An Evening with Chuck Palahniuk

I have been to several author events in my time, but nothing quite like what I saw the other night when Chuck Palaniuk visited my local university campus. Since I have been ponitifacting for some time about the non-fiction I enjoy, I thought this would make a good way to give my readers some insight into the kind of fiction that I enjoy. When I saw that Chuck Palahniuk would be visiting a campus near me, I was hesitant. Partly it was because I had only begun reading Palahniuk's books because I had enjoyed the film Fight Club so much, and I thought my johnny-come-lately status as a fan would not be welcome. Mostly thought it was because after reading Chuck's work -most of it intense, stomach churning fiction about the darker side of the human experience- I was a little scared about what kind of person Palahniuk might be, let alone the kinds of hard core fans he would attract. Still I decided to buy the latest book, pick up a ticket, and make an evening out of it. It was overall very enjoyable. I will try to relate the evening in short simple sentences. The sentences Chuck uses to such great effect. Let's begin.

To see Chuck I have to go underground. No really. The event was held in a lecture hall hidden in the bunker like corridors of an old college building. Slipping in from the humid evening I follow the signs to Angel Hall Auditorium A. Auditorium A sits across from Auditorium B. Auditorium C is just to the side. The oversized computer lab called the fishbowl is in shouting distance. If I feel like shouting that is.

Friendly bookstore staffers in black t-shirts check my ticket, like it's a rock concert or something. Through the door the number of people already seated is unbelievable. No really. I don't think all the people could have physically squeezed into the space available across from Auditorium B and just to the side of Auditorium C. Unless you use a tessaract. Or a blender. They are buzzing with the happy hum of a cult. Chuck even calls them The Cult. He talks about it on his webpage. Later I will hear one woman brag that this is the third time she's seen Chuck. She must not look at the "about the author" page very often.

While I find my seat Chuck sits in the back. I can't see him. He's surrounded by The Cult. He's signing books I hear. That's nice I think. I don't think about how rabid The Cult looks. I don't think that if this many people have books to sign now then the line after the event is going to suck. I sit back. I read a comic book. I wait.

A bookshop staffer stand at the podium. She would like to tell us something about Chuck. But The Cult already knows everything about Chuck. She will just let Chuck talk. Crap. I really wanted someone to tell me something about Chuck. None of the signs said "for The Cult only".

When Chuck stands up three things surprise me. He is taller than I expected. Authors always seem shorter in the books though. He dresses conservatively and has short hair. Long hair and tight t-shirts aren't minimalist enough anymore. Button-down is the new rebellion. The Cult cheers and applauds like a normal audience. Come on people I thought you were The Cult. Who was in charge of coming up with the mantra this week?

Chuck starts by telling stories. Chuck stories. The kind of stories only Chuck seems to tell. Unless you're stupid, then you think Bret Easton Ellis tells the same kind of stories. But really, you are stupid. Instantly you see how Chuck works. Chuck loves these stories. Stories about the postal worker who inspects a suspicious package only to find picture of her friends naked, screwing, with objects. Chuck listens for these stories. Stories about pregant women in the 1960's who carried a jar a pickles everywhere once they hit the third trimester, so when their water broke they could drop the pickle jar, and no one would notice the smell. Chuck absorbs these stories and preserves them for the right time. Stories about the science teacher who kept the pickled remains of her miscarriage in a jar in her classroom. Chuck nurtures the stories modifies them and shapes them into something of his liking. Stories about the last circus to have a touring company of freaks all in their seventies, leftovers of an era where self-respect and dignity left deformed people starving in the streets. Then he feeds them to The Cult.

Vindicating The Cult's devotion, Chuck hands out presents. One for each of us. Imitation velvet shaped to imitate a rose treated with an imitation scent. No really. He gives out fake flowers that smell like your grandma's bathroom and cheap Chinese forced labor. He wanted to share the smell of roses with us. He also wanted to share the smell of sh*t. But that's hard to do. This is his Roses & Sh*t Tour 2006. I will learn why soon. First he has to feed The Cult some clues about his next book. He hands out big, black, plactic rats. He passes out gelatinous human hearts and gelatinous human eyeballs. Gelatinous human eyeballs warp and wither when you ship them by air. So some eyballs leak. Some burst like water balloons when Chuck tosses them into the crowd. The Cult loves this stuff. I laugh.

Next Chuck reads a short story. Unpublished. They're his words so I will say little. You learn why an epileptic male stripper can become the star of a viral video then later the touring manager for a company of deformed exotic dancers. Chuck always has something new to share.

Chuck answers questions from The Cult next. He goes boy-girl-boy-girl. Chuck shares some secrets. Like how you can claim to be a writer on your W-2's for 7 years before you have to show a profit. Like how people are trying to turn each of his books into movies, but none of them are having success. Like how he thinks Oprah Winfrey would make a good president. Like how he uses pills from his friend with cancer to ply secrets out of strangers. Like how he considers Fight Club a non-reaction to violance, because if you react to somethiong you empower it. Like how he turned a collection of short stories into the novel called Haunted because his publisher told him short story collections don't sell well. Like how he writes because he has fun doing it and he doesn't care what you make of the books.

Finally Chuck signs books. The Cult lines up. I wait an hour and a half to get to Chuck. I don't say much. I just saw dozens of members of The Cult try and show him how fascinating they are. He compliments me for being all dressed up. I say I had a long day and pretty much came from work. I ask him to sign it "For Jonathan's boys" for all my brothers. He signs and stamps it I thank him. I leave to go feel bored elsewhere.