The premise is promising: Klosterman sets out on a cross-country road trip to visit all of the sites of rock n rolls long, rich history of death. There was a sense of play, of intellectual gamesmanship, that was fresh and engaging. He has become too lazy and uninterested to make any serious effort at thinking or observing and analyzing what a specific site or incident might mean, and falls back on relaying what it means to him, at that moment. The most devastating element here is the incomprehensible decision to let Klosterman devote much of the book to pseudo-Hornby writhing about the three! His self-absorption on this count goes so far as to include a chapter-long conversation between the three women and himself that takes place entirely in his head. It is unsettling to see how turning Klosterman loose on such a promising theme brings out his worst instincts as a writer, because his feature pieces for Spin are often brilliant.
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Thanks for visiting! It sounded like a cool book, so I instinctively threw it on my Amazon Wish List. His tiny, red mouth is a sphincter twisting to a pained close 40 seconds after taking a brutal pounding from Peter North. To round it out, he has a mop of ironically uncombed, dyed-yellow hair and thick-rimmed glasses that look like they were placed on the ass as a frat prank, like a wig and sunglasses thrown on an old jack-o-lantern. In the hands of a competent writer, this would make for a good story.
This shit is complicated. I want you to put yourself in his shoes for a minute. Even if you have zero knowledge about journalism and reporting, you can probably figure out how to carry out an assignment like this. What would you do? And sulk about it later. Not only that, Klosterfuck has an obnoxious habit of dragging the reader down paths and thoughts that lead absolutely nowhere. However, by the time our four-minute conversation ends, I will be in love with her.
And this is because I am not. Speaking of Cracker Barrel, Klosterfuck has a sick fetish for chain restaurants; he name-drops them so often he comes off like an Aspergery Thomas Friedman. And like everything else in the book, his reasons for liking them are the dumbest, tritest crap imaginable. What amazing innovations will the restaurant industry come up with next? Free drink refills? Letting you substitute French fries with a side salad?
But Klosterfuck goes from stupid to downright creepy when he starts crying about his sex life. Without a doubt, not loving me is the most alluring thing Diane or any woman can do. Nothing makes me love Diane as much as her constant rejection of my heartfelt advances.
She knows I will never give up. She could hate me and I would love her anyway. I have run out of ways to say I love you. So this is it. You have three weeks. Man, Diane is one heartless bitch. The sad thing is that he actually seems aware of how repulsive he comes off to girls. Not even once. Still, I was never lying.
I responded poorly to this. It prompted me to drive back to Grand Forks, drink about 27 beers, and punch him in the face in front of all our friends. Noticing a pattern here? I did not take the news well. I was inspired to take a four-hour flight to Portland, wait in the bushes outside his house, and crack him in the knees with a Louisville Slugger. I fucking love their Jim Beam Bourbon Burgers. Driving to meet up with his parents in their rural North Dakota town, he starts talking about the time his brother Bill shot a buck at yards.
He explains his own reluctance to hunt with this boner: Men shoot animals, and I am just a Guy. Dude, just stick your head in the oven and get it over with. That comes in Missoula, Montana. We exchange terse good-byes, and then she walks back into her room. I can hear three teenagers groan through the wooden door. They are so not going to party. That last one is the most galling of all. Kurt Cobain, whatever his flaws, was a serious man who lived what he preached. In other words, he was everything that Chuck Klosterfuck is not.
Kurt Cobain had not merely made culturally important music— suddenly, he had made culture. His death became a catchall event for anyone who wanted their adolescence to have depth: It was now possible to achieve credibility simply by mourning retrospectively. All the times Cobain said he was upset at corporations co-opting his music? Naming his band after a philosophical concept that refers to the peace of mind that comes with liberation from the lies of the material world? It was all bullshit! Cobain was just a deluded, depressed junkie.
Where marijuana is the only permissible drug. Where sex is negotiated through consent forms signed in triplicate. Where Olive Garden and their half-cooked McItalian cuisine is considered the height of American dining. Stuff and shit is cool.
You need to chill out and smoke a joint or something. Smiling to your face while they stab you in the back. Haters of everything good, beautiful and moral in this world. In the meantime, toss self-indulgent, revisionist garbage like Killing Yourself to Live in the trash can where it belongs.
Killing Yourself to Live: 85% of a True Story
Thanks for visiting! It sounded like a cool book, so I instinctively threw it on my Amazon Wish List. His tiny, red mouth is a sphincter twisting to a pained close 40 seconds after taking a brutal pounding from Peter North. To round it out, he has a mop of ironically uncombed, dyed-yellow hair and thick-rimmed glasses that look like they were placed on the ass as a frat prank, like a wig and sunglasses thrown on an old jack-o-lantern.
Killing Yourself to Live