, in fact, than a lot of movies). Puts to shame shit like Andromeda and Stargate: SG-1 (yeah, I love MacGyver, too, but that show absolutely sucks).

Anyway, BG is recommended, if that's not obvious. I'm working my way through the first season, courtesy of iTunes...

Oprah is my new hero

I haven't seen the show. But from all accounts I've read, Oprah Winfrey apparently made like an Abu Ghraib interrogator on James Frey and got the little bitch to confess to lying, straight up. Not only that, he admitted that The Smoking Gun report on his "memoir" was accurate and that the reporters "did a good job." This, after his lawyer had threatened to sue them.

(Aside: Remember what I said about threats to sue. Next time you see anything like it in any news story, assume that the party "threatening to sue" is guilty of whatever they're alleged to have done.)

My favorite graf from the AP account:

Winfrey, whose apparent indifference to the memoir’s accuracy led to intense criticism, including angry e-mails on her Web site, subjected Frey to a virtual page-by-page interrogation. No longer, as she did last week, was she saying that emotional truth mattered more than the facts. “Mr. Bravado Tough Guy,” she mockingly called the author whose book she had enshrined last fall and whose reputation she had saved last week.

You go, Ms. Winfrey.

Maybe I should give Frey some credit for finally fessing up, and on national television, no less. But I don't think so. This comes only after weeks of either silence or utter bullshit from him and his publisher. Only when Oprah finally dragged him back onto her show -- probably by threatening to revoke her endorsement of his book otherwise -- did he give it up.

(Aside: Frey's site, bigjimindustries.com, wasn't password-protected as of a couple weeks ago, when I went looking to see what he had to say. Interesting.)

Oprah, on the other hand ... wow. It's not a small thing to weigh the evidence, consider the facts and decide that your earlier position on an issue was incorrect -- and then publicly admit that you were wrong. That takes a big person. Just consider how often it happens in Washington.

Really a stunning turn of events. I saw a promo last night for Oprah's show today where she said she'd be talking to James Frey and his publisher again. I figured, more apologists massaging the fuckhead's ego. I wonder if he was as surprised as I was to find out exactly how the conversation would go.

And from what I've read, Oprah asked really good questions. I mean, if this whole talk-show thing doesn't work out for her, I think she has a future in investigative reporting:

"We asked if you, your company, stood behind James's book as a work of nonfiction at the time, and they said absolutely," Ms. Winfrey said (to Nan Talese, Frey's publisher). "And they were also asked if their legal department had checked out the book, and they said yes. So in a press release sent out for the book in 2004 by your company, the book was described as brutally honest and an altering look at — at addiction. So how can you say that if you haven't checked it to be sure?"

Ms. Talese replied (according to the New York Times) that while the Random House legal department checks nonfiction books to make sure that no one is defamed or libeled, it does not check the truth of the assertions made in a book.

Ms. Winfrey replied, "Well, that needs to change."

So that's a nice denouement for this whole sorry episode. Unfortunately, I suspect this will only result in more book sales for Frey, and more fabricated "memoirs" from the publishing world.

Although the AP reports that Frey's publisher is now hanging him out to dry...

Frey’s career will likely never recover, although so far he has not suffered for sales. His book, a million seller thanks to Winfrey, remained in the top 5 Thursday on Amazon.com. A second memoir, “My Friend Leonard,” was in the top 20.

He must still answer to his current publisher, Riverhead Books, an imprint of Penguin Group USA. In a statement Thursday, the publisher said there “very serious issues” with “My Friend Leonard,” which refers to the jail term he never served, and “we are treating them that way.” Regarding his recent two-book deal, Riverhead said, “The ground has shifted. It’s under discussion.” A novel is scheduled to come out in 2007.

You know your reputation's in the shitter...

... When an occasionally funny comic strip is making fun of you. (Thanks, Mom.)

In other news, the New York Times is picking up where The Smoking Gun left off at revealing James Frey as a total ass-clown and liar.

Frey's enabling publishers, in response, offer up a pair of "witnesses" to The Times to vouch for the book. Some unsolicited public relations advice for Random House: in the future, you might want to run a cursory background check on your "witnesses" and, hell, I don't know, ask them a question or two before tossing them to The New York Friggin' Times.

One is a Louisiana state judge who is about to be sentenced to up to 20 years in prison for mail fraud. The other is some dude named "Richard" who refuses to give the Times his last name. And even these two sterling sources can't confirm specific events Frey described.

I've been called out...

... by Lex. Probably because I haven't been posting often enough. Reminds me of once upon a time when I worked for the guy .... [shiver]

So, five odd things about me that I don't mind posting on a blog occasionally read by strangers, sources and co-workers. This ought to be some great reading.

1. I save all of the notebooks, documents, trinkets and other junk I've ever produced at every newsroom I've ever worked in three big plastic crates stacked in a closet. I call it the Wayne Archives. Why? For my memoirs, of course.

2. I know that I will never read any of that shit ever again and it will all probably burn up in a house fire or disintegrate from old age. I like having it anyway.

3. I incessantly twist and pull at my bangs when I'm deep in thought. I'm doing it right now. I fear I'm losing my hair because of it.

4. I used to incessantly pick and chew all of my fingernails down to the pink. I quit doing that cold turkey one day when I was 20. That's about when I started the hair thing.

5. I don't like to think of how many hours of my life I have lost to video games.

I don't know five active bloggers, off-hand, that I would sic this upon. So instead, if you're one of my five daily readers and you have a blog, consider yourself tagged.

Book publishers are worse than journalists!

The New York Times reports that James Frey's publisher has issued a statement about its author's fabricated and deceitful memoir:

"Recent accusations against him notwithstanding, the power of the overall reading experience is such that the book remains a deeply inspiring and redemptive story for millions of readers."

Wrong. So wrong. The power of Frey's book stemmed entirely from its supposed truth. Without truth, it's a story about a fictional thug who goes into rehab and rejects 12-step therapy. That might be an interesting story, but not an inspiring or redemptive one -- and, I suspect, not one that would sell 3.5 million copies.

Here's the difference between book publishers and publishers of journalism. Had Frey worked for a newspaper, something like this would have happened in the wake of The Smoking Gun article:

• Frey would have been put on paid leave.
• The paper would launch its own investigation of his work.
• Frey would be required to co-operate, and if he didn't, he'd be fired.
• There'd be some kind of editor's note published, acknowledging the accusations against Frey and announcing the paper's investigation.
  
• The paper, no doubt, would quickly find that The Smoking Gun's report is accurate.
• The paper would publish a lengthy correction of the story, or perhaps, given the extent of the fabrications, just retract the thing altogether. Frey would be fired.
• The paper would publish a lengthy story detailing its investigation of its own writer and analyzing what went wrong. Editors might resign or be fired.
  
• The larger journalism community would be a-twitter, with independent analysis, investigation and criticism.

But in the book publishing world? We get Doubleday's spokesidiot telling The Times, "This is not a matter we deem necessary for us to investigate."

In other words: "We got your money already, so screw you."

Update (a couple days late): Lying is okay with Oprah.

Double update: Scary. Michelle Malkin and I agree on something.

Triple-dog update: Seth Mnookin, who says he was a legit junkie, tears apart Frey and his crappy book. I'm starting to wonder why I liked it in the first place. The excerpts Mnookin cites are pretty terrible writing.

Too easy

D.C. councilmember Marion Barry apparently doesn't merit the "former crackhead mayor" title I've assigned him.

Turns out that there's nothing "former" about the crackhead part.

This would be really, really funny if it wasn't so very sad. Only in the District of Columbia ...

Thoughts on Lost: Whoa

I spent last weekend holed up in my apartment with beer, popcorn, Chinese food, my new coffee grinder, and the first-season DVDs of the television show Lost.

I'm not good about watching TV. There are a lot of shows I like -- Nip/Tuck, The Shield, Arrested Development, Family Guy, The Simpsons, Scrubs ... the list goes on. But I don't watch any of them regularly. I just forget. I'm a bad TV fan, I guess -- Arrested Development, a great show, is probably gonna get canceled because of people like me.

So in summer 2004, I started seeing these previews of this Lost show. Endless clips of Dominic Monaghan saying, "Guys. Where are we?" And something about a plane crash on a desert island inhabited by a monster. Sounds stupid, I thought. I didn't watch.

So yeah. Turns out it's not so bad. In fact, it's friggin' genius. In fact, I watched all 25 episodes in a row over two nights and two days -- broken up by occasional eating and sleeping and football -- and woke up Monday morning wanting more. The episode where Sawyer tells Jack about meeting Jack's dad in the bar nearly choked me up. Movies rarely nearly choke me up. Television shows never nearly choke me up.

How did this show not sweep the Emmys this year? How did Terry O'Quinn not win a damn thing? I mean, I love William Shatner, don't get me wrong, but his work in Boston Legal couldn't possibly have outshadowed John Locke.

Also, it has the best-looking female cast of any current show. Emilie de Ravin (especially sans prosthetic tummy), Yoon jin-Kim, Evangeline Lilly, Michelle Rodriguez, Cynthia Watros, Kimberly Joseph -- I love you all. Though de Ravin could cut back on the hysterical screaming.

I watched the season premier this year, but otherwise missed pretty much every episode. Which had me pretty glum this week ... until a friend told me that I could download them and watch them, for $2 a piece, from iTunes.

That, friends and neighbors, is one sweetheart of a deal. God bless you, Steve Jobs. I'm off to watch season two, episode eight: "Collision."

Update: Damnit all, the reunification of Bernard and Rose nearly choked me up again! (Alright, DID choke me up!)

The District of Columbia sucks

Not only is this city not safe for former crackhead mayors; it's apparently just as dangerous for respected journalists.

Last year, I covered the Social Security debate here in the Capitol, so David Rosenbaum and I would occasionally find ourselves covering the same news conferences, staking out the same secret meetings, chasing the same senators down hallways, that sort of thing.

For a decorated journalist working for the most influential publication in the land, Rosenbaum was a remarkably nice guy. The first time we wound up hanging out together outside a secret meeting, he introduced himself to me. Turned out he had once worked for my current employer, so he shared some stories and told me how much he respected our work.

One day in the summer, a couple of congressmen called a news conference to announce a Social Security bill. The studio the House of Representatives has built for news conferences is way too small, so there were probably 30 of us, plus cameras and what-not, stuffed into the room. The congressmen were running late. Five minutes went by, then 10, then 15 -- no congressmen.

So all of a sudden, Rosenbaum I guess decides that he has had it. From the back of the room, he yells at one of the congressmen's flacks: Where is your boss? He's running late, she says. We don't have time for this, he tells her. She goes scurrying out of the room, then pops back in. He's right outside, talking to another member, she reports. Get him in here! Rosenbaum barks.

God bless Rosenbaum for having the temerity to voice the frustration we all felt. Needless to say, Mr. Congressman hurried into the room and got things underway.

I wish I'd gotten to know Rosenbaum better. Rest in peace, sir.

Update: Rosenbaum's alleged killer turns out to be -- not surprisingly -- a bonehead.

James Frey is (allegedly) a giant asshat

As I was leaving beautiful Greensboro, N.C. in 2004 for the nation's Capitol, a good friend gave me a lovely parting gift. "A Million Little Pieces," a book by a fellow named James Frey, who claims it's a memoir.

It's a great read. Frey tells a grisly, detailed story of his life as a young crack fiend, bad-ass tough-guy criminal, and all-around asshole, and how he found redemption and love in a Minnesota rehab clinic. I was touched. I recommended it to friends. I gave it a place of honor on my good bookcase -- the one in my living room where I show off all my "good" books.

Unfortunately, looks like everything about Frey's story except the asshole part was, at best, embellished, and at worst, completely made up. His worst criminal convictions were some DUIs. He was never investigated by the FBI for selling cocaine. No mafia and federal judge buddies he met in rehab leaned on hillbilly prosecutors in Ohio to get him out of a long prison sentence. And in the most vile fiction, contrary to his claims, he had nothing to do with a train accident in his hometown that killed two young women. All bullshit, according to The Smoking Gun.

It's a heck of a piece of journalism -- a lesson in how to root out documents and parse the truth. I recommend the story; I no longer recommend Frey's piece of shit book. It's not even worth my back bookshelf, the one where I keep old textbooks and sci-fi.

Frey has "threatened to sue" The Smoking Gun, according to the Associated Press. Here's the thing about "threatening to sue." Some editors I respect once told me not to bother writing news stories about people "threatening to sue." It's as easy to threaten to sue someone as it is to turn your boring, sorry, fuckhead life into a best-selling memoir.

Update: The New York Times reports on The Smoking Gun's report. Let the echo chamber begin! I'm very curious to see how Oprah reacts to all this. My prediction: after getting burned by two dickweed contemporary authors, Oprah will never name another one to her book club again. You reap what you sow, silly publishing industry.

Welcome to DC, 2006

Where even a former crackhead mayor isn't safe.

In other news, I met a candidate for mayor of this fine third-world city the other day. I'm sitting at my computer Saturday afternoon, minding my own business, when a pretty girl walks up to the door and knocks. Says she's an aide to Fenty, and that he's just down the street, and would I like to meet him? Why not. He strolls up a few minutes later. Nice enough guy. Acknowledges that the schools here suck. Says he'll fix them. Sure he will. Wants my vote. I'll keep an eye on him, I say.

Pretty girl gets my name and email for their mailing lists, but no, I don't want a "Fenty for Mayor" sign for my window.

The election isn't until next November. Gotta give him credit for hustling, anyway.