August 7, 2003
LSD, VACUUM CLEANER MUSEUMS, AND GAY BEARS, OH MY!
Josh Jabcuga reviews FIGHT CLUB author Chuck Palahniuk’s new book, FUGITIVES AND REFUGEES: A WALK IN PORTLAND, OREGON
Chuck Palahniuk first hit the literary scene in 1996 with his memorable debut effort, FIGHT CLUB, an edgy manifesto for disgruntled, post-Columbine Generation X (especially the male portion). The book pulled no punches; it was one man’s near-frenetic take on a Millennium that was closing in, and fast. FIGHT CLUB was adapted into director David Fincher’s perfect match of an adaptation, and love it or loathe it, it’s difficult to look away. Since then, Palahniuk has written six books, which includes the upcoming DIARY and the recently released FUGITIVES AND REFUGEES: A WALK IN PORTLAND, OREGON (Crown Journeys, $16.00).
FUGITIVES AND REFUGEES is not proper fiction, although many of the stories provided in this book could easily fit that description. As they say, the truth can be stranger than fiction, and this is no exception.
FUGITIVES AND REFUGEES is a travelogue. Palahniuk moved to Portland in 1980, six days after graduating from high school. The author is stranger to neither fiction nor Portland, and FUGITIVES AND REFUGEES serves as his mental snapshot of the denizens and scenes unique (very unique) to the area.
The book opens up with Palahniuk’s encounter with another famous author from the area, Katherine Dunn, writer of the now cult-classic GEEK LOVE. She informs Palahniuk (and us) that everyone in Portland has at least three identities. One example she cites is of the poet, who is a drag queen, who is a bookstore clerk. Knowing some of Palahniuk’s work (as well as Dunn’s GEEK LOVE), I can begin to see how this type of environment might twist and shape an artist, which is interesting in itself, and is one of the many layers that FUGITIVES AND REFUGEES peels away, almost unintentionally.
Excluding the intro, the book gets off to a shaky start. It only clocks in at a slight 175 pages, and several are wasted on “A Portland Vocabulary Lesson,” where the reader is tutored on how to blend in and not sound like a tourist, as well as on several of the author’s favorite recipes from area eateries, such as Le Happy’s Faux Vegan Crepes and Dean Blair’s Lemon-Lavender Scones. I can appreciate what the author was attempting, to give us the overall flavor of the area, to make the travelogue more of a three-dimensional experience for the reader, but by then, we’re already at page 53. Things really cook up from here on out, though. More on that in a moment.
Every chapter begins with a postcard from the year that it is set in. Palahniuk begins with a postcard from 1981, where he discusses his stoner roommates and his experience of tripping out on LSD watching a Pink Floyd laser show at Oregon Museum of Science and Industry planetarium, trying not to grind his molars, (apparently a side effect of doing Acid for some people). Throughout the book the postcards serve as a sort of loose, mini makeshift autobiography for Palahniuk. He tells us about his different youthful misadventures, like the time in 1985 when he sniffed a whole envelope of coke on a video shoot for a song called “Butcher Boy” by a band known as Cavalcade of Stars. The lead singer, Rhonda Kennedy, scolds, “That was for all of us.” (Palahniuk mentions that Kennedy went on to more “fame” as the chaperone of a team of Buddhist monk “skeleton dancers” on the Lollapalooza Tour.)
The final postcard is set in 2002, and by this point, Palahniuk is a well established writer, although due to certain circumstances, which I won’t give away, he is reminded of his roots from 1980 in a bittersweet cap to the book.
What the author captures, though, in between, is “a series of moments with interesting people,” as he calls it. “The most I can ever do is to write things down. To remember them. The details. To honor them in some way.”
Palahniuk does a fine job at honoring the details, the people, even the ghosts of Oregon, some dead, some still apparently living. Chapter three, titled “Haunts: Where to Rub Elbows with the Dead,” discusses where you might like to visit if you have a penchant for the paranormal, and let’s face it, who doesn’t? A place like the Portland Memorial, described as “a chilly, carpeted maze of marble, concrete, bronze, and brass,” is yours for the finding in Portland, Oregon.
There is a chapter devoted to strange museums, which include Stark’s Vacuum Cleaner Museum and The Kidd Toy Museum, which houses a coin bank shaped like a little German statue of a woman using a bidet, which Palahniuk adds, “The way it works, using your body heat, is sheer genius.” By this point in FUGITIVES AND REFUGEES, you begin to view Portland as something out of a David Lynch movie, perhaps Lumberton from BLUE VELVET.
One of the most intriguing chapters is titled, “Getting Off: How to Knock Off a Piece in Portland.” Apparently, as a result of some very loose (yes, loose) interpretations of free speech protected under the Oregon State Constitution, Portland has the largest number of adult businesses in the nation. Palahniuk discusses a hang-out known for hunters of “bears.” He says: “For you fans of big men with hairy backs, a.ka. Bears, the Dirty Duck Pub is the stomping ground for men addicted to hairy men.” For details and directions, see page 106 of FUGITIVES AND REFUGEES.
There’s also a private sex club for men named XES (that’s sex, spelled backwards. Apparently subtly is too much to ask for in the Portland sex biz). Palahniuk writes, “Inside is a maze of black-painted plywood with nonstop porno playing on monitors mounted overhead. Within the maze you’ll find plenty of tiny rooms for privacy, plus a leather sex sling right in the center of things. The only room with a bed is also wired with a video camera so the entire club can watch you in action.”
Amidst the drugs and sex of FUGITIVES AND REFUGEES is a very touching chapter called “Animal Acts: When You’re Sick of People-Watching.” Palahniuk proceeds to describe a day he spent with Jeb Barsh, a Portland elephant keeper. Barsh originally wanted to be a writer, who went to the zoo for research. He fell so in love with the elephants that he is now a dedicated zoo keeper. Here Palahniuk drops the Gen X anti poster boy pretense and shows his heart, painting a touching portrait of a man who loves his work, and of animals that are sadly losing their place in the world.
Another fascinating chapter in the book is titled “The Shanghai Tunnels: Go Back in Time by Going Underground.” This presents the reader with a real glimpse of the underbelly of the beast. There are a massive series of tunnels under the city, which stretch for miles. They are filled with legend, both real and imagined, and their inclusion into the book is one probably out of sheer necessity, as they seem to offer an indelible ingredient into the potent, odd recipe that is Portland, Oregon.
I think Palahniuk is successful in doing what he set out to do, honoring those people and places that make up Portland. Although his former stomping grounds are certainly unique, you can’t help but wonder about the place you call home, whether it’s Portland, D.C., Buffalo, Miami, NYC, or some small town with only one intersection. You’re forced to think about what your home might look like under the magnifying glass, or how weird it may look to visitors, tourists, those unfamiliar with your local customs, roadside attractions, and…smut shops. Indeed, truth can be stranger than fiction sometimes.
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