Chuck Klosterman is the Poster Boy for The Decline and Fall of Man

I know this blog is about stripping, but I have something else to talk about today.

Let me take a moment to satisfy the people who come to this site to hear things like “I shaved the entirety of my mons pubis” or “As a rule, I never sleep with customers, but there was this one time…” Here you go: 1. I definitely rock the bald eagle. 2. I really didn’t have a rule against sleeping with customers. I slept with plenty. Word to the wise for dudes who want to take home a stripper: eye contact is a turn on.

OKAY, now here’s the real thing I want to talk about today: CHUCK KLOSTERMAN.

I just finished “Killing Yourself to Live” and I gotta tell you – it was the shittiest, self-gratifying-ist, narcissistic first person account I have ever read. And I know from shitty, self-gratifying, narcissistic first person accounts; I just read Lance Bass’ “Out of Sync.” Lance’s book was all about his formative years and realizing he was gay while wearing stupid costumes and thinking he ruled the world when he sang in N*SYNC for all of 5 seconds sometime in the late ‘90s/early aughts. The book was worse than it sounds, Chuck… and it was better than yours!

So let’s take it back just a moment. Just who is Chuck Klosterman? This guy.

Chuck Klosterman is a rock critic from North Dakota who apparently spent the late 80s/early 90s loving Ass Metal, and seems to be the only person in the world who hasn’t gotten over that phase of his life. It is NOT OK to like the same music you liked when you were 15 (especially if you’re a boy.) He seriously mentions rocking out to a ‘Skid Row’ song that wasn’t even ’18 and Life.’ What? CHUCK, liking horrible shit in an unironic way doesn’t make you hip, it makes you twee.

The premise of Chuck Klosterman’s ricockulous book is that he takes a road trip across the US for three weeks stopping off at all the places where dead rockers met their maker. (There are poor people in China who don't even have road trips!) Aside from the road trip aspect in a stupid car he names his 'Tauntaun', it sounds like it could be cool, right? Everyone loves dead rockers! But it wasn’t cool, not even for a moment. The book was about 3 women that Chuck Klosterman pines away for in exactly the same manner rendering them into mere symbols of some sort of fleeting femininity that Chuck Klosterman finds appealing. He loves beautiful quirky women with huge brains and big opinions about random stupid pop culture tidbits. OH! How he gets high and creates banal scenarios in which he tries to decide which woman is for him. If he chooses one, will he be forever lost to a world without ancillary beautiful women who can climb on rooftops in North Dakota in the middle of the night?

I’m about to go batshit just thinking about it. Chuck Klosterman is such a virgin that he thinks that all women will swoon over some randomly quoted Radiohead song! Chuck Klosterman spends pages wondering about a kiss. A KISS! Jesus, Mary and Joe Cocker. I can’t take a grown man seriously who’s singular obsession in life is women, who can’t even fantasize beyond a kiss. It’s so ridiculous; I ended up wondering if it was some sort of game. Like – is he writing like a douchbag because he thinks that women reading this book will think that it’s romantic? Well, Chuck – I don’t think it’s romantic; I think it’s cloying. I think you’re a bigger cheater for spooning that woman all night and loving every minute of it, while some poor retarded woman who pretends to like listening to you opine about Ace Frehly sits on the other side of the country believing she has your undivided romantic attention. If a guy I was dating told me that he messed up and bagged some chick he didn’t care about after a long night of shooters at Rainey’s, I would be pissed, but I would get over it. If my guy told me that he spooned some bitch all night and it made him think of the opening sequence of “Purple Rain” and he somehow felt complete… well, he better take a running start, because I am coming for his junk with the biggest knife I can find.

Here’s the thing I hated most about this book – it’s not actually about dead rock stars at all. Chuck Klosterman actually goes to these places that could be compelling (Chelsea Hotel, plane crash sites, The South) and only tells stories about himself. Is there really a market for people wanting to know the soundtrack of some rando guy’s life who was born in 1972. That’s not enough time to believe your opinion to be the second coming; I mean, I read Madeline Albright’s book and thought to myself: “Give it some time, Maddy. Time gives some perspective.” Also, is it really necessary to get Chuck Klosterman’s opinion on why people love “Led Zeppelin.” (Let me give you a hint, Chuck: Jimmy Page’s guitar make you want to take your clothes off and Robert Plant’s orgiastic voice makes you want to pursue the fastest, most animalistic, back-arching path to climax.) Chuck Klosterman thinks it’s because of Jimmy Page’s obsession with Alistair Crowley. Seriously? Once again, you can file Chuck Klosterman’s inability to get anything worth getting on the fact that he has the sexual maturity of a freshman in high school.

I do want to point out that “Killing Yourself to Live” came out in 2005. As of today, that was three years ago. I mention this, because I have been railing against Chuck Klosterman for being irrelevant and out of touch, et cetera… and while those things are true, it wouldn’t be fair if I didn’t mention that fact that I am three years late to the “This is the Worst Book Ever” dinner table. I do understand that criticizing something so entirely off the American Pop Radar is worse than Chuck Klosterman writing the original piece that got my thong in a twist. This trend, however, of digestible, media fast food that must be consumed the moment the microwave oven dings causes me alarm. It makes me wonder: if this book was going to be irrelevant a mere three years after publication, doesn’t that mean by its very essence, it was irrelevant at it's point of conception? I can’t accept that people can get away with saying stupid shit like: “Oh, that song. That was the jam of 2006. No one likes that song any more.” Bullshit that I don’t like “Hips Don’t Lie” anymore! I like it even more now because I’m not supposed to. (By the way – when will hip-hop artists ever learn that putting the year in your song is like putting a “Best Used By” date on your art? It’s like ‘Naughty by Nature’ and that damn ‘Nineteen Naughty One’ title. That said, OPP is still my jam.)

To sum up: Chuck Klosterman is a douche, pop culture cycles through at laser light speed, and I used to be a stripper. No, I didn’t forget that’s the premise of this blog. I used to be a stripper. I used to work the pole. I once made a $1200 tip. I wore high heels for 7 hours a day, changed my costume 6 times a day, and toyed with every Tom, Dick, and Sally who walked in the door. I was good at my job, and unlike Chuck Klosterman, I never took it for something that it never was. I took my clothes off to Motley Crue. You won’t find me spending pages upon pages expounding on the merits of “Theater of Pain” simply because I gave a lap dance to a Saudi Prince. That, Chuck Klosterman, is giving meaning to the meaningless, and I refuse to do it.

I gotta go. I’m still fucking pissed about this stupid book. The next book on my list is “The Spoils of Poynton” by Henry James.

Don’t worry – I’ll write soon about being a friggin’ stripper.

Until then… stay sexy!
xxxLex