I've been in a weird mood most of the afternoon and evening, and I'm not quite sure why. Chuck Klosterman might be a part of it, though.
Whenever I read something by Klosterman — I picked up Killing Yourself to Live tonight and love it so far, after "reading" Sex, Drugs and Cocoa Puffs in audiobook form a couple of years ago — I start to think in Klostermanesque monologues. As far as I can tell, his brain works pretty much the same way mine does: fairly randomly, well-intentioned, and peppered with random references to rock music in various forms.
I bought the aforementioned book at the Indigo at Yonge and Eglinton.
That area intimidates me.
I live in the south part of the former town of Leaside, about a 35-minute walk from Yonge & Eg, but a vastly different demographic. If you live in Leaside, chances are you're either (a.) a rich retiree who bought their house in the '50s and now it's worth over a million, (b.) a yuppie in your 40s whose job pays entirely too much, and you and your wife have a baby or a dog, and probably a $90k SUV, or (c.) me. Y&E is filled with (often extremely-) good-looking people, somewhere around my age; I feel like I have to be "on" all the time there.
At the Indigo, I went up to pay for my books; I picked up a book by a former minor league baseball pitcher which is apparently very good, and Lonely Planet Ireland in anticipation of this summer's trip, in addition to the Klosterman. The woman who rang me up noticed the Ireland book remarked that a friend of hers is out on a date tonight with a "fresh off the boat" Irish guy, and then she remarked, quite out-of-the-blue, that there aren't too many good guys left in Toronto.
I didn't really know quite what to say in response; I wasn't really expecting my brief, routine financial transaction to quickly turn into a conversation about the transgressions of the gender opposite oneself's (assuming you're straight). Eventually I came up with, "Well, you people aren't exactly model citizens yourselves," which is certainly true.
Her: "Guys can be so mean, though."
Me: "Yeah, well, women are pretty mean, too. And guys let them get away with it, because they're after exactly one thing."
...which is true.
After I left the store, I wondered if I should've asked her for her number. I don't normally go for women with prominent nose rings, but... given my recent exceptionally-dry spell with the ladies (women who play games and send extremely mixed messages and know exactly who they are, missy, excepted), what did I have to lose? I didn't really feel sparks, no, but is a 90-second conversation enough to go on?
(Answer: You bet it is.)
(Also: I have never directly asked a woman for her phone number. I am a sad, sad excuse for a man.)
At any rate, back to Klosterman. He's hilarious, knows a crapload about music, is incredibly down-to-earth, and is older than me yet doesn't know what to do in terms of settling down with a woman. Granted, he has had more romance/sex in his life than I do — who hasn't? — but the fact that he's pretty clueless about how his own life will turn out makes me feel a little better about my own.
If I could write like one person on this planet, it would be Klosterman. Sure, Matt Taibbi's great, but without gratuitous profanity he's a hell of a lot less entertaining.