The Associated Press recently quoted Klosterman with exclamation points, which I read as him sounding upset. Actually, exclamation points best describe his level of animation, not some sort of emotional extreme. In truth, I almost fell off my chair when he opened his mouth earlier at BU: his rascally, nasally voice is vaguely reminiscent of Beavis; his cadence, that of Mitch Hedberg.
By the way? His head looks nothing like an ass.
Cambridge is more skeptical of Klosterman than Boston was. Instead of asking if he feels famous, Harvard Square already assumes he is, and then wants to know if he is full of shit.
Q: It seems like a lot of profiles, you spend time figuring out if they’re bullshitting you or not. Since you’re famous now and you do readings at theaters with balconies, do you feel worried about bullshitting us?
CK: That’s a great question. Absolutely. No one’s ever asked me that. . . . Oh yeah it worries me . . . Someone will ask me a question and I’ll give the same exact answer that I gave in fuckin’ Columbus. Because it is the same question and it was true then. . . . When I do interviews right now, it’d be weird for me to do an interview with a really small band. Because it is possible — unlikely, but possible — that the band would know who I was. And that would be strange. It’s strange. What you’re always trying to do as a journalist is put yourself in the shoes of the average person who’s reading this and [doesn’t] have access to, ah, the Eurythmics and [isn’t able to] sit with Annie Lennox. But this guy is going to sit with Annie Lennox and tell me what it’s like to sit with Annie Lennox.
But obviously it’s not going to [go] that way — I’m sure Annie Lennox doesn’t know who I am — [but] . . . if she did, it’d be strange.
And I have no idea why I used the Eurythmics. That’s really weird for me to pick.
Q: This is kind of a loaded question.
CK: All right, load me up.
Q: I alternately love and hate your writing. But I wonder, you sort of touched on this when you first came in, how often are you bullshitting? Do you believe everything you write?
CK: I think it’s a little curious that you would go to a reading if you hated [the author]. Very strange. Here’s the deal . . . what people get confused about sometimes, and which is part of the reason I think people have strong positive or negative ideas [about] my writing, is that I’m writing about ideas and in order to get to the idea, I sometimes use elements of satire, elements of parody, elements of detachment. I propose something that may or may not be true and argue the merits or lack thereof, regardless of [whether] it’s true. Give me one example of something in your mind that you’re wondering if I really feel that way.
Q: The Billy Joel piece in Sex, Drugs, and Cocoa Puffs.
CK: Oh yeah, 100 percent I believe . . .
Other people in the audience adore him either way.
Q: Unlike the other guy, I would just like to say that I like 100 percent of everything you write —
CK: You’re a fucking crazy man.
Q: — and I love you.
CK: I love you too . . .
I raise my hand from the front row.
Me: Who have you either met or interviewed whose work you admired and they turned out to be total dicks? How did that change your perceptions of them and/or their art?
CK: Michael Stipe, I’ve gotta admit, was kind of a jerk. He’s incredibly arrogant. But it doesn’t change my opinion of his work . . . My relationship with R.E.M. is more intellectual than emotive. So the fact that Michael Stipe is a jerk, that’s interesting to me. But that doesn’t make me think, aw, man “Catapult” sucks . . .
The final question.
Q: Want to get some Chicken McNuggets after this?
CK: No.
You tell me
Thank god Klosterman didn’t say yes or I’d be begging to eat breaded bird lumps with him and a stranger at McDonald’s. Instead, I’m loitering around the book-signing table while a SLAM magazine sportswriter runs through a litany of who-are-the-best-players-in-the-NBA inquiries and Klosterman signs hardcovers. Now the author is shaking hands gratefully. He goes to shake mine, and notices that my expression says hello rather than goodbye. I awkwardly introduce myself and ask if he might, after all, be willing to go for just one drink.
He eyes me sympathetically. He pauses. “Okay, okay.”
I tell him I’ll take him around the corner to Charlie’s Kitchen and then get him back to his hotel (Nine Zero on Tremont Street); turns out a Boston Globe reporter already took him to Charlie’s today (damn), but he liked it, so that’s cool.