Sex, Drugs, and Cocoa Puffs: A Low Culture Manifesto [NOOK Book]

Overview

From the author of the highly acclaimed heavy metal memoir, Fargo Rock City, comes another hilarious and discerning take on massively popular culture—set in Chuck Klosterman’s den and your own—covering everything from the effect of John Cusack flicks to the crucial role of breakfast cereal to the awesome power of the Dixie Chicks.

Countless writers and artists have spoken for a generation, but no one has done it quite like Chuck Klosterman. ...
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Sex, Drugs, and Cocoa Puffs: A Low Culture Manifesto

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Overview

From the author of the highly acclaimed heavy metal memoir, Fargo Rock City, comes another hilarious and discerning take on massively popular culture—set in Chuck Klosterman’s den and your own—covering everything from the effect of John Cusack flicks to the crucial role of breakfast cereal to the awesome power of the Dixie Chicks.

Countless writers and artists have spoken for a generation, but no one has done it quite like Chuck Klosterman. With an exhaustive knowledge of popular culture and an almost effortless ability to spin brilliant prose out of unlikely subject matter, Klosterman attacks the entire spectrum of postmodern America: reality TV, Internet porn, Pamela Anderson, literary Jesus freaks, and the real difference between apples and oranges (of which there is none). And don’t even get him started on his love life and the whole Harry-Met-Sally situation.

Whether deconstructing Saved by the Bell episodes or the artistic legacy of Billy Joel, the symbolic importance of The Empire Strikes Back or the Celtics/Lakers rivalry, Chuck will make you think, he’ll make you laugh, and he’ll drive you insane—usually all at once. Sex, Drugs, and Cocoa Puffs is ostensibly about art, entertainment, infotainment, sports, politics, and kittens, but—really—it’s about us. All of us. As Klosterman realizes late at night, in the moment before he falls asleep, “In and of itself, nothing really matters. What matters is that nothing is ever ‘in and of itself.’” Read to believe.
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Editorial Reviews

The Washington Post
The proper subject of smack talk is what's cool, what's not cool and why. But if intellectuals such as Thomas Frank or David Brooks cover this same turf like electric weed-whackers, Klosterman is a lawn-tractor with flames painted on the hood. He's the maddeningly smart and funny armchair critic from North Dakota who's right 90 percent of the time -- and the other 10 percent of the time, he's just so lunatic that the funny bone preempts the thinking bone. — Hans Eisenbeis
Publishers Weekly
There's a lot more cold cereal than sex or drugs in Klosterman's nostalgic, patchy collection of pop cultural essays, which, despite sparks of brilliance, fails to cohere. Having graduated from the University of North Dakota in 1994, Klosterman (Fargo Rock City) seems never to have left that time or place behind. He is an ironically self-aware, trivia-theorizing, unreconstructed slacker: "I'm a `Gen Xer,' okay? And I buy shit marketed to `Gen Xers.' And I use air quotes when I talk.... Get over it." The essay topics speak for themselves: the Sims, The Real World, Say Anything, Pamela Anderson, Billy Joel, the Lakers/Celtics rivalry, etc. The closest Klosterman gets to the 21st century is Internet porn and the Dixie Chicks. This is a shame, because he's is a skilled prose stylist with a witty, twisted brain, a photo-perfect memory for entertainment trivia and has real chops as a memoirist. The book's best moments arrive when he eschews argumentation for personal history. In "George Will vs. Nick Hornby," a tired screed against soccer suddenly comes to life when Klosterman tells the story of how he was fired from his high school summer job as a Little League baseball coach. The mothers wanted their sons to have equal playing time; Klosterman wanted "a run-manufacturing offensive philosophy modeled after Whitey Herzog's St. Louis Cardinals." In a chapter on relationships, Klosterman semi-jokes that he only has "three and a half dates worth of material." Remove all the dated pop culture analyses, and Klosterman's book has enough material for about half a really great memoir. Agent, Daniel Greenberg. (Aug. 26) Copyright 2003 Reed Business Information.
Kirkus Reviews
Cultural arguments for people fascinated by the implications of their sugar-cereal dependencies. Spin magazine senior writer Klosterman (Fargo Rock City, 2001) prefers to "figure out what it means to be alive," he explains, in the context of "Pamela Anderson and The Real World and Frosted Flakes." Generally speaking, his m.o. is to explore what a "trivial" or purportedly overlooked mass-cultural element tells us about the presumably insight-hobbled greater American populace (e.g., that racial or cultural differences as exploited in popular media can be clarified via the eternal Lakers-Celtics debate). It's a strategy reminiscent of Joe Queenan's superior Red Lobster, White Trash, and the Blue Lagoon (1998), although Klosterman's shrill advocacy of junk culture lies closer to Quentin Tarantino's. The author is certainly democratic in his obsessions, yet they all tend toward lowest common denominators: many of his long argumentative riffs, such as those regarding John Cusack's appeal, the Pamela Anderson-Tommy Lee video, the enduring celebrity cult around serial killers like J.W. Gacy, and the righteousness of Reality Bites and the Gen-X stereotype, seem dated and unprovocative. The occasional piece rises above this minor-key white noise: a sharp, affecting portrait of life on the road with a Guns 'n' Roses cover band (written for the New York Times Magazine); a provocative exploration of how the befuddling world of online porn actually serves as metaphor for the Internet's promise generally; and a genuinely cynical chapter on media realities that reads like Muckraker Lite. Klosterman's literary strength seemingly lies in an ability to salvage discussion of the genuinely trivial via anoften charming, ramshackle voice; yet elsewhere, he takes tedious, unconvincing swipes at the usual array of "elite" cultural tropes, including Seattle's Experience Music Project, punk rock, indie rock, rock journalists, Björk, "postmodern" writers like poet Robert Pinsky, Lucinda Williams, alt-country, and so forth. He seems unaware that Jim Goad, Donna Gaines, and Ian Christe have already beaten the ersatz-populism thing to death. Humorous, slick, aggressively forgettable. Agent: Daniel Greenberg/Levine Greenberg
From the Publisher
Gary Shteyngart author of The Russian Debutante's Handbook The funniest thing I've read in an ice age...Chuck Klosterman is a Gulliver among the cult-crit Lilliputians. America should wrap her freckled arms around Klosterman's scrawny neck and press him to her bosom. He may be the last true patriot among us.

Bob Odenkirk of Mr. Show Chuck Klosterman has the time and inclination to think through the issues that you didn't even know were issues. Laugh at him, or with him, or both...but you will laugh, dammit, you will laugh.

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Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9780743258241
  • Publisher: Scribner
  • Publication date: 8/26/2003
  • Sold by: SIMON & SCHUSTER
  • Format: eBook
  • Pages: 256
  • Sales rank: 61,698
  • File size: 2 MB

Meet the Author

Chuck Klosterman
Chuck Klosterman is the New York Times bestselling author of seven previous books, including Sex, Drugs, and Cocoa Puffs; Eating the Dinosaur; Killing Yourself to Live; and The Visible Man. His debut book, Fargo Rock City, was the winner of the ASCAP-Deems Taylor Award. He has written for GQ, Esquire, Spin, The Washington Post, The Guardian, The Believer, and The Onion A.V. Club. He currently serves as “The Ethicist” for the New York Times Magazine and writes about sports and popular culture for ESPN.

Good To Know

In our interview, Klosterman shared some fun and fascinating facts about himself:

"I think I love onion rings, but I actually don't. Very often, I will purchase onion rings and throw them in the oven, and I'll be very excited about the premise of consuming them. However, when I finally start to eat supper, I realize they're only okay. Somehow, this situation has happened to me at least five times in my lifetime: For some reason, I keep unconsciously convincing myself that onion rings are delicious."

"The original title for Sex, Drugs, and Cocoa Puffs was American Minotaur, but everybody turned against me."

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    1. Hometown:
      New York, New York
    1. Date of Birth:
      June 5, 1972
    2. Place of Birth:
      Wyndmere, North Dakota
    1. Education:
      Degree in Journalism, University of North Dakota, 1994

Read an Excerpt


Chapter 1: This Is Emo 0:01

No woman will ever satisfy me. I know that now, and I would never try to deny it. But this is actually okay, because I will never satisfy a woman, either.

Should I be writing such thoughts? Perhaps not. Perhaps it's a bad idea. I can definitely foresee a scenario where that first paragraph could come back to haunt me, especially if I somehow became marginally famous. If I become marginally famous, I will undoubtedly be interviewed by someone in the media, and the interviewer will inevitably ask, "Fifteen years ago, you wrote that no woman could ever satisfy you. Now that you've been married for almost five years, are those words still true?" And I will have to say, "Oh, God no. Those were the words of an entirely different person -- a person whom I can't even relate to anymore. Honestly, I can't image an existence without _____. She satisfies me in ways that I never even considered. She saved my life, really."

Now, I will be lying. I won't really feel that way. But I'll certainly say those words, and I'll deliver them with the utmost sincerity, even though those sentiments will not be there. So then the interviewer will undoubtedly quote lines from this particular paragraph, thereby reminding me that I swore I would publicly deny my true feelings, and I'll chuckle and say, "Come on, Mr. Rose. That was a literary device. You know I never really believed that."

But here's the thing: I do believe that. It's the truth now, and it will be in the future. And while I'm not exactly happy about that truth, it doesn't make me sad, either. I know it's not my fault.

It's no one's fault, really. Or maybe it's everyone's fault. It should be everyone's fault, because it's everyone's problem. Well, okay...not everyone. Not boring people, and not the profoundly retarded. But whenever I meet dynamic, nonretarded Americans, I notice that they all seem to share a single unifying characteristic: the inability to experience the kind of mind-blowing, transcendent romantic relationship they perceive to be a normal part of living. And someone needs to take the fall for this. So instead of blaming no one for this (which is kind of cowardly) or blaming everyone (which is kind of meaningless), I'm going to blame John Cusack.

I once loved a girl who almost loved me, but not as much as she loved John Cusack. Under certain circumstances, this would have been fine; Cusack is relatively good-looking, he seems like a pretty cool guy (he likes the Clash and the Who, at least), and he undoubtedly has millions of bones in the bank. If Cusack and I were competing for the same woman, I could easily accept losing. However, I don't really feel like John and I were "competing" for the girl I'm referring to, inasmuch as her relationship to Cusack was confined to watching him as a two-dimensional projection, pretending to be characters who don't actually exist. Now, there was a time when I would have thought that detachment would have given me a huge advantage over Johnny C., inasmuch as my relationship with this woman included things like "talking on the phone" and "nuzzling under umbrellas" and "eating pancakes." However, I have come to realize that I perceived this competition completely backward; it was definitely an unfair battle, but not in my favor. It was unfair in Cusack's favor. I never had a chance.

It appears that countless women born between the years of 1965 and 1978 are in love with John Cusack. I cannot fathom how he isn't the number-one box-office star in America, because every straight girl I know would sell her soul to share a milkshake with that motherfucker. For upwardly mobile women in their twenties and thirties, John Cusack is the neo-Elvis. But here's what none of these upwardly mobile women seem to realize: They don't love John Cusack. They love Lloyd Dobler. When they see Mr. Cusack, they are still seeing the optimistic, charmingly loquacious teenager he played in Say Anything, a movie that came out more than a decade ago. That's the guy they think he is; when Cusack played Eddie Thomas in America's Sweethearts or the sensitive hit man in Grosse Pointe Blank, all his female fans knew he was only acting...but they assume when the camera stopped rolling, he went back to his genuine self...which was someone like Lloyd Dobler...which was, in fact, someone who is Lloyd Dobler, and someone who continues to have a storybook romance with Diane Court (or with Ione Skye, depending on how you look at it). And these upwardly mobile women are not alone. We all convince ourselves of things like this -- not necessarily about Say Anything, but about any fictionalized portrayals of romance that happen to hit us in the right place, at the right time. This is why I will never be completely satisfied by a woman, and this is why the kind of woman I tend to find attractive will never be satisfied by me. We will both measure our relationship against the prospect of fake love.

Fake love is a very powerful thing. That girl who adored John Cusack once had the opportunity to spend a weekend with me in New York at the Waldorf-Astoria, but she elected to fly to Portland instead to see the first U.S. appearance by Coldplay, a British pop group whose success derives from their ability to write melodramatic alt-rock songs about fake love. It does not matter that Coldplay is absolutely the shittiest fucking band I've ever heard in my entire fucking life, or that they sound like a mediocre photocopy of Travis (who sound like a mediocre photocopy of Radiohead), or that their greatest fucking artistic achievement is a video where their blandly attractive frontman walks on a beach on a cloudy fucking afternoon. None of that matters. What matters is that Coldplay manufactures fake love as frenetically as the Ford fucking Motor Company manufactures Mustangs, and that's all this woman heard. "For you I bleed myself dry," sang their blockhead vocalist, brilliantly informing us that stars in the sky are, in fact, yellow. How am I going to compete with that shit? That sleepy-eyed bozo isn't even making sense. He's just pouring fabricated emotions over four gloomy guitar chords, and it ends up sounding like love. And what does that mean? It means she flies to fucking Portland to hear two hours of amateurish U.K. hyper-slop, and I sleep alone in a $270 hotel in Manhattan, and I hope Coldplay gets fucking dropped by fucking EMI and ends up like the Stone fucking Roses, who were actually a better fucking band, all things considered.

Not that I'm bitter about this. Oh, I concede that I may be taking this particular example somewhat personally -- but I do think it's a perfect illustration of why almost everyone I know is either overtly or covertly unhappy. Coldplay songs deliver an amorphous, irrefutable interpretation of how being in love is supposed to feel, and people find themselves wanting that feeling for real. They want men to adore them like Lloyd Dobler would, and they want women to think like Aimee Mann, and they expect all their arguments to sound like Sam Malone and Diane Chambers. They think everything will work out perfectly in the end (just like it did for Helen Fielding's Bridget Jones and Nick Hornby's Rob Fleming), and they don't stop believing, because Journey's Steve Perry insists we should never do that. In the nineteenth century, teenagers merely aspired to have a marriage that would be better than that of their parents; personally, I would never be satisfied unless my marriage was as good as Cliff and Clair Huxtable's (or at least as enigmatic as Jack and Meg White's).

Pundits are always blaming TV for making people stupid, movies for desensitizing the world to violence, and rock music for making kids take drugs and kill themselves. These things should be the least of our worries. The main problem with mass media is that it makes it impossible to fall in love with any acumen of normalcy. There is no "normal," because everybody is being twisted by the same sources simultaneously. You can't compare your relationship with the playful couple who lives next door, because they're probably modeling themselves after Chandler Bing and Monica Geller. Real people are actively trying to live like fake people, so real people are no less fake. Every comparison becomes impractical. This is why the impractical has become totally acceptable; impracticality almost seems cool. The best relationship I ever had was with a journalist who was as crazy as me, and some of our coworkers liked to compare us to Sid Vicious and Nancy Spungen. At the time, I used to think, "Yeah, that's completely valid: We fight all the time, our love is self-destructive, and -- if she was mysteriously killed -- I'm sure I'd be wrongly arrested for second-degree murder before dying from an overdose." We even watched Sid & Nancy in her parents' basement and giggled the whole time. "That's us," we said gleefully. And like I said -- this was the best relationship I ever had. And I suspect it was the best one she ever had, too.

Of course, this media transference is not all bad. It has certainly worked to my advantage, just as it has for all modern men who look and talk and act like me. We all owe our lives to Woody Allen. If Woody Allen had never been born, I'm sure I would be doomed to a life of celibacy. Remember the aforementioned woman who loved Cusack and Coldplay? There is absolutely no way I could have dated this person if Woody Allen didn't exist. In tangible terms, she was light-years out of my league, along with most of the other women I've slept with. But Woody Allen changed everything. Woody Allen made it acceptable for beautiful women to sleep with nerdy, bespectacled goofballs; all we need to do is fabricate the illusion of intellectual humor, and we somehow have a chance. The irony is that many of the women most susceptible to this scam haven't even seen any of Woody's movies, nor would they want to touch the actual Woody Allen if they ever had the chance (especially since he's proven to be an über-pervy clarinet freak). If asked, most of these foxy ladies wouldn't classify Woody Allen as sexy, or handsome, or even likable. But this is how media devolution works: It creates an archetype that eventually dwarfs its origin. By now, the "Woody Allen Personality Type" has far greater cultural importance than the man himself.

Now, the argument could be made that all this is good for the sexual bloodstream of Americana, and that all these Women Who Want Woody are being unconsciously conditioned to be less shallow than their sociobiology dictates. Self-deprecating cleverness has become a virtue. At least on the surface, movies and television actively promote dating the nonbeautiful: If we have learned anything from the mass media, it's that the only people who can make us happy are those who don't strike us as being particularly desirable. Whether it's Jerry Maguire or Sixteen Candles or Who's the Boss or Some Kind of Wonderful or Speed Racer, we are constantly reminded that the unattainable icons of perfection we lust after can never fulfill us like the platonic allies who have been there all along. If we all took media messages at their absolute face value, we'd all be sleeping with our best friends. And that does happen, sometimes. But herein lies the trap: We've also been trained to think this will always work out over the long term, which dooms us to disappointment. Because when push comes to shove, we really don't want to have sex with our friends...unless they're sexy. And sometimes we do want to have sex with our blackhearted, soul-sucking enemies...assuming they're sexy. Because that's all it ever comes down to in real life, regardless of what happened to Michael J. Fox in Teen Wolf.

The mass media causes sexual misdirection: It prompts us to need something deeper than what we want. This is why Woody Allen has made nebbish guys cool; he makes people assume there is something profound about having a relationship based on witty conversation and intellectual discourse. There isn't. It's just another gimmick, and it's no different than wanting to be with someone because they're thin or rich or the former lead singer of Whiskeytown. And it actually might be worse, because an intellectual relationship isn't real at all. My witty banter and cerebral discourse is always completely contrived. Right now, I have three and a half dates worth of material, all of which I pretend to deliver spontaneously. This is my strategy: If I can just coerce women into the last half of that fourth date, it's anyone's ball game. I've beaten the system; I've broken the code; I've slain the Minotaur. If we part ways on that fourth evening without some kind of conversational disaster, she probably digs me. Or at least she thinks she digs me, because who she digs is not really me. Sadly, our relationship will not last ninety-three minutes (like Annie Hall) or ninety-six minutes (like Manhattan). It will go on for days or weeks or months or years, and I've already used everything in my vault. Very soon, I will have nothing more to say, and we will be sitting across from each other at breakfast, completely devoid of banter; she will feel betrayed and foolish, and I will suddenly find myself actively trying to avoid spending time with a woman I didn't deserve to be with in the first place.

Perhaps this sounds depressing. That is not my intention. This is all normal. There's not a lot to say during breakfast. I mean, you just woke up, you know? Nothing has happened. If neither person had an especially weird dream and nobody burned the toast, breakfast is just the time for chewing Cocoa Puffs and/or wishing you were still asleep. But we've been convinced not to think like that. Silence is only supposed to happen as a manifestation of supreme actualization, where both parties are so at peace with their emotional connection that it cannot be expressed through the rudimentary tools of the lexicon; otherwise, silence is proof that the magic is gone and the relationship is over (hence the phrase "We just don't talk anymore"). For those of us who grew up in the media age, the only good silence is the kind described by the hair metal band Extreme. "More than words is all I ever needed you to show," explained Gary Cherone on the Pornograffiti album. "Then you wouldn't have to say that you love me, cause I'd already know." This is the difference between art and life: In art, not talking is never an extension of having nothing to say; not talking always means something. And now that art and life have become completely interchangeable, we're forced to live inside the acoustic power chords of Nuno Bettencourt, even if most of us don't necessarily know who the fuck Nuno Bettencourt is.

When Harry Met Sally hit theaters in 1989. I didn't see it until 1997, but it turns out I could have skipped it entirely. The movie itself isn't bad (which is pretty amazing, since it stars Meg Ryan and Billy Crystal), and there are funny parts and sweet parts and smart dialogue, and -- all things considered -- it's a well-executed example of a certain kind of entertainment. Yet watching this film in 1997 was like watching the 1978 one-game playoff between the Yankees and the Red Sox on ESPN Classic: Though I've never sat through the pitch sequence that leads to Bucky Dent's three-run homer, I know exactly what happened. I feel like I remember it, even though I don't. And -- more important -- I know what it all means. Knowing about sports means knowing that Bucky Dent is the living, breathing, metaphorical incarnation of the Bo Sox's undying futility; I didn't have to see that game to understand the fabric of its existence. I didn't need to see When Harry Met Sally, either. Within three years of its initial release, classifying any intense friendship as "totally a Harry-Met-Sally situation" had a recognizable meaning to everyone, regardless of whether or not they'd actually seen the movie. And that meaning remains clear and remarkably consistent: It implies that two platonic acquaintances are refusing to admit that they're deeply in love with each other. When Harry Met Sally cemented the plausibility of that notion, and it gave a lot of desperate people hope. It made it realistic to suspect your best friend may be your soul mate, and it made wanting such a scenario comfortably conventional. The problem is that the Harry-Met-Sally situation is almost always tragically unbalanced. Most of the time, the two involved parties are not really "best friends." Inevitably, one of the people has been in love with the other from the first day they met, while the other person is either (a) wracked with guilt and pressure, or (b) completely oblivious to the espoused attraction. Every relationship is fundamentally a power struggle, and the individual in power is whoever likes the other person less. But When Harry Met Sally gives the powerless, unrequited lover a reason to live. When this person gets drunk and tells his friends that he's in love with a woman who only sees him as a buddy, they will say, "You're wrong. You're perfect for each other. This is just like When Harry Met Sally! I'm sure she loves you -- she just doesn't realize it yet." Nora Ephron accidentally ruined a lot of lives.

I remember taking a course in college called "Communication and Society," and my professor was obsessed by the belief that fairy tales like "Hansel and Gretel" and "Little Red Riding Hood" were evil. She said they were part of a latent social code that hoped to suppress women and minorities. At the time, I was mildly outraged that my tuition money was supporting this kind of crap; years later, I have come to recall those pseudo-savvy lectures as what I loved about college. But I still think they were probably wasteful, and here's why: Even if those theories are true, they're barely significant. "The Three Little Pigs" is not the story that is fucking people up. Stories like Say Anything are fucking people up. We don't need to worry about people unconsciously "absorbing" archaic secret messages when they're six years old; we need to worry about all the entertaining messages people are consciously accepting when they're twenty-six. They're the ones that get us, because they're the ones we try to turn into life. I mean, Christ: I wish I could believe that bozo in Coldplay when he tells me that stars are yellow. I miss that girl. I wish I was Lloyd Dobler. I don't want anybody to step on a piece of broken glass. I want fake love. But that's all I want, and that's why I can't have it.

Copyright © 2003 by Chuck Klosterman

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Table of Contents


Contents

1 This Is Emo

(carnivore interlude)

2 Billy Sim

(reality interlude)

3 What Happens When People Stop Being Polite

(Pat Benatar interlude)

4 Every Dog Must Have His Every Day, Every Drunk Must Have His Drink

(Monkees = Monkees interlude)

5 Appetite for Replication

(an interlude to be named later)

6 Ten Seconds to Love

(metaphorical fruit interlude)

7 George Will vs. Nick Hornby

(Ralph Nader interlude)

8 33

(Fonzie recalibration interlude)

9 Porn

("kitty cat as terrorist" interlude)

10 The Lady or the Tiger

(hypothetical interlude)

11 Being Zack Morris

(50-50 interlude)

12 Sulking with Lisa Loeb on the Ice Planet Hoth

(anti-homeless interlude)

13 The Awe-Inspiring Beauty of Tom Cruise's Shattered, Troll-like Face

(punk interlude)

14 Toby over Moby

(Johnny Cash interlude)

15 This Is Zodiac Speaking

(Timothy McVeigh interlude)

16 All I Know Is What I Read in the Papers

(boom!)

17 I, Rock Chump

(waiting to die interlude)

18 How to Disappear Completely and Never Be Found

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Customer Reviews

Average Rating 4
( 227 )
Rating Distribution

5 Star

(108)

4 Star

(68)

3 Star

(29)

2 Star

(11)

1 Star

(11)

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See All Sort by: Showing 1 – 20 of 229 Customer Reviews
  • Anonymous

    Posted March 2, 2012

    Meh.

    I thought this book would make me think differently about things and maybe laugh at pop culture, but it is just the ramblings of a man who was bullied in school. A former outcast made famous by being an annoying a**hole. I couldn't make myself finish it.

    Only read this if you have nothing better to do.

    3 out of 5 people found this review helpful.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Posted October 27, 2009

    more from this reviewer

    Sex, Drugs, Coco Puffs and Almost everything Else

    Have you ever eaten Coco Puffs? I bet you didn't realize the sugary cereal you were ingesting was original conceived by the ideal to help prevent ailments or that there commercial maybe unintentionally teaching you how to be cool. If you did realize it is likely you are either: A. Chuck Klosterman B. Simultaneously a sociologist focusing on media and a breakfast historian or C. person that has already read the book Sex, Drugs and Coco Puffs.

    Chuck Klosterman Is a writer for Spin and Esquire magazine. He is most prominently known for his work about classic rock bands but also has an almost infinite amount of cultural knowledge that makes SD&CP a very enjoyable collection of essays. Because of the fact that it is essays and not s story SD&CP should be a very easy book to pick up and put down, but I actually found it was not. His insights make him seem genius and the different perspectives he offers are as addictive as Cinnamon Toast Crutch.

    Despite my plethora of cereal related references SD&CP is about far more then breakfast with themes that cover everything including The Real World, The Sims, Say Anything, and Vanilla Sky and few others that it is unlikely you could think of in your wildest dreams.

    Usually The stories lack focus on the thing itself and look at a broader theme represented by the item, and while these are all only Mr. Klosterman's opinions even if you disagree they are very entertaining. The most common criticism of his work is his writing style that at sometimes seems intentionally overly wordy. I had no problem with it at, but I could defiantly see the potential for it to become annoying.

    On the whole I found the book to be a very entertain and thought provoking, but would not recommended it to someone who wants a story but rather for someone who is interested in both reading random facts and learning to think differently.

    3 out of 3 people found this review helpful.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted February 14, 2012

    Bored

    I just read the chapter all about that horrible show, the real world. Agonizing. I was hoping it would get better, but i was wrong. This guy just rambles on about crap. I will finish this book, but only because i paid for it. I would not recommend this to anyone.

    2 out of 3 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted January 27, 2012

    Terrible

    Felt like a homework assignment to read this book. Non-stop pointless dribble. Some funny comments, but not enough to compensate for the rest. Waste of time and money.

    2 out of 3 people found this review helpful.

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  • Posted November 11, 2009

    Klosterman ROCKS!

    So far this has been my favorite of all Klosterman's books. His views on life are comically wonderful. The only time I'm remotely bored by his stories are the in depth sports analysis. The short fillers between stories are hysterical. I'm giving this as a gift this Christmas to introduce his writing to a friend.

    2 out of 2 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted May 30, 2009

    I Also Recommend:

    Funny and Enlightening

    This book is a collection of short essays in which Klosterman amalyzes how sports, tv, music, and food influence the way we think and act . At the same time, he incorporates humor and makes you think.

    2 out of 2 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted July 15, 2012

    not worth time

    I had to stop reading this about 1/3 of the way through. The author comes across as very self-centered and obnoxious. A friend of mine recommended it because it was "hysterical and made you think". It made me think "how long until this is over". I had to call it quits and give up.

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Posted August 31, 2011

    Excellent!!

    No text was provided for this review.

  • Posted May 15, 2011

    STUPID IDIOTIC AND BORING

    Really just a collection of rambling thoughts. If you like to read an entire chapter of the Real World being disected...well spend your money. I DO recommend it if you cant sleep..This should have you snoring in 10 minutes

    1 out of 3 people found this review helpful.

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  • Posted August 24, 2010

    more from this reviewer

    I Also Recommend:

    Thought provoking

    I like Chuck Klosterman's writing. He takes pop culture and writes about it in such a way that it really makes you think and starts conversations with others. Often, I end up reading passages from the book to my family members and we have a discussion about the topics. I recommend this book for anyone that has an interest in pop culture and music.

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Posted July 31, 2010

    more from this reviewer

    I Also Recommend:

    Terrific writing, awesome pop-culture observations

    There are two reasons to read this book and two reasons to not read this book. Firstly, the style of writing. The writing is wonderful. I enjoy the style. You really get the feeling that a highly intelligent Gen X journalist is sitting there in your living room in his jeans ant T-shirt and telling you his observations. If that style drives you crazy (in a bad way), you will know it from the sample and can save your money. If that styles drives you crazy (in a good way), you will know it from the sample and safely give B&N your money. Secondly, the wise observations of our modern world. His observations of the absurdity and ridiculousness of current culture is astute. Yes, he over-analyzes, but he does so in an entertaining way. If you think modern mainstream media and culture is awesome, then avoid this like a zombie plague. If you think modern mainstream media and culture are absurd, then this will be a very entertaining and enlightening read.

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Posted February 20, 2010

    Good Read

    Sex, Drugs, and Coco Puffs: A Low Culture Manifesto written by one of the more astute minds in pop culture Chuck Klosterman, now I won't bore you with my favorite quotes from the book, or a long winded description of who Chuck Klosterman is as a person, an author, or what his career has looked like. Rather I will point out the fact that I tremendously respect and almost envy (if that's an appropriate use of the word) his writing style. Klosterman has an uncanny ability to take seemingly obscure pop culture information, or phenomena and turn them into very thought provoking essays. Whether it was the discussion of how Pam Anderson is not our generation's Marilyn Monroe, Or how Saved by the Bell shaped and help to define popular culture for the generation that grew up watching it in syndication, or even how the MTV hit show The Real World destroyed the social norms of functioning relationships among twenty and thrity-somethings, Klosterman no doubt is far more brilliant in the way he writes about culture and art and tells stories.

    Now, don't get me wrong, this isn't the BEST book ever written, that is obviously reserved for Perks of Being a Wallflower, that is not true, it's a lie. However, it does take a non traditional approach to looking at culture as a functioning system. How the stuff we consume as a culture regurgitates itself into shaping culture. This is akin to the idea of how a girl can read a magazine with an article about a supermodel (consumption) and then all of the sudden think she is fat, and worthless as a result (regurgitation).

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Posted February 12, 2009

    Not that interesting

    This is one of the few books that I've thrown out. I thought it was dull and plodding, and I regretted ever buying it.

    1 out of 3 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted August 28, 2013

    Queenpaw to the kit

    Puts marigold on the wounds then a juniper berry to eat to stop the pain.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted August 28, 2013

    Winterclans medcat den

    0 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted May 8, 2013

    I Also Recommend:

    Excellent book.

    Excellent book.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted March 15, 2013

    I Also Recommend:

    My feelings towards this book are VERY ambivalent. A high and lo

    My feelings towards this book are VERY ambivalent. A high and low rollercoaster ride is my analogy.

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  • Posted December 14, 2012

    Funny, talented and oh so relevant to those of us who like to th

    Funny, talented and oh so relevant to those of us who like to think things out from a comical perspective with satire. Chuck does that for us and it's fun to read and you'll think all kinds of thoughts because of his insight.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted December 27, 2011

    Goof for some laughs and so easy to relate to

    I've read this book multiple times and sometimes just reread my favorite parts.

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  • Posted April 25, 2011

    pure genius

    probably one of the best book i've read which attempts to explain every aspect of human existence

    0 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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