From The SF Chronicle
By Mark Morford

I shall start my story humbly, meekly, just like JT LeRoy and James Frey. Small town, somewhere in Idaho or maybe rural Montana, brought up by a sadistic pedophiliac Pentecostal preacher father who only has one good arm and a decimated colon, and a narcoleptic mother with 17 cats who sucks down cases of Tab and reads the “Left Behind” books as nonfiction and who passes out every night in a Percocet haze watching endless reruns of “Knight Rider.”

Me and my two sadistic brothers will sneak off to the local zoo for days at a time and sleep with the monkeys and torture penguins with fireworks. I will suck on my first bong at age 4 and will be stone drunk by 7 and will regularly black out by age 10, but not before impregnating my pothead babysitter and stealing her credit card to buy a Game Boy and a small Cessna, which I will promptly fly all the way to Mexico before crashing into a tortilla factory and breaking my spine in 12 places and rupturing my kidneys, which I will pay a Mexican mafia doctor named Mannie 50 bucks to swap with black-market kidneys stolen from unwary tourists. Oh, my yes. I can see it now.

Or no, no wait, better yet, I shall be from wealthy suburbia, Walnut Creek or Danville or someplace with a snooty-sounding name like Forest Hills or Blackthorne, full of condescending white kids and their new BMWs and sloppy sex and lousy cocaine, shiny happy families full of secret perversions masked by Botox smiles and copious antidepressants and huge credit-card debt and enormous thick-carpeted homes that they think are architectural wonders but that look more like rejects from Barbie’s Suicide Playhouse.

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