![]() A week ago, Frey was the most famous writer in America. is, if anything, more outlandish than the bogus journey through substance-abuse hell told in A Million Little Pieces. ![]() Frey’s talk about being heir to Hemingway and Fitzgerald et al. But many an ambitious writer has had a cherubic aspect. At first, it’s hard to square his macho posturings (the famous tattoo signifying FUCK THE BULLSHIT, IT’S TIME TO THROW DOWN) with the baby face. Frey, it turns out, was a garden-variety collegiate coke-snorter, a midwestern child of wealth about whom the most notable quality seems to be his ambition. ![]() Instead, we see a fresh-scrubbed teen idol of a fellow, a young man who looks like his mom may have just made him lunch. One expected a hollow-eyed wraith with missing teeth, the kind of young person familiar from the million stories about crystal meth. The most surprising things about the Smoking Gun’s savage, gleeful exposé of James Frey’s memoir A Million Little Pieces were the photos the site had unearthed. ![]()
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