Book Report by Diane Parilla

Let me start off by noting that if you are a proud believer (and happy to be so) that pop music, reality TV and Pamela Anderson is the epitome of American culture, you will be offended by what this book is about. In “Sex, Drugs, and Cocoa Puffs,” Chuck Klosterman dissects and attacks postmodern America through entertainment, politics, art and sports. His chosen theme throughout the book is the conclusion he came to one night in those final moments before sleep: In and of itself, nothing really matters. What matters is that nothing is ever in and of itself.

            I will pour you a small, but potent shot of what a few of his essays are about, just so you can get a taste. Because let’s face it, there’s an alcoholic in all of us, all it takes is the right concoction to get you hooked. And I must say, on behalf of my taste buds, Klosterman is my ice cold beer on a hot August night, and the shot of vodka that puts my insomniac brain to rest. How else do I put it? I’m an addict and Klosterman is my dealer.   
   
            At one point in the book he states that no woman will ever satisfy him. His reasoning: We all measure our relationships against the notion of fake love. Secretly, he states, every woman is in love with John Cusack. *Side note: John Cusack plays a hopeless romantic, guy all the girls want to take home to meet the parents’ character in the 80’s flick “Say Anything.”* So, because of this, he will never satisfy a woman. Thus, no woman will ever satisfy him. He continues on to say that not only are we surrounded by fake love in the movies, but music bands and artists mass produce it. I can’t help myself; let me quote him precisely because no one explains it better:

     

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  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 in the block-head vocalist, brilliantly informing us that the starts 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 fake love.  
            Okay, I’m just going to end this here because I feel my admiration for the author may just cause me to ramble and continue to quote him verbatim because I do really believe that no one can state the truth better. But don’t take my word for it. Read if you dare; even if you only have the mental capacity of a fifth grader (cause GOD knows this generation no longer believes a book can stimulate a mind anymore), he’ll keep you entertained with his every word that is drenched with satire and with his wit darker than any midnight with a new moon. Enjoy.

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