The problem with a great writer is that unless they are writing about something interesting and engaging, all their skill is going to waste. It is always risky when someone tries to idealize pop culture, declaring top-40 radio to be the work of geniuses, and that kitschy shows like Saved By The Bell accurately represent society’s ills. It is a risk Chuck Klosterman will hopefully steer clear of after his vapid, sardonic, albeit mildly entertaining book of essays, Sex, Drugs, and Cocoa Puffs, because his skill as a writer is immense, and it is painful to see it go to waste on such mundane topics as a Guns N’ Roses cover band from South Carolina.
About half way through Sex, Drugs, and Cocoa Puffs, Klosterman finally appears to do something right- he takes his immense skill and intelligence and addresses the relevant and difficult topic of racism. In a chapter entitled “8 33” (the odd name is never explained) Klosterman explains his fear of watching Spike Lee movies. What scares him most about Lee’s films is the dreaded basketball conversation; “A black guy and a white guy are going to get into an argument over basketball, and the debate will focus on the fact that the black guy loves the Lakers and the white guy loves the Celtics.” He goes on to explain that this trivial difference actually represents the hidden problem of white people rooting for a team with white stars (the Celtics), and blacks doing likewise. After this probing introduction, he takes the chapter in a different direction- he talks about basketball. All talk of racism ceases until he attempts unsuccessfully to draw all of the basketball strategy he’s been discussing for the previous 8 pages back to racial divisions in the essay’s conclusion. And here is my problem with the book, and maybe with Klosterman in general; the book is the equivalent of having a conversation with Ghandi, but instead of having him speak about his own life, his philosophy, or other relevant issues, all he wants to talk about is socks- knee socks, argyle socks, and running socks. It might be interesting to hear, but you know he can do better.
Sex, Drugs, and Cocoa Puffs starts out with its best essay, the one that led me to buy a copy of the book. “This is Emo” opens the book talking about the connection between, as Klosterman describes, hammy and derivative bands like Coldplay and Travis, Lloyd Dobbler, the protagonist of the romantic comedy Say Anything, and the authors own sexual frustrations. Klosterman’s problem is that he feels unable to compete with the perfect guys like Dobbler or Coldplay singer Chris Martin, because they manage to strike the perfect balance between sensitive, non-aggressive, self-effacing nice guys and mysterious, risk-taking tough guys. Because of this, while a girl he was interested in croons along with Martin at a concert in Seattle, he sits at a boring party in New York which he only attended to “per chance” bump into her. The story is engaging, funny and, for someone who likes Coldplay but sees a degree of falsity in their sincerity, compelling. Even more interesting than this first story is the table of contents page, which is set up like a mixtape with each essay being a new song, in which Klosterman professes his love for both Neko Case and Neil Young. The page-long interludes between the different essays also offer cheap, quick laughs. One other mordantly funny essay comes early, as Klosterman reflects on the real-life implications of the computer game, The Sims.
Unfortunately, unlike Dave Sedaris whose essays are always highly personal and sometimes sacrifice humor for reality, or Al Franken, whose books of essays are consistently political and only rarely delve into his own life, Klosterman’s topic of choice is obscure pop culture. With the exception of this first chapter, very little of the book deals with Klosterman’s own life or his views on any substantial topic. Instead he focuses on his love/hate relationship with Saved By The Bell, the American obsession with Pamela Anderson Lee, and Tom Cruises performance in Vanilla Sky. And frankly, although the book is well written and occasionally very funny, the topics are overall vapid, obscure, or ultra-critical. It is understandable that a self proclaimed member of Generation X hates a lot of things, but it would certainly be a more engaging read had he chose to focus on any things he liked. There is one more essay, “I, Rock Chump” that has a large appeal to this reviewer, because it delves into the mentality of music critics (Klosterman is a senior writer at Spin Magazine), and the overall nerdiness of the profession. Anyone who is not interested in the specific field would probably find the writing too foreign to take any pleasure in it.
If you’ve got a free afternoon and want to relive some pop culture nostalgia, such as mid 90s singer-songwriter Lisa Loeb, or country musician/bigot Toby Keith, both of whom get their own chapters in the book, then Sex, Drugs and Cocoa Puffs will surely entertain and engage. Klosterman bills the book as “a low culture manifesto,” and he’s got half of that right; it surely is low-cultured. However, after reading the whole book, one wished Klosterman would take his considerable skill and wit and take on a topic of relevance. Tell us about yourself, Chuck; that’s something I’d pay to read.
Sex, Drugs, and Cocoa Puffs: A Low Culture Manifesto
by Chuck Klosterman
Simon & Schuster
Book Review: Crossfire – A Litany For Survival
Unflinching and authentic, Chin’s work shakes, confronts, and envelops you
LGBTQ poet and spoken-word artist Staceyann Chin is a powerhouse of an artist. (Exhibits A, B, and C: Her mesmerizing Def Poetry Jam performance of If Only Out of Vanity.” Her essay “Paradise of Lies,” published in the New York Times. And her hit play “MotherStruck,” set to soon work its way through the festival circuit as a series. Need we say more?) Unflinching and authentic, Chin’s work shakes, confronts, and envelops you. She is a rare talent that can captivate you in an instant — both by the political gravity of the subjects she so fearlessly and intelligently dissects and her sharp, mesmerizing, and sometimes hysterical turns of phrase. Her “snap-elastic words” can leave anyone who’s ever written for a living marveling (and wishing they had come up with them first).
This same fire is seen throughout Crossfire: A Litany for Survival, Chin’s first full-length collection of poems. Weaving adeptly between verses about the intersection of love, sex, race, gender, feminism, trauma, sexuality, queerness, motherhood, oppression, and so much more, Crossfire is a foot-on-the-gas-pedal kind of eye-opening, from start to finish.
In “Tsunami Rising,” she writes of the “weeping white women” who stood behind Tarana Burke’s #MeToo movement only once a rich white actress co-opted it — a heartbreaking address dripping with explanation and patience we don’t deserve, and a tired, frustrated anger that we do.
“We are unable to process our pain with you,” she writes, “Because we are exhausted from centuries/of holding you and your children.”
In “Zuri-Siale Samanaya” — named for her daughter, with whom she often records “Living Room Protests” — Chin reflects beautifully on raising a child who is both following in her activist footsteps but coming into her own as an individual:
I can hardly wait
to hear your voice
I expect us to rumble
to create generational bruises that will have to be survived
In “Raise the Roof,” Chin’s worries that this power will not be enough to carry her daughter safely through a world intent on silencing the voices of Black women are heartbreaking.
Every day I have to drown my fears
for my child/born Black and a girl in a country
in which her safety does not matter
to anyone with power
Among the book’s other standout gems are a reflection on 9/11 titled “September in New York” and a hilarious and incisive retort to the misogynist who harassed her on Twitter (aptly titled “Tweet This Motherfucker”). But really, there is no plateau in Chin’s collection of poems. Each page of Crossfire: A Litany For Survival is fire, soul, and just damn good writing.
When artists like Chin bare their souls to put the revolution to paper, it’s up to us to truly listen.
by Staceyann Chin
Crossfire: A Litany For Survival will be published as a paperback original on October 1, 2019 by Haymarket Books.
Book Review: The Disaster Artist – My Life Inside the Room, the Greatest Bad Movie Ever Made
I cannot recommend The Disaster Artist highly enough. It might be one of the best reads I’ve had in a very long time.
In 2003, the world of filmmaking was shaken to its very foundations. Bursting onto the scene and blinding the city of Los Angeles and Hollywood like a renegade supernova, was a film that went by the insipid title of The Room.
The Disaster Artist: My Life Inside the Room, the Greatest Bad Movie Ever Made is a book all about the making of that film. For those who haven’t seen The Room, the basic synopsis boils down to a ‘love triangle’ plot, between a banker, Johnny, his fiancée, Lisa, and the best friend, Mark. There’s romance, betrayal, drama and finally tragedy. Seems simple enough, right? Wrong.
The final instalment of The Lord of the Rings trilogy might’ve won all eleven Academy Awards that year, but it was The Room that still managed to be the talk of the town (and eventually, the world) amongst many filmgoers.
Don’t be mistaken, The Room wasn’t a sleeper hit or master class in filmmaking. In fact, it was the complete opposite. A train wreck so disastrous that it’s still being watched, studied and talked about, to this day. “So bad it’s good” and “The Citizen Kane of bad films” are quotes often thrown around whenever The Room is muttered.
What makes The Room so bad? Well, to put it bluntly, everything. From the acting to the directing, to the sets and continuity, is a consistency of abysmal filmmaking. Yet despite its terribleness, there remains a kind of loveable charm. Most of this charm seems to stem from the man who helmed the project, the weirdly fascinating and enigmatic, Tommy Wiseau. Wiseau was responsible for acting as the lead character, Johnny, writing, directing and producing The Room (Orson Welles, eat your heart out).
Greg Sestero and Tom Bissell’s book, The Disaster Artist, doesn’t start at the premier of The Room in Los Angeles, 2003. It starts instead a year earlier, with a lunch between Greg and Tommy, a lunch so bizarre and off-the-wall, that it almost reads like sketch comedy. It’s a day before official production is about to begin on The Room, and Tommy with genius-gusto, decides to offer Greg one of the lead roles in his film, as Mark, Johnny’s (Tommy’s character and fictionalized version of himself) best friend. A plan so flawless, until Greg reminds Tommy that the role is already cast.
In the next chapter, we are taken back to 1998 in San Francisco with Jean Shelton and her acting class, where Greg relates his early origins into acting and his dreams of “making it”. It’s here that he meets the one-and-only, Tommy Wiseau, for the very first time. They’d later on become acquainted with one-another, after Tommy steals the show by giving one of the most ludicrous renditions of the famous ‘Stella’ scene from A Streetcar Named Desire ever witnessed.
“Most bad performances are met with silence. This was something else. There were murmurs. There were giggles. Everyone in that basement studio knew they had just witnessed one of the most beautifully, chaotically wrong performances they would ever see.”
– The Disaster Artist
What follows throughout the book is parallel storytelling, or intersecting storylines. One side focusing on the making of The Room, and the haphazard tyrannical way in which Tommy went about acting, directing and interacting with the cast and crew. The other, on the growing friendship and relationship between a young, Greg Sestero and not-so-young, Tommy Wiseau, both bonding on their dream and love for acting (and in particular, James Dean). Each storyline is as equally entertaining, funny and at times touching as one another.
The Disaster Artist is a book that doesn’t quite feel like it’s written from someone with journalistic prose looking-in on The Room, or the life of Tommy Wiseau. Instead, it’s a book written by someone who lived and breathed these experiences and moments. The final result is a raw and believable account, with a striking amount of humility and sincerity. The praise in this regard goes solely to Greg Sestero; he is quite possibly the best—and only—person capable of telling this story. His perspective is paramount to understanding the making of The Room, and Wiseau.
In terms of the content itself, there are many reasons why fans—or even those unfamiliar with The Room—might want to pick this up. For years, people have been baffled about almost every aspect of this film and the mysterious man behind it. From, “How did Tommy manage to get $6 million to fund this film?” to something as simple as “Just where in the hell is Tommy actually from?”
You don’t have to be familiar with the film itself, or even know a great deal about the players such as Tommy Wiseau to find this book enjoyable. After all, driving the engines is a timeless story, full of great characters and great moments.
I cannot recommend this book highly enough. It might be one of the best reads I’ve had in a very long time.
The Disaster Artist
by Greg Sestero & Tom Bissell
(Simon & Schuster)