Okay, everybody's talking about it. And why should we be any different? No, not Angelina Jolie's sex life. James Frey's "A Million Little Pieces": Fact or Fiction.

In case you missed it, here's the deal. James Frey, former alcoholic and crack addict, writes a memoir about his time in rehab after a spectacular crash and burn that seemed to give a whole new definition to "hitting bottom." In AMLP, he claims to have been arrested for a number of criminal offenses including hitting a police officer with his car. When a website went looking for his booking photo, they turned up a less exciting criminal past than the book would lead you to believe. It also appears that there were situations and scenes that Frey claims to have been present at but may not have been.

Frey, in interviews including a stop on "Larry King" where Oprah called in to chat, admitted the book included embellishments and that he relied on memory, which is likely to be imperfect. He has called the book a memoir, a subjective retelling of events. Oprah, who chose his book for her book club, is standing by her man. But half the country, it seems, has their knickers in a boatman's knot over the whole to-do.

And for the life of me, I don't know why.

The publisher is even offering refunds for those so shocked and dismayed that a former crack-head may have a skewed version of events.

Somebody look for my smelling salts.

First, I have an admission. I read the book. And, you know, it was okay. Sorta. I have a general policy of only talking about books I like - hence no mention of AMLP before. But in this case, I'm making an exception. It was interesting to read about a rehab facility from the inside. But in retrospect, I would've borrowed the book from the library rather than buy it myself.

Some people loved it. Particularly vocal have been those who themselves have addictive personalities. (Oprah famously claimed she knew just how he felt about crack and alcohol because she felt that way about potato chips.) I do feel strongly about my caffeine fix, but somehow, that wasn't quite enough to push my empathy buttons for Frey. Frankly, I found him a little bit...much. Nonetheless, I find myself standing in his corner on this.

First, does anyone really believe that autobiographies - any autobiography - is the gospel truth? If there is one subject on which we are all collectively unable to be transparent, it's ourselves. We lie to protect people. We lie to make ourselves look better than we are. We lie to cover up our transgressions, to embellish our accomplishments. Sometimes we lie without even realizing we did it. And I have a hard time imagining that anyone could write 500 pages about themselves that would stand up to magnifying glass scrutiny, let alone someone who'd spent more than a decade in a chemical haze. At the very least, we tell our own version of events. And as any cop will tell you, nobody's version is the same.

And then there's the difference between truth and fact. Funny that just as I was thinking about Frey, a documentary film maker was being interviewed on NPR. You couldn't call my movies non-fiction, he claimed, because I add things to make it all come together. There is a difference, he said, between fact and truth. Truth is not just facts. And all the facts do not necessarily coalesce to show truth.

Frey's truth was that he fell out the bottom of a long, bloody, abusive, drug-addled spiral barely alive and trying to face getting clean and staying clean. And others have found significant power in reading his story. The facts of how much time he spent in jail or the exact charges he faced do not change his truth.

What rings false to me are those standing so high on their pedestals, looking down their noses and feigning shock and disbelief. I'm sure their pasts are entirely free of embellishments and lies. Wait...where did I put my magnifying glass...