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.

Is it too late for Christmas?

Because I forgot to put this on my list.

Santa should take note for next year.

Great, but ...

Old news, and I'm late to the party: A federal judge in Dover, Pa. has ruled, basically, that the school board there that required its teachers to preach the merits of intelligent design in science class was a bunch of morons, and that intelligent design is not a scientific theory.

That's all well and good. But unfortunately, eight of the nine idiot school board members were cast out of office this fall. The new school board is comprised of folks who are apparently not religious fanatics. So sadly, they're not going to appeal the judge's ruling.

That's unfortunate. Because while it's nice to have a guy in authority -- and a George W. Bush appointee, to boot! -- saying that intelligent design ain't science, Judge Jones's decision sets no legal precedent.

So the next time some backwater hillbillies -- or perhaps some frontwater hillbillies? -- decide to put God in science class, we'll have to go through all of this all over again.

On the plus side, that means that goofballs like Michael Behe will have plenty of opportunity to continue saying dumb things in public, and I will continue to have plenty of opportunity to make fun of them. Still, that's starting to feel like picking on the slow kid, y'know?

Death to prom!

I'm certainly no moral crusader -- certainly not. But this strikes me as a refreshing trend.

Proms suck.

My first prom, my date was an ex-girlfriend who had dumped me (I think, details are hazy) to date some geek at her wacky right-wing church. His mom wouldn't let him go to prom. So she took me. I was a sophomore at the time and thought it was a Big Deal that a junior girl had invited me to prom. What a dumbass. Anyway, the highlight was making out with the girl afterward and convincing her to drop her loser churchboy to get back together with me. A couple months later I dumped her because I got sick of hearing about church. Like I said, no paragon of morality here.

Skipped prom my junior year, basically because I didn't have the guts to ask out this girl I'd pined for off-and-on all through high school. Caused me no small degree of angst. Fortunately, most of my friends were losers too, so if I recall, we gathered together to play Pictionary and watch Saturday Night Live. These were the days when it was still worth watching.

Senior prom remains the worst date of my life. I wasn't going to go at all, mostly for the same reasons I skipped junior prom, until a classmate asked me out, pretty much out of the blue. Can't hurt, I figured. Wrong. Turns out this girl had zero conversational skills, didn't like to dance and had a midnight curfew. Which actually turned out to be a blessing.

So sure, if my parents had been cool and had rented me a limo and a beachhouse and encouraged me to drink and screw all night, I might have a different perspective. But no -- they had to be, like, responsible and stuff.

So fuck prom.

A confession

After much soul-searching and quiet contemplation, I'm ready to make a life-changing announcement to my friends and family. Steel yourselves. Here goes:

I want to see a movie about gay cowboys.

I can't tell you how good it feels to say that. It's like I'm 1,000 pounds lighter. I mean, I thought I might want to see a movie about gay cowboys, but I wasn't sure. It seemed crazy, at first: How could I -- me, Alex! -- possibly want to see a movie about gay cowboys, especially one with such a ridiculously suggestive title? But then I started experimenting ... you know, reading about a movie about gay cowboys (although the NYT review, frankly, is pretty silly -- it was a review in Esquire magazine, headlined something like "The best gay cowboy movie ever," that really swayed me) picturing myself at the theater watching a movie about gay cowboys, that kind of thing.

Oh, and also: That Heath Ledger is just sooo dreamy.

At first I felt dirty. But gradually I've grown to accept it. I hope you can too.

Satiation

So the turkey wasn't "classically" beautiful, and maybe the stuffing was a tad dry, but I didn't hear any complaints.

As Cartman would say, "Get your bitch ass back in the kitchen and make me some pie!"

This concludes my Thanksgiving liveblogging, such as it was.

Happy holidays, folks.

Not exactly the way Mom does it

Remember Christmas Vacation? When Chevy Chase carves the turkey and it lets out this horrible "hissssss" and splits wide open, meatless?

My turkey was something like that (left).

Not really. Although I did bake it upside down, apparently. So it turned out more like a pig pickin' than your traditional fancy-pants thanksgiving. No matter. Delish.

Out with the bird. In with the stuffing.

Continuing with the lamest "live blogging" ever ... in fact, it's not even so live anymore.

Anyway, that's a turkey. It tasted as good as it looks right here.

Interim

Two things going on at this little gathering. Me: Slaving away at the stove. Guests: Not so much. Last Thanksgiving for a while that I fuck with this stuff, let me tell you.

Pictured above: No-good guests; very good cornbread and crab stuffing ( yes, I know it's not actually IN the turkey, but that's the way mom does it).

Turkey, oven. Oven, turkey.

In she goes. And only one phone call to my personal Butterball hotline (mom) thus far.

I'd tell you the recipe, but I think it's a family secret. Rest assured, it's yummy.

My Thanksgiving schedule

8:45 a.m. -- Awake. Drink OJ, throw on clothes, grab water, cleats, jacket.
9:30 a.m. -- Play football. Probably poorly.
12 p.m. -- Home, hopefully. Shower, change. Jump on Metro.
1 p.m. -- Pick up sister at airport.
2 p.m. -- Home, again. Turn on football. Commence drinking. Begin turkey prep.
3:30 p.m. -- Turkey in oven. Continue drinking.
6 p.m.ish -- Eat. Continue drinking.
8 p.m.ish -- Go out. Continue drinking.

I'm thinking about "live blogging" all of this. Or at least the hours from 2 p.m. to 6, which should be the most amusing.

Back in business

The new computer is in town. For my return to posting, I of course have to make fun of something. And this Washington Post story is just too rich a target.

It's a great, groundbreaking piece -- in 1997. Seriously, I bet even my mother, who pretty much hates computers, has bought things on the Internet.

Coming soon: Pictures and vital statistics on my new machine. Now isn't that exciting? Bet you can't wait. As well as more crap from Italy and more poking fun at both my mother and Italians.

In the meantime, read about how my friend Pete nearly severed his thumb. It's great writing, but I don't recommend taking it with a meal.

In case anyone was wondering ...

The Italy slide show has been indefinitely delayed. I suffered a catastrophic computer crash a couple weeks ago, and have put off blogging until I figure out how to deal with the issue (most likely, by sucking it up and buying a new laptop, damnit all).

Until then, I'm using a work machine, and you'll forgive me if I want to keep as much personal stuff off it as possible.