The Night of the Gun

Kenny actually has a lot of fondness—in clinical terms, it would be called “euphoric recall”—for those days.

One of the best things about this book, David Carr's autobiography, is his no crying-over-spilled-milk, simple and non-alacrious style. It's not noir, it's just a very good author's voice, elegantly translated from his journalistic self.

The book is mostly about his addiction, the long years of addiction, where he had two children, went from school to real jobs, trying to sober up, trying to remember, trying to remember, trying to build himself up, etc.

Memory can change the shape of a room; it can change the color of a car. —LEONARD, A MAN WHO CANNOT MAKE NEW MEMORIES AND IS SEARCHING FOR HIS WIFE’S KILLER, MEMENTO.

One of the most interesting parts about this book is that Carr has interviewed people from his past: exes, former friends, bosses, drug dealers, people he went into sobriety with. He compares his memory of events with theirs. No surprise: when he was a full-blown addict, he didn't exactly remember a lot. Mind shot, blood shot, Allshot.

I know we did lots of “more.” That’s what we called coke. We called it more because it was the operative metaphor for the drug. Even if it was the first call of the night, we would say, “You got any more?” because there would always be more—more need, more coke, more calls.

The eyes that saw too much because they did not close often enough.

He relives his life through this book, his memoir, where he at the best of times seems very introspect and at the worst of times seems bloated and boasting. Thankfully, there's very little of the latter and a lot of critical moments, mostly turned on his self:

Every hangover begins with an inventory. The next morning mine began with my mouth. I had been baking all night, and it was as dry as a two-year-old chicken bone. My head was a small prison, all yelps of pain and alarm, each movement seeming to shift bits of broken glass in my skull. My right arm came into view for inspection, caked in blood, and then I saw it had a few actual pieces of glass still embedded in it. So much for metaphor. My legs both hurt, but in remarkably different ways. Three quadrants in significant disrepair—that must have been some night, I thought absently. Then I remembered I had jumped my best friend outside a bar. And now that I thought about it, that was before I tried to kick down his door and broke a window in his house. And then I recalled, just for a second, the look of horror and fear on his sister’s face, a woman I adored. In fact, I had been such a jerk that my best friend had to point a gun at me to make me go away. Then I remembered I’d lost my job. It was a daylight waterfall of regret known to all addicts. It can’t get worse, but it does. When the bottom arrives, the cold fact of it all, it is always a surprise. Over fiteen years, I had made a seemingly organic journey from pothead to party boy, from knockaround guy to friendless thug. At thirty-one, I was washed out of my profession, morally and physically corrupt, but I still had almost a year left in the Life. I wasn’t done yet.

There's some great insight collected in this book. There's also repetition, but where repetition is due; I don't think one can really expect a person to go through rehab or trying to quit a sickness without being fully aware of it, every day of one's life, when it's come as far as in Carr's case (not that he's unique in the junkie's aspect, more like a copy); for conscience to be there, conscious repetition has to be in-place, otherwise things will fall apart.

Mornings for an addict involve waking up in a room where everything implicates him. Even if there is no piss or vomit—oh, blessed be the small wonders—there is the tipped-over bottle, the smashed phone, the bright midday light coming through the rip in the shade that says another day has started without you. Drunks and addicts tend to build nests out of the detritus of their misbegotten lives. It is that ecosystem, all there for the inventorying within twenty seconds of waking, which tends to make addiction a serial matter. Apart from the progression of the disease, if you wake up in that kind of hell, you might start looking for something to take the edge off. Nothing like the beer goggles and a nice bracing whiff of something to help you reframe your little disaster area. Hmmm, just a second here. A little of the hair of the dog. Yep. Now, that’s better. Everything is new again.

In a broader sense, addiction can be enormously simplifying. While other people worry about their 401(k)’s, getting their kids into the right nursery school and/or college, and keeping their plot to take over the world in good effect, a junkie or a drunk just has to worry about his next dose. It leads to a life that is, in a way, remarkably organized. What are we doing today? Exactly what we did yesterday, give or take.

His writing on his abusive self is precious (and naturally horrendous):

I found out that as a birthday gift, her friends had surprised her with a naked young man hanging from the ceiling of her cabin. I was livid. “I can remember being at my cabin, and you giving me a black eye and breaking my rib and throwing me off the dock,” she said. I had not remembered that last part, but as soon as she said it, I knew it had to be true. I did not so much move in with Anna as suddenly become someone who did not leave. Regardless of who is doing the remembering, some nasty, ineluctable truths lie between us. She was in the habit of slamming doors in my face—I called her “Bam Bam” in part because of that—and I was in the habit of coming right through those doors and choking her. She was using crack when her water broke, signaling that the twins had arrived two and a half months early. I was the one who had brought her those drugs. I treated her as an ATM, using her drugs and money almost at will, while she seemed more than willing to make the trade. In spite of the fact that I was the one who stepped up and raised our children, who shook off the Life, there are times when the moral high ground rests with her. I hit her, for one thing. For another, whatever she did, she did out of a kind of love. My presence in her life was far more mercenary.

All in all, very well written. Carr's style is so honed and he is so talented, that this reads like very few autobiographies that I have ever read, none of which are stylistically like this one, really. True, one could not towards Hunter S. Thompson, but all in all, this is very special and one to recommend for all, on the life of a man who - for a very long, cut-up time - did not care for responsibility at all, and now shows that he does.

Call on God, but row away from the rocks. —HUNTER S. THOMPSON

Kenny actually has a lot of fondness—in clinical terms, it would be called “euphoric recall”—for those days.

One of the best things about this book, David Carr's autobiography, is his no crying-over-spilled-milk, simple and non-alacrious style. It's not noir, it's just a very good author's voice, elegantly translated from his journalistic self.The book is mostly about his addiction, the long years of addiction, where he had two children, went from school to real jobs, trying to sober up, trying to remember, trying to remember, trying to build himself up, etc.

Memory can change the shape of a room; it can change the color of a car. —LEONARD, A MAN WHO CANNOT MAKE NEW MEMORIES AND IS SEARCHING FOR HIS WIFE’S KILLER, MEMENTO.

One of the most interesting parts about this book is that Carr has interviewed people from his past: exes, former friends, bosses, drug dealers, people he went into sobriety with. He compares his memory of events with theirs. No surprise: when he was a full-blown addict, he didn't exactly remember a lot. Mind shot, blood shot, Allshot.

I know we did lots of “more.” That’s what we called coke. We called it more because it was the operative metaphor for the drug. Even if it was the first call of the night, we would say, “You got any more?” because there would always be more—more need, more coke, more calls.

The eyes that saw too much because they did not close often enough.

He relives his life through this book, his memoir, where he at the best of times seems very introspect and at the worst of times seems bloated and boasting. Thankfully, there's very little of the latter and a lot of critical moments, mostly turned on his self:

Every hangover begins with an inventory. The next morning mine began with my mouth. I had been baking all night, and it was as dry as a two-year-old chicken bone. My head was a small prison, all yelps of pain and alarm, each movement seeming to shift bits of broken glass in my skull. My right arm came into view for inspection, caked in blood, and then I saw it had a few actual pieces of glass still embedded in it. So much for metaphor. My legs both hurt, but in remarkably different ways. Three quadrants in significant disrepair—that must have been some night, I thought absently. Then I remembered I had jumped my best friend outside a bar. And now that I thought about it, that was before I tried to kick down his door and broke a window in his house. And then I recalled, just for a second, the look of horror and fear on his sister’s face, a woman I adored. In fact, I had been such a jerk that my best friend had to point a gun at me to make me go away. Then I remembered I’d lost my job. It was a daylight waterfall of regret known to all addicts. It can’t get worse, but it does. When the bottom arrives, the cold fact of it all, it is always a surprise. Over fiteen years, I had made a seemingly organic journey from pothead to party boy, from knockaround guy to friendless thug. At thirty-one, I was washed out of my profession, morally and physically corrupt, but I still had almost a year left in the Life. I wasn’t done yet.

There's some great insight collected in this book. There's also repetition, but where repetition is due; I don't think one can really expect a person to go through rehab or trying to quit a sickness without being fully aware of it, every day of one's life, when it's come as far as in Carr's case (not that he's unique in the junkie's aspect, more like a copy); for conscience to be there, conscious repetition has to be in-place, otherwise things will fall apart.

Mornings for an addict involve waking up in a room where everything implicates him. Even if there is no piss or vomit—oh, blessed be the small wonders—there is the tipped-over bottle, the smashed phone, the bright midday light coming through the rip in the shade that says another day has started without you. Drunks and addicts tend to build nests out of the detritus of their misbegotten lives. It is that ecosystem, all there for the inventorying within twenty seconds of waking, which tends to make addiction a serial matter. Apart from the progression of the disease, if you wake up in that kind of hell, you might start looking for something to take the edge off. Nothing like the beer goggles and a nice bracing whiff of something to help you reframe your little disaster area. Hmmm, just a second here. A little of the hair of the dog. Yep. Now, that’s better. Everything is new again.

In a broader sense, addiction can be enormously simplifying. While other people worry about their 401(k)’s, getting their kids into the right nursery school and/or college, and keeping their plot to take over the world in good effect, a junkie or a drunk just has to worry about his next dose. It leads to a life that is, in a way, remarkably organized. What are we doing today? Exactly what we did yesterday, give or take.

His writing on his abusive self is precious (and naturally horrendous):

I found out that as a birthday gift, her friends had surprised her with a naked young man hanging from the ceiling of her cabin. I was livid. “I can remember being at my cabin, and you giving me a black eye and breaking my rib and throwing me off the dock,” she said. I had not remembered that last part, but as soon as she said it, I knew it had to be true. I did not so much move in with Anna as suddenly become someone who did not leave. Regardless of who is doing the remembering, some nasty, ineluctable truths lie between us. She was in the habit of slamming doors in my face—I called her “Bam Bam” in part because of that—and I was in the habit of coming right through those doors and choking her. She was using crack when her water broke, signaling that the twins had arrived two and a half months early. I was the one who had brought her those drugs. I treated her as an ATM, using her drugs and money almost at will, while she seemed more than willing to make the trade. In spite of the fact that I was the one who stepped up and raised our children, who shook off the Life, there are times when the moral high ground rests with her. I hit her, for one thing. For another, whatever she did, she did out of a kind of love. My presence in her life was far more mercenary.

All in all, very well written. Carr's style is so honed and he is so talented, that this reads like very few autobiographies that I have ever read, none of which are stylistically like this one, really. True, one could not towards Hunter S. Thompson, but all in all, this is very special and one to recommend for all, on the life of a man who - for a very long, cut-up time - did not care for responsibility at all, and now shows that he does.

Call on God, but row away from the rocks. —HUNTER S. THOMPSON

Kenny actually has a lot of fondness—in clinical terms, it would be called “euphoric recall”—for those days.

One of the best things about this book, David Carr's autobiography, is his no crying-over-spilled-milk, simple and non-alacrious style. It's not noir, it's just a very good author's voice, elegantly translated from his journalistic self.The book is mostly about his addiction, the long years of addiction, where he had two children, went from school to real jobs, trying to sober up, trying to remember, trying to remember, trying to build himself up, etc.

Memory can change the shape of a room; it can change the color of a car. —LEONARD, A MAN WHO CANNOT MAKE NEW MEMORIES AND IS SEARCHING FOR HIS WIFE’S KILLER, MEMENTO.

One of the most interesting parts about this book is that Carr has interviewed people from his past: exes, former friends, bosses, drug dealers, people he went into sobriety with. He compares his memory of events with theirs. No surprise: when he was a full-blown addict, he didn't exactly remember a lot. Mind shot, blood shot, Allshot.

I know we did lots of “more.” That’s what we called coke. We called it more because it was the operative metaphor for the drug. Even if it was the first call of the night, we would say, “You got any more?” because there would always be more—more need, more coke, more calls.

The eyes that saw too much because they did not close often enough.

He relives his life through this book, his memoir, where he at the best of times seems very introspect and at the worst of times seems bloated and boasting. Thankfully, there's very little of the latter and a lot of critical moments, mostly turned on his self:

Every hangover begins with an inventory. The next morning mine began with my mouth. I had been baking all night, and it was as dry as a two-year-old chicken bone. My head was a small prison, all yelps of pain and alarm, each movement seeming to shift bits of broken glass in my skull. My right arm came into view for inspection, caked in blood, and then I saw it had a few actual pieces of glass still embedded in it. So much for metaphor. My legs both hurt, but in remarkably different ways. Three quadrants in significant disrepair—that must have been some night, I thought absently. Then I remembered I had jumped my best friend outside a bar. And now that I thought about it, that was before I tried to kick down his door and broke a window in his house. And then I recalled, just for a second, the look of horror and fear on his sister’s face, a woman I adored. In fact, I had been such a jerk that my best friend had to point a gun at me to make me go away. Then I remembered I’d lost my job. It was a daylight waterfall of regret known to all addicts. It can’t get worse, but it does. When the bottom arrives, the cold fact of it all, it is always a surprise. Over fiteen years, I had made a seemingly organic journey from pothead to party boy, from knockaround guy to friendless thug. At thirty-one, I was washed out of my profession, morally and physically corrupt, but I still had almost a year left in the Life. I wasn’t done yet.

There's some great insight collected in this book. There's also repetition, but where repetition is due; I don't think one can really expect a person to go through rehab or trying to quit a sickness without being fully aware of it, every day of one's life, when it's come as far as in Carr's case (not that he's unique in the junkie's aspect, more like a copy); for conscience to be there, conscious repetition has to be in-place, otherwise things will fall apart.

Mornings for an addict involve waking up in a room where everything implicates him. Even if there is no piss or vomit—oh, blessed be the small wonders—there is the tipped-over bottle, the smashed phone, the bright midday light coming through the rip in the shade that says another day has started without you. Drunks and addicts tend to build nests out of the detritus of their misbegotten lives. It is that ecosystem, all there for the inventorying within twenty seconds of waking, which tends to make addiction a serial matter. Apart from the progression of the disease, if you wake up in that kind of hell, you might start looking for something to take the edge off. Nothing like the beer goggles and a nice bracing whiff of something to help you reframe your little disaster area. Hmmm, just a second here. A little of the hair of the dog. Yep. Now, that’s better. Everything is new again.

In a broader sense, addiction can be enormously simplifying. While other people worry about their 401(k)’s, getting their kids into the right nursery school and/or college, and keeping their plot to take over the world in good effect, a junkie or a drunk just has to worry about his next dose. It leads to a life that is, in a way, remarkably organized. What are we doing today? Exactly what we did yesterday, give or take.

His writing on his abusive self is precious (and naturally horrendous):

I found out that as a birthday gift, her friends had surprised her with a naked young man hanging from the ceiling of her cabin. I was livid. “I can remember being at my cabin, and you giving me a black eye and breaking my rib and throwing me off the dock,” she said. I had not remembered that last part, but as soon as she said it, I knew it had to be true. I did not so much move in with Anna as suddenly become someone who did not leave. Regardless of who is doing the remembering, some nasty, ineluctable truths lie between us. She was in the habit of slamming doors in my face—I called her “Bam Bam” in part because of that—and I was in the habit of coming right through those doors and choking her. She was using crack when her water broke, signaling that the twins had arrived two and a half months early. I was the one who had brought her those drugs. I treated her as an ATM, using her drugs and money almost at will, while she seemed more than willing to make the trade. In spite of the fact that I was the one who stepped up and raised our children, who shook off the Life, there are times when the moral high ground rests with her. I hit her, for one thing. For another, whatever she did, she did out of a kind of love. My presence in her life was far more mercenary.

All in all, very well written. Carr's style is so honed and he is so talented, that this reads like very few autobiographies that I have ever read, none of which are stylistically like this one, really. True, one could not towards Hunter S. Thompson, but all in all, this is very special and one to recommend for all, on the life of a man who - for a very long, cut-up time - did not care for responsibility at all, and now shows that he does.

Call on God, but row away from the rocks. —HUNTER S. THOMPSON