“Downtown Owl: A Novel” is the first work of fiction by Chuck Klosterman and it’s not at all what I thought the name suggested. Some of you might be familiar with Klosterman’s “Sex, Drugs, and Cocoa Puffs” (2003), which features an amusing critique of “Saved By the Bell” and extensive use of clever footnotes. Good stuff.

Because Klosterman has written for Spin magazine and is known for pop culture journalism, I expected “Owl” to be a novel about urban places after dark – kids hanging out after shows and the ways rock ‘n’ roll corrupts the “innocent” American teen. Nope, not this book. Instead, “Owl” is about Owl, a farming town of 850 people. That’s 50 fewer than live in the Stephenson Complex.

I should mention that the book takes place in the winter of 1983-1984. If you spent that winter as a fetus, developing a skeletal system and whatnot, this might be a problem. It’s not surprising that a music journalist would pack his novel with pop references, but because most of these songs were popular 25 years ago, many of them may be unfamiliar. Of course, you’re welcome to visit iTunes, download “In the Heat of the Moment,” and subsequently lose interest in researching the remaining songs on Klosterman’s novel playlist.

Using three alternating first-person narrators and two one-entry guest-narrators, “Owl” constructs an image of life in this “downtown.” Rather than providing too many points of view or keeping the reader at arm’s length, Klosterman’s characters – Mitch, a high school football player who likens life in Owl to life in Orwell’s 1984; Julia, a recent college graduate and first-time high school history teacher with a thirst for free gin and tonics; and Horace, a widower whose luck is so bad it’s good – are distinct, engaging and representative of important life phases without being cliche. Mitch would rather sleep than do just about anything. Julia would rather smoke pot than do just about anything. And Horace just wants to drink coffee. I realize this all sounds a bit like Owl suffers from some serious ennui, but the lack of motivation is really symptomatic of a lack of opportunity.

Having read some of Klosterman’s other work, I’ve always admired his ability to treat any individual – Billy Joel, Pamela Anderson or the too-wasted guys in a Guns N’ Roses cover band – with respect and humanity. Rather than disabuse his subjects with sarcasm or cynicism, Klosterman treats them like real people, with real lives and real feelings. I like that. And the inhabitants of Owl are no exception. A native midwesterner himself, Klosterman resists the easy path of mocking rural life and embraces it in all its weird and troubling glory.