Write to Rock

As I've gotten older, I've become more drawn to writing that is narrative, witty and personal. Obviously I've gone on and on about Nick Hornby but there are others such as Dave Eggars, David Sedaris, Augusten Burroughs (the long-form version of Sedaris but even crazier), and especially Chuck Klosterman. Klosterman is nearest and dearest to my heart because his day job is as a rock critic, something which I once aspired to be.

I've just finished working my way backwards through Klosterman's three books beginning with his most recent and most insightful and ending with his first and most personal. It was the very end of his first book, Fargo Rock City, which was probably the funniest and most telling moment of anything he's written and technically he didn't even write it. The end of the book includes a letter of warning from his landlord that contains the following:

We received a complaint this morning regarding loud music and jumping in your apartment in the early hours of the morning. After reviewing your file, it seems as if this is a recurring problem in your apartment. It distresses us to have to write this letter but you are keeping your neighbors awake.

What makes this addendum to the book so amusing is that it is dated February of 2000 -- which would have made him about 28 at the time -- and that as we learned earlier in the book, these are the kinds of activities he enages in by himself. I was rolling as I read this because it reminded me of one of the best New Years Eves.

I think it was the '01 into '02 NYE and I was feeling particularly anitsocial that year. Some of my friends had decided to get a beach house and another group was going to one of those big expensive parties downtown. I opted for neither and instead chose to stay home by myself and get lit up on a case of Iron City pounders I had been saving for just such an occasion. I spent most of the night in the basement of my townhouse playing every GBV album on 11 and rocking out at my own private concert. By midnight I was in posession of the most incredible balance of endorphins and alcohol. By 1am I was barely functional. By 2am when my roommate got home (with some random girl from work in tow) I was running up and down our two flights of stairs while "Bulldog Skin" was playing on repeat on the stereo.

This was (and is) my idea of a Good Time. Not all the time, but certainly some of the time. And it is great to know that there are other people who feel the exact same way. To quote a company-wide farewell email from an old coworker who left under dubious circumstances, "Rock on."