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I have a weakness for anyone who comes back from the Czech Republic with a fucked up tale to tell (it seems there are so many of us).

So, when I heard D. Randall Blythe on NPR discussing his surprise arrest when his flight landed in Prague, I downloaded his book immediately.

A death metal rocker getting cuffed at Ruzyně airport, being carted off to the notorious Pankrác prison, enduring the foreign world of the Czech legal system and emerging exonerated?

I had to read this dude's story.

I never expected the book to be good, but I was pleasantly surprised at just how entertaining it turned out to be. Blythe's experiences, his time in Pankrác, and his subsequent trial are undeniably interesting—and well-written—but what had me smiling were the small but revealing details:

--As Czech police arrest him, Blythe describes "spreading [his] feet apart automatically." With this one detail, we learn that Blythe has been arrested so many times that he literally knows the routine. (Love it).

--When a Czech police officer struggles to remove Blythe's handcuffs: "I honestly wanted to tell him to fetch me my wallet from the plastic bag across the room so I could get out my handcuff key and show him how to get these damn things off."
(Hilarious!)

--As Blythe discusses his tendency to "awful-ize" things, a simple but powerful description of anxiety emerges: "Within a matter of seconds, I can mentally chart a progression starting with me neglecting to cut my front lawn and ending in global nuclear catastrophe."
(Even more impressive than his descriptions of anxiety are the numerous ways in which Blythe stops himself and redirects his thoughts, especially in situations where most of us would be freaking out).

--Blythe discusses his past alcoholism and drug abuse at length, but I found a single sentence to be the most powerful part of that narrative--it was so powerful, in fact, that it convinced me that Blythe is likely an honest person, with a wholly realistic outlook on his sobriety: "I am not certain I will remain sober the rest of my life."
(That's it. Short and sweet. I appreciate Blythe's take on sobriety. It's rational, cold and honest. There's no bullshit. I like it).

--One of Blythe's prison guards whispers through a hatch in the door, "I am very sorry you are here! ... I saw you [play] at Rock-Am Park, I am a drummer, too! You must go home! We are all metal brothers!"
(I was touched by the sense of community that Blythe has through his music...and also took this as a hint that at least a few good things happened in prison).

As for the rest of the book? Surprisingly, it's very good.

This is a story that becomes increasingly unsettling, especially as Blythe's Kafka-esque nightmare begins to feel somehow familiar.

That déjà vu quality comes from Blythe's knack for touching on universal sentiments, even when telling his personal story.

Ultimately, Blythe's memoir captures the frustration and powerlessness of being in limbo in a foreign country--and it doesn't take being locked up in abroad to relate to Blythe. Anyone who's had things go awry in a foreign country will find Blythe's story familiar.

This is a book for anyone who's been stranded at a deserted station at 2AM, waiting for the train that never came; for anyone who has followed road signs to an attraction for hours, only to end up exactly where they started; for anyone whose wallet and documents were stolen on the day every Western Union office is closed for some obscure foreign holiday; for anyone who found themselves confused and frustrated by a country's inefficiency, and left feeling so alone and helpless that you're sure if you died, no one would bother to kick your maggot-infested corpse out of the way.

And while I enjoyed this book, keep a few warnings in mind before you commit to the $15 and the 500 pages:

--Blythe meanders a lot, tends to get preachy, and has a massive flair for drama. It gets tiresome quickly, and one begins to wonder why these sections (along with the numerous typos and grammatical errors) weren't cleaned up.

--Although you can't help but feel for Blythe, especially when it comes to the language barrier (Czech isn't exactly a language you can pick your way through by association--it feels designed to keep people out), there are way too many cheap shots at Czechs who don't speak English. UGH. Believe it or not, Randall, state employees in a tiny landlocked country in central Europe are not required to know English. Get over yourself, and see if you can get one of those gruff prison guards to teach you a few essential Czech words. And practice pronouncing the Å™ if you get bored.

--The book is too long, and at a certain point, the self-centeredness gets old--especially because there's very little action in the story. It would have helped if Blythe had discussed something outside his point of view: What was his band doing without him? How was his family holding up? Who was the young man who died at his concert? If you can't do that, you've got about 200 pages to slash from your memoir.

--Let's get real here. Blythe was in Pankrác for 35 days and wrote 500 pages about it. Consider that against a few other, similar memoirs. Amanda Knox endured 2 trials in Italy and went to prison for 4 yeas: her memoir is 329 pages. Ingrid Betancourt wrote a 544-page memoir, but she was held captive in the jungle for 6 years. (Her fellow captives were also held hostage for years, and none of their memoirs exceed 400 pages). And you're telling me that tough guy metal rocker was felled by 35 days in Pankrác in little ol' Praha? For real? As I read, a part of my brain kept screaming, "Oh come on, you big pussy! At least you weren't in Pankrác during World War II! At least you're not in prison in Pakistan!" Either way, there should be a new rule for locked-up-abroad memoirs: you get 100 pages per year; more if you were tortured. That's it.

I suppose I shouldn't complain. After all, Blythe did something the majority of us wouldn't do: after he was released from Pankrác and allowed to go back to the United States, he actually returned to Prague for his trial, and vowed to serve the 10 year-sentence he faced if he were convicted. Jesus.

So don't buy this book for a fucked up Prague story, because it's more than that. Instead, it's the story of a guy who had the balls to do the right thing.

Definitely worth reading...if you can stand the length.

4 stars because it got boring...and because my 500-page, 10 year-long fucked up Prague story is way better. :)