Anselmi pulls no punches relating his past, or in critically examining his own choices and behaviors. This memoir elevates the idiocy of misspent youth (and sometimes pure white trash hedonism) into a complex search for identity through music, the burden of family expectations, and the regret that really living life inevitably delivers. Shitty teenage tattoos become deeply considered symbols of a changing self. The youthful fanaticism of needing to belong through overidentifying with bands, through drinking culture—and in Anselmi’s case, the machismo of rural Wyoming life and BMX riding—all change into a deep consideration of choice and consequence, self-definition and freedom.
It gets ugly and sad, but ultimately JJ finds transformation in destruction (self and otherwise), feeling bound to live in a stereotype, and in the kind of self-control and introspection that only come from living by extremes.
This is a badass, painful, beautiful book.