I finished reading "The Night of the Gun" by David Carr on the N-Judah ride home last night. I did not get this book at all. In fact, I thought about throwing it in the trash before I finished the last 10 pages.
But, I did read all 389. Blech.
This author and reporter (currently a columnist for the New York Times) decided to investigate the black hole that was his life in his 20s and 30s. He was smoking crack and shooting cocaine. Selling. Beating girlfriends. Going to jail. Going to rehab. Somewhere in there he has twin baby girls with a woman who is also using, and he somehow gets custody of them. He cleans up until the girls are teens and then starts to rage with the booze and ends up in detox.
My problems with this book started with the cover:
Problem #1:
The subtitle schtick: "A reporter investigates the darkest story of his life. His own."
Dun dun dun.
(And it's written in a cheesy graffiti font.)
Problem #2:
The picture of the author with his twin girls at about 3 years old.
Problem #3:
It's dedicated to "the magic fairies," his wife and three daughters.
Dude. Duuuuuuuude. This is not "his" story. It is (mostly) about the childhoods he decided to give the twins, I'll give him that. But, the photo, come on. They're not baby girls anymore. He screwed up their childhood. Hard. Yes, they are capable women in college now. It's called survival. And seriously, "magic fairies?" This guy is truly living in a fantasy world. His own.
I do not understand why a person, a professional, a father would write such a thing after everyone involved has emerged alive. You made it! You're sober! You have a job! They don't hate you (well, not to your face)! I'm sure there was a "family talk" about the whole project and everyone was on board and agreed.
But he should have just given them peace.
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