SPIN and ESQUIRE magazine columnist Chuck Klosterman’s previous books FARGO ROCK CITY and SEX, DRUGS & COCOA PUFFS are two of my favorite books and pretty much damn near classic. But his newest, KILLING YOURSELF TO LIVE, is not only the worst book I’ve read all year, it’s probably one of the worst books I have read in my life.
It starts off as a good idea: Go across country and visit different sites where musicians have died, but he only does this two or three times. The rest of the book is spent on him dwelling on three or four girls he’s fucking at once, bragging about doing coke, ruminating on how cool New York City is and how much of a nerd he is – which is total bullshit because he lives in NYC, does coke and has three or four girls to fuck.
I really can’t say I’m a Klosterman fan anymore; he’s pretty much revealed himself to be what I always suspected: a pseudo-intellectual New York hipster with Buddy Holly glasses, backstage access to Interpol, a great record collection and a 1,000 or so words in a magazine to brag about it.
KILLING YOURSELF is a 243-page waste of time that I wish I had never bothered to read.
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Amen, brother. With this book, I am off the Klosterman bandwagon as well.