A fictionalization of events that did not occur, or as James Frey would call it: a memoir.

Like all lives, my life has been filled with good and bad. I believe in good, so I try to live with a bit of integrity. I try and raise a family, make a living, and more-or-less paint within the lines, but does Oprah call to make me a writing sensation? No. Instead, Oprah and millions call on James Frey, because of the “difficulties” he overcame in his memoir A Million Little Pieces, or said he overcame.

When I write fiction, I have the audacity to call it fiction. People ask, “Did this really happen?” and I answer: though it is based on my experiences or observations — which is all any writer can write about — it is fiction. What an idiot. I should be saying my work is true, all true. Who cares how hard it is to believe, if I say it is so, it must be so. But, alas, I have not done that, so on behalf of all hard working writers spinning their wheels, I'm looking for James Frey, Jim Frey, Big Jim, as he calls himself, to get my ass kicked. I need an ass-kicking so Oprah can put me on the bestseller lists and I can get some sense knocked into me.

Oooooh, a writer getting his ass kicked by another writer, sounds violent, kinda like a chick fight. There will probably be some hair pulling, some scratching, some name calling, some slapping, something ugly, but I will be getting my ass kicked. Big Jim is, well, Big Jim. I have no ‘big’ in my name, and you know how tough one who goes around calling themselves big must be. Only someone secure in their own masculinity would be man enough, bad enough to call themselves “Big”. Only a true badass could tell the world he is not Jim Frey, but Big Jim. Only a real man gets tattooed with FTBSITTTD, which stands for Fuck The Bullshit It's Time To Throw Down. Big Jim is bad, he's Big Bad Jim, he’s FTBSITTTD Big Jim. He tells us so, and we have to listen, Oprah says.

Remember Lennox Lewis, Larry Holmes and Evander Holyfield? Heavyweight Champions of the world, all, and they insisted on being called Big... wait, no, they didn’t. Still, they were bad, but not as bad as Big Jim, street survivor. I hear he gave himself the name Big Jim after an encounter with Mike Tyson — just plain old Mike Tyson, not Big Mike — and kicked Mike’s ass. I am definitely dead meat, but when my buddy Serg, a survivor who still lives on the streets, still deals and still chases people with a baseball bat said I should kick Mr. Frey's ass for soiling my chosen profession, what could I say —Serg does not have a Big in his name, but at 6' 4”, heavily tattooed with actual words and often on a roid rage, I'd rather take my chances with Big Jim than Serg and his bat.

I knew it wasn't going to be easy, finding Big Jim. A hardened criminal such as him must have a lot of street cred. People aren't just going to give him up, not Big Jim. Big Jim has done time, real time. He's housed with the hardest and earned their respect, and they aren't going to give up one of theirs. Fortunately, I have Serg, and Serg has a connection here and there, and as he prepares to do more time, the network only grows. Serg found Big Jim in an affluent neighborhood in New York — says he got the address from his parole officer, who is also a client.

Working on my latest novel memoir has been taking up much of my time, but the only way to take my ass beating like a man and restore the integrity of my chosen profession is to travel to an affluent neighborhood in NY, the hard hood where Big Jim now resides and can be found regularly walking his leashed dogs. I don't know if I will survive the mean streets of million dollar flats, but a man has to do what a man has to do, and if Big Jim gets root canals without anesthetic and beats priests to death for making advances, these have to be mean streets. You think Big Jim would live in some sanitized neighborhood? Big Jim? (It's a good thing Big Jim did not grow up in the SF Bay Area, or there would have been carnage in his path, or perhaps I'm just a pussy for not beating to death advancing homosexuals.)

Well, I don't have the time Big Jim does, so let me just tell you that when I arrived in his neighborhood, I as appalled at the conditions. The poor SOB has been forced to live with uppity yuppies who are too busy to smile. I can only image what a change this must be from the homogenized neighborhood of the well-to-do Michigan ghetto where Big Jim spent so many harsh, formative years. Anyway, I luck out. There he was, buying coffee — isn't caffeine a stimulant? I knew it was time. I was ready for my beatdown, because this is one bad dude, one big bad dude with threatening tattoos.

“Hey,” I manage to blurt.

He turned, sipping his insulated latté without saying a word.

“I'm here. I'm ready for my beatdown.”

He took another sip of his latte.

I step closer, preparing myself from the powerful blows of the foul-mouthed badass who has proclaimed himself Big Jim, and all he does as Big Jim Industries.

“Let's go,” I offer.

“What are you talking about?”

“I'm here to take my beating from a man who feels no pain. I'm here to take my beating from a man who beats to death priests because they make advances. I'm here to take my beating from a man who is one tough hombre in the literary world, who is bad enough to have FTBSITTTD tattooed on his being.”

“Fuck you,” he answered, eloquently.

“Jim, excuse me, Big Jim, I'm here so you can be the badass you proclaim, and I can elevate my manliness by surviving an encounter with such a badass. I need you t exorcise me of this integrity crap. Make me feel alive, Big Jim.”

“Fuck you,” he professed.

“I have addicts in my life, real ones, and they could not measure up to your badass standard of getting clean, so your book made them feel weak. Instead of feeling weak, they decided you must be the baddest mofo alive. They wanted to be you, to get it together and climb to the top of the world, just like you did, because they had not been as low as you, to your depth of despair. They knew if you could do what you did, they could get clean, could get their shit together, but they didn't, they haven't, and because of you the people around them think they are weak. If you could do what you did, then they should be able to get clean. You made others feel weak because they could not do what you did, but then again, neither did you, did you, Big Jim? Did you?”

“Fuck you.”

“You talk like you write, deep and eloquent with an incredible grasp of the complexity and beauty of the language.”

“Fuck off.”

“Just you and me, mano a mano?”

And the world’s toughest literary badass whose motto is FTBSITTTD, turned and walked away, sipping a latté. In Serg's world, this would mean he lost, and the street would eat him alive for his cowardice. In this world, the literary world where one has time to write and read, it meant only that he was a man of words, not actions. Yes, a man of few words, but words nonetheless.

I admit, I considered the possibility that even though he was BIG JIM with the tattoos and the attitude and the killing and the dental work and all of the other badassness, I might give him a run for his money. I admit, I considered what it might have been like to make him cry, to see his eyes swell with tears of pain as he was feeling something real, not just writing words he proclaimed as real. I admit, I was ready to take my beating on the off chance I could best a self-professed badass who is near a decade younger, because in all of my years of wandering the streets, self-professed badasses are always the easiest to best.

I understand that when I run into Big Jim, he's going to kick my ass. He will tell you, he is one bad mofo, but like he says, FTBSITTTD. Of course, if he isn't as bad as he says...

Jim, Big Jim, FTBSITTTD?

FTBSITTTD

I’m waiting?

As Oprah gave you a pass because your lies rang of “emotional truth,” your wife knows who you are, your screwed-up parents know who you are — they made you — your brother knows who you are, your daughter will know who you are, and we know who you are — come out, you know who you are.

FTBSITTTD

I’m waiting, patiently.




P. S. I called my publisher to ask if they would release my writings as memoirs. They said ‘no’. Who do they think they are to have integrity? They aren’t big enough — could be why they aren’t big.

P.P.S. For those asking, the offer of a cage match with Big Jim still stands. Really, the offer stands — it would be good for both of us to do some exorcising. Really means real, not Big Jim Memoir real, but you are breathing real.