cod and chuck klosterman: both baked [2/2]

In an earlier post, which can now be found in WordPress’s “classic posts hall of fame”, I discussed Cod – capital C. The fish, not the Cape. For Capes, I refer the reader to “Capes, Superman”, an excellent Wikipedia article on the subject. No, no, the cod, the fish, the bland yet aromatic hunk of flakes and breading that recently seduced my wife and me, and entered us into a Menage A Trois. Menage A Trout? I can barely manage my own mental stability! HAHAHA.

The title of that, and this post, referred to Chuck Klosterman. He of many hats. Stoner sportsman. Expositive non-fiction/fiction mashup writer. A Burroughs who writes about Britney Spears’s vagina, and her place on Gene Simmon’s “To-do list” of cunniliguist conquests. Compelling stuff.

Was titling these posts merely a grab for more pageviews. A spamming of the tag system? A disgusting attempt to trick and draw in ignorant readers to my web of jarbarfing? Partially. But it was admittedly not as flagrant as tagging my post “naked girls”. I have, and will continue, to do this. Houston rap forever!

You see kids, when I’m eating baked cod, I like to read the works of a baked cad. Klosterman fits the bill. And as such, I just finished reading his book “Killing Yourself To Live”, which is by his own admission 85 percent true, and 85 percent padding. I’m worn out and not motivated enough to give a scene by scene rundown of the book. In fact, I enjoyed his first book “Fargo Rock City” much more. I found it in the bargain bin at Barnes and Noble. The bargain bin continues to be one of the greatest sources of inspiration in my life. My furniture is exclusively from the “dumpster collection”.

“Fargo Rock City”, a collection of essays about heavy metal, its legitimacy as bastard heir to the 1980’s Kingdom of Rock, and the Knights in Simple Service of loving that Kingdom is a fun read. It was my introduction to Chuckie K and his apparently world-famous take on pop culture. I immediately ordered his other three books and cherished the thought of flying through them. Unfortunately, “Killing Yourself To Live” kind of… hangs itself. It’s not a bad book, and it may very well be better written than his first. But the subject matter is more personal, less “tongue in cheek”, more “hand on chin”. I put the book down after thoroughly not really enjoying the first half. Recently I finished it. Between those two periods of time, I’ve moved, bought a new car, and done a whole lot of growing. I wouldn’t say I’ve done any incredible emotional maturity in the interim. I haven’t tripped on mushrooms or discovered a whole new worldview. But for some reason, the second time around this book was more palpable. I may re-read it just because I do sincerely enjoy and admire Klosterman’s writing, even if sometimes he throws in a few too many asides. Asides always punctuated by “ANYWAY”.

So that’s out of the way. The book is off the porch, and in its stead is Philip Lapote’s “Totally, Tenderly, Tragically”, a book that appears to be a pretty damn serious collection of film criticism. I’m only a few essays in, but thus far Lapote’s juvenalia (Is the book arranged chronologically? Shouldn’t have skipped the introduction!) alone makes me realize just how out of my league. Not only in knowledge of cinema, which is heart-breakingly apparent, but essaying in general. Composition. Clarity of thought. Coherence.

It’s going to be a long night…


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