There is a lot of self indulgent angst in this book which I found tiresome after a while, and something about the way he writes about women rubs me the wrong way. Despite the copious music references, I just did not identify with Chuck at all. I did, however, think of the many indie rock dudes I know and how much they would love this book in their college years.

This is the book that got me hooked on Chuck Klosterman. However, none of his other books could compare to this one in my opinion. As soon as I finished this book I went right back to the beginning and read it all over again! So interesting and well written.

This book is freaking excellent. Chuck Klosterman's sense of humor is obviously exactly the same as mine, because everything he writes that's funny is wonderfully, perfectly, awesomely, hysterically funny to me.

Once again, Chuck Klosterman reveals himself to be a boring, self-centered paragon of bad taste with horrible ideas about the relations between the sexes. Why do I keep reading him?

The only really interesting chapter revolves around the Great White concert fire, revealing the poignancy of the men who lost friends and brothers at the show. I just wish that he would go as far as he thinks he's going into genuine critique of cultural elitism and how callously it allows us to treat each other. Many considered the Great White concert tragedy a joke because the band itself are seen as only beloved by "white trash" or "rednecks" - not the culturally aware - even subhuman. (A crowd-crushing fatality at a Smashing Pumpins concert a few years ago was treated with shocking cruelty by some of my fellows in the music industry for the same reason.) Klosterman hints at condemning this attitude but, perhaps realizing the extent his readership belong to the callous "elite" group, shies away.

Classic Klosterman sexism abounds here as well. Do most guys actually think that putting women on a pedestal of otherness accomplishes anything positive? So tiresome.

Also classic Klosterman: boring-ass prose. His popularity makes me sad.

I love how full of shit this guy is.

For all of the people who hated this book because they thought Klosterman has 'terrible taste in music' I think they might have skimmed over this one part:

So many of the rock concerts I've attended have been filled with people who were there only to be there, who just wanted to be seen by other people who were there only to be there... ... Half the people who attend concerts only go so that they can tell other people that (a) certain shows were amazing, and (b) other shows sucked.

I couldn't put this down and I even tried to draw it out so that it lasted longer but it was still a pretty lame book, if that makes any sense. I liked some of the ideas and he's certainly quotable. Still, it mostly felt like he was dragging me behind him on this trip. At one point I even forgot he was on a trip, which bummed me out. I get so excited about these people who travel across the country and in the end they disappoint me. What this book really got me thinking about wasn't all the dysfunctional relationships I've had or have had the potential to have (which is all he wanted to talk about) but really that I just want to travel across the country and see some stuff. So, thanks for that Chuck.

Another quote for the 'road' (haw)

Art and love are the same thing: it's that process of seeing yourself in things that are not you. It's understanding the unreasonable.

This felt like my first long form go around with CK and he delivered. (Pretty sure I’ve read “sex drugs and cocoa puffs”, but only about a million yrs ago.)

What a wistful and gnarly road trip punctuated with punchy pop philosophy at the end of nearly every paragraph. I was hooked. But I think it also helps that I’m a fan of rock-n-roll who’s had her fair share of fallings out with lovers ❤️

Meh.

I am a sucker for pop culture and I like to be entertained. This book fit the bill. And yet, I wish the author didn't come off as such a jerk.

Enjoyed the narration and found this audiobook perfect for commuting.

My favorite part was the bit at the end where the lady discouraged the author from writing the book.

Why do we care about Chuck Klosterman? There is nothing truly remarkable about his life. I disagree with 97 percent of what he has to say about music. The way he holds his political cards close to his chest makes me suspicious. And yet, once I start one of his books, I can’t put it down. Killing Yourself to Live is no exception. It takes us on a drug-fueled odyssey across the United States with stops at famous rock and roll death sites (the seedy hotel where Sid Vicious did himself in; the burnt patch in Rhode Island that used to be a bar where dozens lost their lives thanks to Great White’s trying to re-live their, ahem, glory days; the patch of ground Buddy Holly’s plane collided with; Cobain’s death room, etc.). As is the case with many young-ish writers today (to wit: Sarah Vowell), Klosterman’s book’s stated purpose serves merely as an ostensible vehicle for the author to write about himself, his life, his loves, etc. One might be tempted to write this off as narcissism or myopia, but Klosterman somehow manages to wrest insights into the human condition out of the twisted, emotional menagerie that is his psyche. Yes, he’s self-absorbed, but in such a fashion that his sharing it with us feels like a gift…of sorts.

3.75 *s
I feel so complete I've finally read/listened to it.
And I'm not sure what I've gained.... But it was worth it!

It's just like the dust jacket says: feels like you're having a conversation with one of your closest drinking buddies on all things pop culture. Fun read for sure, though I can't imagine reading another Klosterman novel for at least 6 months.