So I've been waiting forEVER to read Chuck Klosterman's book,
Sex, Drugs, and Cocoa Puffs. Besides the fact that everyone I know who has already read the book (and nearly every professional reviewer that has ever reviewed it) say that's it's terminally effing cool, Chuck's articles in
Esquire (which, yes, my apartmentful of girls did receive for some time...) led me to refer to him as "Future Potential Husband Candidate No.2." (The No. 1 spot being occupied, simultaneously, by Conan O'Brien, several cast members from The Daily Show (most of whom I suspect are already married) and some other guy that I've sort of been dating for a while. Or something.*)
However, now that I've been toting this book around with me for the past few days, reading it whenever an opportunity presents itself (gym. slow time at work. random bubble baths.) I'm a little...sad. You know, for Chuck. The first 50 pages or so are REALLY funny. Really. The writing's great, all the cultural references are hilarious, and there's some real sound thinking in there. But damn. After a while you get to thinking, "Will NOTHING make Chuck Klosterman happy?!" And then, "And if his is the voice of his generation, are there millions more like him doomed to the same restless, albeit humor-filled fate?" Hmmmm. HHhhmmmmm.
So yeah. Much as I like Chuck, he's off the list. Until he writes something heartwarming, damnit.
*
While I'm at it, something must be said regarding this remark. And I'll do it, ironically enough, in Klostermanian fashion (via footnote.) I really DO like this guy a lot. A LOT, a lot. And we've been dating since I was 17. However, I tend to downplay this, because it's funny in my own head when I answer, deadpan: "Oh, he's okay I guess." To anyone who asks me about him. After doing this at my office a few times though, and to people that are not acquianted with the specifics of our relationship, I found out that a few of the well-meaning ladies there began to think that I was hanging around with some no 'count bum that I didn't really like, merely because I had gotten used to him. Not so. (End of Cheese.)
