Books like Forced Entries- The Downtown Diaries: 1971-1973

Shut the fuck up, Jim Carroll. Sure, I thought The Basketball Diaries was a raw, true-to-life, gritty drama when I was 12 years old. More truthfully, my admiration was probably the result of a combination of wanting to make kissy faces with Leonardo DiCaprio, wanting to save this "hunk" (that was for you, eh!) from his own desperate shortcomings, and feeling shocked at the realities of drug addiction. Fortunately (and unfortunately), since I was a whee 12 year old lassie, a few things have changed. 1) Leo's face has swollen to unattractive proportions. 2) Leo has a fair degree of standards concerning the movies he will be in. 3) I no longer develop attractions to famous people which color my views on mediocre films. 4) I met some REAL LIFE drug addicts. Plenty, to be perfectly honest. 5) I no longer feel this overwhelming motherly compulsion to fix broken (to be read as heroin-addicted) people through my love. However, the curse of number 5 has cast its shadow on the last few years of my life, resulting in lost friends, lost hopes, and lost lovers. Which brings me back to my main point: shut the fuck up, Jim Carroll.Forced Entries. Ahh...another junkie whack-off session. Glamorize it, and it shall be read. You may be saying "doesn't he suck dudes off for various powders or something like that?" Yeah, exactly. How tragic, right? How fit-for-the-page is the story told from within the depths of his heroin nod. As I previously stated, I've known a lot of junkies, and not one of them resorted to fellatio for drug money. What is more often the case is they will ask if they can crash on your floor, bum your cigarettes and beer all night, then steal your Twin Peaks box set and pawn it for drug money while you're asleep. This is not to say that no one ever reaches these depths of depravity in real life. It just strikes me as odd that drug addiction is so much more reminiscent of a Lars Von Trier film for all the junkies in Carroll's life than for any of those who were in mine before I wised up and learned to let go. Maybe things really were that rough for Jim's friends. Somehow I doubt it, which brings us once again to my original point. Shut. the fuck. UP.Issue #1) See above: Stupid glamorizing of a real life problem to garner sympathy, create intrigue, and earn a devoted fan-base of future and/or vicarious drug-addicts (to be read as: to earn MONEY.)Issue #2) Stupid conclusions. Jim Carroll, you may think you are a sweetheart who loves his lovers in all the lovey-dovey ways a lover CAN love. However, in my opinion, you are a bit of a sexist/egomaniac who is painfully out of touch with the intentions of the women around you, and you should stop interpreting women (and what's worse, writing down your interpretations) forever and ever. A quote: "All the women always assure me at first how they don't care if I'm using junk...and, just as certain, within a week...they're bitching about how the shit is erecting a larger and larger barrier between us, and, speaking of 'erecting,' how they're not getting laid since I'm on the continual nod half the time and writing all that crazy bullshit the other half." He goes on to conclude that "To cast such aspersions on my work ('crazy bullshit,' indeed) is simply the bitter fruit of sexual frustration revealing itself." Oh, of course, Jim. Naturally, these women can't see the epic poetry that is your heroin-induced diary entries because you're not jolly-rogering 'em often enough. That must be it. This coming from a guy whose idea of romance is picking crabs out of one anothers' crotches, then racing them across the kitchen floor. Shut the fuck up, Jim Carroll.Issue #3) Stupid metaphors. "I think of my past as if it were some exquisite antique knife...you can use it to defend yourself or slit your own throat, but you can't just keep it mounted on some wall." This is just one example, and from the first few pages, even. Do I bother to break this down? First of all, why can't you keep an antique knife on some wall? Any wall, even? What the hell is he talking about, and do I even care? To me, it seems more logical that you CAN hang a knife on a wall (antique or otherwise), and CAN'T slit your throat/defend yourself with your past (though I will make a small allowance for the second part.) Still. SHUT UP.Issue #4) Stupid name-dropping. Allen Ginsberg, Edwin Denby, Willem de Kooning, Frank O'Hara. We get it, Jim. You hung out with some epic people. While I realize this is a journal, and will inevitably include stories of real-life friends, famous or otherwise, I must all the same default to my own experiences in journal writing and ask myself "did I ever write anyone's full name when I mentioned them in passing?" Oh, that's right...I didn't even use their first name, but rather some sort of coded reference that would throw potentials snoops off the scent, and lead to much personal confusion in my attempted reflections years later. Ever had your journal read by a parent, friend, or lover? It stings like a slap in the face by an icy-cold hand. You learn your lesson the first time, is all I'm saying. So please, Jim, stop trying to win us over with your fancy friends. You are a junkie and a craptastic writer. No one is impressed by you.*I could (and will) go on. Generally, I do not review books until I complete them, but this one is pissing me off too much to hold back. As I must finish books on principal, I am going to tough my way onward. I just HAD to regurgitate some of this nonsense to make room for the inevitable flood of even MORE nonsense to come. UGH! Why do I do this to myself?