Harold Bloom argued in Shakespeare and the Invention of the Human that the reason Shakespeare’s characters feel so incredibly real and timeless across the ages is because they don’t simply speak; rather, they listen to themselves speaking and become someone new in the process.
Throughout Foxtail, David “The Barnett” doesn’t merely stand securely in the present like some sort of detached scribe, solemnly unspooling the TP roll of his formative years after conveniently sanitizing it with hindsight and years of moderate sobriety. No! He instead lets all the old versions of himself come crawling back: reckless, wounded, ambitious, self-important (critically so), funny, and occasionally a complete asshole. Each version of himself is handed a microphone and an unkowingly captive audience, which is both wildly brave and also historically a terrible idea where David is concerned.
The result? A violent neck snap of music, addiction, ego, and relationships supernova-ing beneath the weight of growing up. Beneath all that wreckage from each explosion, however, lies a much deeper reckoning: the identities we forge through chaos and combustion and what happens when the provocateur refuses to leave the stage.
David looks directly at these past selves of his without pretending that present-day wisdom has magically purified him. Growing up doesn’t truly erase who we were. It simply gives us the chance to embrace the whole embarrassing yet fundamentally glorious collection.