Chuck Klosterman, "IV- A Decade of Curious People and Dangerous Ideas" (2006)

You have to be either extremely pretentious or tragically hip to bill your own book as containing "dangerous ideas" in the contemporary media environment. Chuck Klosterman certainly fits into the latter category. Throw him in the bundle of latter day pop culture critics that insist on injecting a self-conscious and irreverent post-modernism into their work. I'm under the impression that IV has been named to reference the number of books that the author has been successful in publishing previously. It's also apparently a shout-out to what Klosterman considers the genesis of the heavy metal rock genre- the Led Zeppelin album of the same name. That's a heady presumption for someone analyzing the state of modern music.

It's easy to make fun of a guy like Klosterman, who commits his rather formidable wit and imagination to topics as inane as Brittany Spears, classic rock tribute bands, and the movie Road House. In fact, a quick Google search will provide plenty of exposure to the vast pool of negative reaction to Klosterman's antics. But all of this should be taken in context. The periodicals that the Minnesota-native has written for have been an odd mix of mass market pap and respected establishment vehicles (GQ, Esquire, The Washington Post, Spin, The Believer, etc.). Sure, his attitude is decidedly populist, but that kind of approach is increasingly in vogue in this post-ironic environment.

That's not to say that Chuck Klosterman is without a certain degree of cynicism. He is perfectly capable of identifying the worst instincts of the American collective consciousness. Still he seems to be beholden to a Midwestern respect for the everyman. In one essay, he absolutely rejects the notion of a lightly-held "guilty pleasure". He points out that one may actually derive enjoyment from something morally unsound, but that's not what people mean by the term. Klosterman is stridently defensive about his tastes. He insists that his love for Billy Joel, KISS, and other bad hair metal bands is sincere. The last thing he would feel compelled to do is apologize for his preferences.

What you have to understand about this collection of essays is that Klosterman takes his subjects seriously, regardless of whether he is analyzing the contributions of a white basketball player, the significance of Johnny Carson, the lyrics of a British hip-hop artist, or a rock-and-roll cruise featuring the likes of REO Speedwagon, STYX, and Journey. If mass consumption disturbs you, it is likely that the themes throughout IV might leave you a bit cold. This is a guy who suggests that one of society's greatest needs is more substantial video game criticism, and he is convinced that anyone that fills that niche will be wealthy. But he'll also let you know that he doesn't necessarily have time for that.

It would be foolish to say that Klosterman's writing is devoid of compelling insight. Oftentimes he is provocative and original in his ideas. There may be a high level of superficiality, yet the spectrum of social commentary includes a wavelength for which he is ideally suited. And he is clever. One of the features of IV that I found interesting was the inclusion of inquiry-based introductions for each piece. In order to draw the reader into what may be a litany of observations about minutiae, Klosterman posits some "very big questions". An example: Would you rather be anonymous, or remembered for something completely peripheral to how you lived your life? It seems to me that Chuck Klosterman is hedging his bets.

Mark Jacobson, "American Gangster" (2007).

I'll admit being a recent convert to the idea that one can be a bit more self-indulgent in one's reading habits during the summer months. The truth is that over the last several years I have tended to devour a lot fewer books during July and August. There's just too much to do, and I generally lack the patience to sit in the heat for long periods. Movies tend to suit my mood a lot more during the "dog days". But this year has been different. I've definitely slowed down, but I am maintaining reasonable progress toward my annual goal. Part of this transformation is due to my selection criteria. I have embraced a form of "light reading". There will be no post-modern epics until it gets colder outside. I won't strain myself with footnotes.

I feel that I've earned some latitude. I don't necessarily need to challenge myself. Yet I'm not tempted to pick up the stereotypical "beach reads" that many folks drool over. There will be no Wally Lamb or Dean Koontz for me. Instead I have chosen to read salacious true crime stories and gossipy essays by contemporary authors. Mark Jacobson's American Gangster certainly fits the bill. C'mon really... Ridley Scott made a film adaptation from one small part of this book. It's a collection of pieces that Jacobson wrote for a such venerable publications as New York magazine and The Village Voice. In totality they express the author's love affair with much of the seamier side of Gotham. In that way, Jacobson is a bit like a pulpy Luc Sante.

The title work is based upon Jacobson's interactions with Frank Lucas, who is perhaps the gamiest thug ever to haunt the pimpin' streets of 70's-era Harlem. This is a guy that actually smuggled kilos of pure heroin in secret compartments of the coffins transporting dead American soldiers home from Vietnam. While now an old man and languishing in the bosom of the Witness Protection Program, Lucas is still a menacing character according to Jacobson's accounts. In fact, the elderly gangster actually threatened to disenfranchise the writer that helped bring his story to Hollywood's attention. Still, in Lucas' own words- "People like the fuck out of me"- and Jacobson appears to be no exception.

It's fairly evident that Jacobson finds a place in his heart for all of his subjects, no matter how coarse or brutal. Peep his account of the rise and fall of Jason Itzler, one-time owner of NY Confidential- a fine purveyor of high-priced "escorts". This Jewish kid sprung from money, and clawed his way into the sex-for-hire-marketplace, eventually becoming a multimillionaire owner of a chic Manhattan penthouse/harem, before landing with a prominent thud in Riker's Island. Many journalists would feel obligated to write him off as an exploitive brat, yet Jacobson allows him to tell his own story. In this day and age, the lack of moralizing is not only notable, but nearly non-existent. Imagine a writer allowing his readership to form their own conclusions.

Perhaps it's because Jacobson is so familiar with his chosen milieu that he can get away with his overt stance of moral relativism. After all, there are enough armchair quarterbacks to pass holy judgment. The essays in American Gangster are concerned with providing vistas into airtight rooms and closed societies. How else is he going to get these ne'er-do-wells to reveal themselves without maintaining a value-neutral approach? I don't want my summer reading seasoned with salt-and-pepper ethical pronouncements, whether the subjects are heroes like Wynton Marsalis or comedy kingpin George Schultz... or shady characters like Chinatown gang-leader Nicky Louie. After all, I'm after escapism.

Luc Sante, "Kill All Your Darlings" (2007).

I first became aware of writer Luc Sante when I stumbled on a used copy of Low Life: Lures and Snares of Old New York (1991). His grasp of late-1800-era Manhattan led me to believe he was a perpetual scholar of that time and location. Low Life is chock-a-bloc full of stories of political corruption, gambling, boozing, and the entire milieu of a now vanished sporting life. As a relatively uncommitted student of 19th Century American history, I found it refreshing to find an unsanitized version or urban existence in our nation's most important cultural center. I resolved to track down some of Sante's other works on the subject. I was surprised to discover that there was nothing else along these lines by the author.

Anyway, when I saw an opportunity to pick up another one of his titles cheap, I did so without even paging through it. Such an impulse buy is not my normal modus operandi, but in the case of Sante I felt it was justified. Fortunately I wasn't at all disappointed. Kill All Your Darlings: Pieces 1990-2005 is a collection of essays Sante wrote for such notable publications as The New York Review of Books, The New York Times, and The Nation. His erudition has been praised by such writers as Greil Marcus (who wrote the introduction) and William Gibson. He has been awarded the prestigious Whiting Writer's Award (1989), a Guggenheim Fellowship (1992-23), and a Grammy for album notes for a re-issue of a folk music anthology.

Simply put, Luc Sante comes across as absolutely brilliant. I was continually astonished to find his immense expertise in a wide variety of subjects. I kept wondering how a fifty-something, Belgian-born college professor could possibly have his range of knowledge. Whether writing about riots at Tompkins Square Park, or famous contemporary criminals like John Gotti and Rudy Giuliani, his NYC bonafides are clearly evident. But get him on the subject of smoking cigarettes, or worldwide New Year traditions, and his eloquence turns into poetry. Paging through Kill All Your Darlings is a satisfying adventure. His engagement with his subjects is absolute.

While there is very little possibility that any single reader will be interested in each and every one of his topics, it's easy to appreciate his rigorous approach to background research. If you let yourself go, you could end up taking numerous digressions of independent study inspired by each and every piece. When he gets on the subject of Bob Dylan's career, or the history of the American Blues, you may find yourself overwhelmed by the details. But still you won't be able to stop yourself from marveling at his cultural lexicon. And while you might be tempted to skip ahead to an essay about something you are already drawn to, you'll likely find yourself scouring every paragraph for the next vital anecdote he intersperses quite liberally.

For where else are you going to hear the story of how an obscure juke-joint musician named Buddy Bolden made an inspired exclamation that led to the musical definition of the term "funk"? In what other book can you turn the page from a humorous critical analysis of the transgressive art of Robert Mapplethorpe, only to find an in-depth analysis of Walker Evan's photographic work for the Farm Security Administration of the Depression-era 30's? What other author is going to outline his personal histories with such figures as Arthur Rimbaud, Allan Ginsberg and Tintin? Sante has packed an education into this 299-page volume, and delivered it with an elegant precision of prose.

Steve Almond, "(Not that You Asked)", (2007).

For some reason, we are seeing a rash of authors that blur the line between gossip, memoir, and essay during this first decade of the Twentiy-First Century. I suppose it has something to do with the success of David Sedaris. His funny autobiographical/exaggerated tales captivated a new generation of readers, and I suppose we shouldn't complain about that. After all, not many people are reading novels anymore. Still there is something slight about this new wave of young authors. They seem particularly beholden to a transient wave of postmodern irony. I wonder how many folks really expect that these books will still be read fifty years from now. I don't see a lot of candidates for core American Lit curricula.

A few of these writers are consistently entertaining (Sedaris is a blatant example). Others are uneven and cloying. Steve Almond is an illustrative case. The young secular Jew from California claims to write both fiction and non-fiction. But he is best known for Candyfreak : A Journey through the Chocolate Underbelly of America. It documented his quest for candy bars made by small companies. While dealing with a rather insignificant topic, it drew some critical attention and popular success. Candyfreak allowed the author to garner attention from the mainstream media, and resulted in invitations to appear on television. Almond has actually written about his participation in a proposed segment of a VH1 reality show that never aired.

There's a certain narcissism involved in deconstructing one's own relationship with fame. But it's an honest approach given the nature of our society. Our worship of celebrity seems to have no bounds. We've even expanded our definition of the concept to include anyone willing to present a fabricated version of themselves for the edification of the dull masses. This is the new lens through which we view ourselves, and now it's being applied in literary form. You can't really blame Almond for capitalizing on an obvious trend. However you can implicate him for a certain level of bitchiness and a penchant for offering superficial insights on a series of clichéd themes. He seems to actually invite the criticism.

(Not that You Asked) , Almond's 2007 collection of essays, was originally supposed to be entirely focused on the author's admiration for Kurt Vonegut. That's the proposal his publishers bought. We can only speculate on why they decided that they wanted a series of rants instead. Perhaps that's just what the market demands. But I'm hard-pressed to understand why any editor would allow the inclusion of a 12-page, hate-filled screed, directed against the lit blogger Mark Sarvas, and accompanied by a simpleminded dismissal of blogging in general. The only theory I have is that Random House is planning a major release of a Sarvas title in the near future. Regardless, Almond's obsession with his own personal cyber-critic comes off as especially whiny. It also reveals a strange sexual subtext that manages to be troublesome and creepy.

Yet despite the weak points of (Not that You Asked), I feel obligated to present at least a modicum of balance in opinion. I will admit to sharing Almond's basic political perspective. I too find the Bush Administration abhorrent, and Dick Cheney especially scary. I share his enmity for right-wing hacks like Condoleeza Rice, Sean Hannity, and Ann Coulter. I can also relate to his experiences with his new child. I've felt just as helpless in the face of fatherhood as he describes himself. Perhaps the emotional depth and maturity that customarily attends child-rearing will have a beneficial effect on Almond's writing. Maybe (as he suggests) he'll find a character to love as much as he loves himself.

Chris Ballard, "The Butterfly Hunter" (2006).

When did you first decide what you wanted to be when you grew up? I remember considering a few things, based upon what I thought I was good at and how interesting different jobs seemed. Even so I did very little in preparation to act on those vague ideas. I knew I was going to college, and I figured the matter would be resolved during the four years of undergraduate school. That wasn't how it worked out. Half way through my junior year, I still didn't know what I wanted to major in. So I got out a sheet of lined paper and added up all of the credits I had in each content area. The winner was 'psychology', so I declared that my field of study. I graduated on time, but had no clue what the next step was. I ended up going for a master's degree in Psychology in Education.

With the tightening of the US labor markets, it's becoming increasingly imperative to consider this career question at a very early age. The competition for quality jobs is intensifying. You need to figure out what direction you are going in, and then figure out the prerequisites and requirements. The stakes are high, so you'd better seize your first chance, as it could end up being your only one. I've often envied people that know what they will be doing from childhood. Apparently some people are "called". Others have to strike out blindly for years before they see the signs. A good number of folks end up merely working whatever jobs allow them to attain their chosen lifestyles. How many people truly enjoy their work?

Chris Ballard knows that's an extremely hard question to answer. Instead of trying to quantify worker satisfaction, this frequent contributor to Sports Illustrated decided to identify and interview a few of these select individuals. A couple of them said they received their "calling" at an early age, while others seemed to stumble into it through something akin to divine intervention. The common thread running through their lives was the fact that they would be doing what they are doing even if they weren't getting paid for it. That's how much they love their work. And their stories are collected in Ballard's The Butterfly Hunter. They are an eccentric bunch of characters engaged in odd pursuits.

While these men and women are not really famous, you have no doubt heard one of them (and no, that's not a typo). Don LaFontaine has been called "the voice of God". If you have seen a movie in the theater during the last few decades, chances are great that you've listened to his narration during a promo trailer. He's the guy that came up with the now ubiquitous "In a world where (so-and-so happens)" introduction. And he's a very wealthy man. Still it's obvious that he has put a lot of energy into his work. The same goes for the guy who makes eyeball prosthetics, the lumberjill who competes on ESPN, the mother and daughter team that analyze handwriting, a pair of nature-lovers that collect mushrooms and butterflies, and the rest of Ballard's subjects.

The problem is that there really isn't a whole lot else that these people share, besides toiling in weird niches that intrigued the author. Ballard may attempt to draw some overarching, generalized conclusions by comparison, but he isn't altogether convincing. Each of these stories is so idiosyncratic that it seems silly to try to manufacture arbitrary trends. Yet even if Ballard fails to draw a greater whole, the parts are themselves often entertaining. He is able to put these strangers at their ease, and he collects a few damn fine anecdotes in the process. Whenever he manages to avoid becoming bored, Ballard's curiosity is able to elicit interesting insights. Read The Butterfly Hunter as a collection of separate essays depicting a few peculiar obsessives, and you'll enjoy yourself.

George Saunders, "The Braindead Megaphone", (2007).

A few years ago I decided to delve into the world of the American contemporary short story. I had been mostly reading "the classics", and had started wondering what living writers were making of the time I was living through. I found the field was exceptionally strong. Writers like Chris Offutt and Dan Chaon became early favorites. But perhaps the most stunningly original author of the bunch was George Saunders. I quickly made my way through the two volumes of tales he had published- CivilWarLand in Bad Decline (1996) and Pastoralia (2000). His work was characterized by magical realism, dystopianism, and the critique of corporate culture- all themes that particularly appealed to me.

In one story in Pastoralia, Saunders describes a modern-day theme park that has living vignettes of humans, a la Williamsburg, VA. Reading about how two 'cave people' interact in front of the tourists in this park was funny in a sort of surreal and sad way. Saunders vision of America is certainly colored with cynicism, but he manages to be quite humorous about it regardless. As some critics point out, there is a touch of the modern Kurt Vonegut in his approach. He can be scabrous and pessimistic, but it is quite clear how much Saunders values his characters, no matter how reprehensibly they sometimes act. In a tale called Sea Oak, we meet a protagonist with an unemployed pair of sisters, and an aunt that is rapidly decomposing- yet still manages to retain her acid tongue.

Saunders (who was born in 1958 in Texas, and grew up in Chicago) has an odd background for an author. He received a geophysical engineering degree from Colorado, and has worked on an oil exploration crew, and as a technical writer in his field of study. When he was a young man in the 1980's, he embraced Ayn Rand's Objectivism- but later had a change of heart and decided that her views were "repulsive", and formed the basis for neoconservatism. That accounts in part for his penchant for pointing out the most cockeyed aspects of corporate culture. He targets that world with such relish that he has been celebrated by many of the most intelligent malcontents within our society. For the last several years he has written essays for The Guardian, The New Yorker, Harper's and GQ. In 2006 he received a "Genius Grant" (MacCarthur Fellowship).

One look through his only nonfiction collection (The Braindead Megaphone) demonstrates why he has earned such accolades. With very few exceptions his aim is unerring. The title piece explains (in his inimitable way) the role of the media in our current national crisis. His vast skills as a commentator are underscored by his refusal to dehumanize his subjects. He is never shy about confronting his own presumptions of others. Descriptions of trips to Dubai (in the United Arab Emirates) and to the US-Mexican border demonstrate the amount of equanimity he is willing to show to the traditional whipping boys of Northeastern "liberal society". Invariably he finds a core of decency in those easiest to disdain.

There's something to be said for an essayist who reserves his judgments while interacting with primary sources. While he's not at all afraid to expose the hidden agendas and selfish motivations of some, he's also not going to let preconceptions dictate his story- otherwise why bother making the trip? It's clear that he is a skeptic, and finds much of human behavior completely absurd. Yet he realizes what is at stake. At one point he makes an internal resolution to remain as open to new experiences and information as he can. In his opinion, the opposite tact is a direct route to the death of both the intellect and the spirit. It's extraordinary how Saunders can be simultaneously discerning in his evaluation of human foibles and yet so life-affirming. This feat makes Saunders unique in the American literary landscape.