So, I finally bought Sex, Drugs, and Cocoa Puffs by Chuck Klosterman, after having picked it up, looked at its back cover, and put it back down approximately 563 times over the past three years (or roughly twice every time I've been in a Borders or Barnes & Noble over said period.) I knew I'd crack eventually.
Why? Because it's the same book I keep reading over and over. Oh, they've got different names and different authors, but they're all the same book on a Platonic level. Non-fiction, so I don't have to tax my brain too much with plot. Funny enough to keep my apparently-now-less-than-optimal attention, while clever enough that I can fool myself into thinking I'm, you know, thinking. And with enough pop culture references to feed my obsessions.
And, of course, most importantly, there's the delicious masochism involved in enjoying something that is a barely better written--or at least cleaned up and professionally edited--version of one's own blog spewing, crackpot theories and all, but which is, theoretically at least, earning the author big buckets o' money.
Okay, Mr Klosterman hasn't (so far, in this book) publicly discussed his underwear. But I think my own willingness to do so could only be a plus in today's publishing climate.
xoxo
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