On May 27, James Frey read from his memoir A Million Little Pieces at University Book Store. This is his review of the audience at that reading and of Seattle in general.

From January to June of 1999, my residence was a hotel in Seattle. At the time, I was living and working in the film business in L.A., and I came to Seattle to produce a movie. I did not have a pleasant experience. It rained the first 86 days. I met a girl, fell quickly in love, and she immediately started cheating on me. My dog died. I cut my hand, my hand got infected, I got something called sausage finger, which, as you might guess, made my fingers look like sausages, and I ended up in the hospital for a week. I found out my closest friend was dying of AIDS. And the cherry on top of this big pile of shit was that the movie was an absolute disaster. The actors were difficult, the crew hated each other, one of the cameramen got hit by a truck and broke his arm, leg, jaw, and cheekbone, one of our RVs got stolen, we totaled a Seattle Police Department cruiser, and we went over budget and over schedule. When it was finally time to go, I was very fucking happy to leave, and I didn't want to ever come back.

At 7:00 a.m. on Thursday, May 27, 2004, I boarded a plane in Portland bound for Sea-Tac. I had been in 11 cities in the previous 11 days. I was tired, sick of traveling, just wanted to go fucking home. I wasn't dreading Seattle, I just didn't care. My schedule made cities blend together, and almost all of my time in them was spent in airports, cars, hotels, and bookstores. I slept during the flight, got off the plane, found my driver, started toward my hotel. As we drove in, it started raining. Big fucking surprise.

I got to my hotel, had a few hours before I had to do anything, took a shower. My oh my, there is not much in this world better than a hot shower. After the shower, I watched a college softball game between LSU and Michigan, which went into extra innings. I smoked a bunch of cigarettes and drank some coffee and fucked around on the Net, and as clichéd as it may be, Seattle has good fucking coffee and good, fast Internet connections. LSU ended up winning the game 3 to 2 in 14 innings.

At 1:00 p.m. or so I went to lunch with 10 executives from Amazon.com. I like Amazon, I think they're great at what they do, and Amazon has been very good to me. They were early supporters of me and my work, and that support carries significant weight in the halls of New York publishers, and they also named A Million Little Pieces the best book of 2003. While I might normally dread bullshit like a vendor lunch, I was looking forward to this one, if for no other reason than to say thank you.

We went to an Italian place off some busy street. I don't remember the names and the names don't matter anyway. What matters is that I had a good time. The Amazon folk were smart, cool, funny, we all ate heartily, laughed loudly, and we made my publisher pay for the whole thing. I got to say my thank yous and I say them again--thank you, Amazon, thank you--and I made some new friends.

Afterward I went back to my hotel, met up with an old friend of mine, a woman named Anna. Anna and I knew each other in college, were roommates in England after college, had seen some good times together, and had seen a lot of bad times together. Anna witnessed my early disintegration, and I had witnessed some of her more unpleasant moments. She carried me home a few times, both literally and figuratively, and I carried her a few times. I hadn't seen her in a couple of years, and during those years, she had gotten married and had a baby. When she walked into my room, carrying her baby, a sweet little girl named Isabelle, the baby took one look at me and immediately burst into tears.

We spent the next few hours talking, laughing, reminiscing about stupid shit we used to do together. Isabelle eventually stopped crying and crawled around on the floor and made gurgling noises. We drank sodas and ate food from the mini-bar; we wondered what happened to people we used to know who had left us. The hours we had were among the best hours of my year, and they alone were worth the trip.

Anna drove me to my reading. The traffic was fucking horrible, and, for whatever it is worth, was the worst I have seen in any city in the country, including San Francisco, New York, and L.A. The reading went well, and as far as readings go, was pretty standard. I had a good crowd. They bought a bunch of books. Most of the questions were reasonable and intelligent. At one point, near the end, I noticed someone in the back who I hadn't seen in 15 years, a pal of mine from high school named Henderson whom I had lost touch with when my family moved two weeks after graduation. There was a woman next to him, and they had a kid with them. When the reading was over and the signing finished, Henderson and I stood outside and smoked and caught up. Fifteen years disappeared in about five minutes. We exchanged numbers, e-mails, promised to stay in touch. This time, I think we will.

I had a redeye back to New York, so I had to leave for the airport. It rained the entire drive and the traffic still sucked, but I didn't really give a shit, because I had had a good day, a day in which I made some new friends, spent time with an old, dear, great friend, and reconnected with a lost friend. You can't ask for much more from a day than that, and you can't expect a city to offer much more. I don't know what the fuck happened during the first six miserable months I spent in Seattle, and I guess I don't give a shit anymore. My day made up for it. A great, great day. Great days are rare, and because of it, I'll look forward to my return.