Thursday January 26, 2006

Let’s Call It Even

Galleycat hips me to the fact that James Frey is making a command performance on Oprah today. I’m actually beginning to feel a little sorry for the guy. I think he has now paid his debt to literary society. Here’s why.

“Big Jim” set out to become a Great American Writer by portraying himself as a two-fisted hard guy who’s been on the wrong end of a po-po beatdown, done time with a smirk on his face, and lived to tell about it. Where does he end up? On Larry King with his mom, squealing “We love you, Oprah. We love you, Oprah,” like some barren Iowa City housewife—the result being that super nebbish Jonathan Franzen now looks like Henry fucking Miller by comparison.

This could not have been what young James envisioned for himself. No, oh no. In fact, it seems that Frey has brought upon himself the worst possible outcome—worse than he might have even considered in his nightmares—given his aspirations. Sophocles couldn’t have written it better. So, that is my verdict: Time served.