legacy
Thanks to an episode of Peter Kafka's Recode Media, I've just now discovered that former New York Times Magazine Ethicist, author of Sex, Drugs, and Cocoa Puffs, and longtime men's interest media-affiliated sports and music columnist Chuck Klosterman pronounces his surname kloa-ster-men instead of _klaw-ster-men _as I have been recently in the presence of others, for which I am willing to submit myself for punishment under the single condition that I be allowed to call him Cuck Klusterfuck the next time he ends a spoken sentence with "or whatever" in an interview - a terrible habit he's maintained for years. If my own byline had any pedigree in the world of literary criticism, I would punish him now by including those hateful, 90s stoner-kid buzzwords in every quote, but it most certainly does not. I've searched moderately hard for any reason to bother with any criticism of books or their authors and returned with very little. I've read The Broom of the System and _White Girls _this year, yes, but I'd have to be a Fuck Boy to write anything about David Foster Wallace, and the subject matter and voice of Hilton Als in his beautiful creation is so far beyond both my societal rights and perceptive ability that I wouldn't utter a peep about it - aside from a log line-length recommendation - even under immediate threat of certain death.
According to my recent relocation to Portland, Oregon and the word-y pursuits on which I choose to spend all of my money and energy, I should adore everything about Chuck Klosterman, which is precisely why he should be irrelevant to any under-30 demographic, yet in my recent discovery of his work thus far, I've found a most unexpected caliber of originality that warrants another look.
When she was thirteen, a good friend of mine purchased a box of bulk bargain books from a library for a few bucks containing his first novel, Downtown Owl, which would eventually make her a fan.