- The Washington Times - Wednesday, September 6, 2006

Or at the very least he’s highly addictive.

My favorite lines from a recently-scanned paperback copy of “Killing Yourself to Live: 85% of a True Story“:

On trying cocaine: “…the worst kind of unspeakable joy.”

On hearing “Mr. Roboto,” “Jumping Jack Flash” and a certain popular ballad from the bygone band Extreme in succession on a classic-rock radio station: “Styx and Stones may break my bones, but ‘More than Words’ will never hurt me.”

On yuppie-professional culture, New York City-versus-Washington (I’m paraphrasing here): “In New York, people are unhappy on purpose; unhappiness makes you seem complex. In Washington, it just sort of works out that way.”

And I won’t even bother getting into Klosterman’s exegesis on why Led Zeppelin may be the third-best band of all time (behind the Beatles and the Stones), but they’re the “most popular” band of all time. The passage is too long and too good to excerpt.

The book’s meta-theme is about premature death has mythological implications for rock stars. Its cover is a simple, cleverly conceived shot of a Flying V guitar buried headfirst in the ground, gravestone-style. Brilliant.

It’s premium stuff, people.

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