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Time and time again we’re told that the world is on the brink of disaster. Okay, so it’s nearly always Fox News, and they’re almost certainly insane, but that’s not the point. The point is that the expression "on the brink", well, it doesn’t really mean anything anymore. It’s a phrase, somewhat melodramatic, maybe, but so satisfying you could drown in it, designed to conjure images of desperation and madness when describing an event of cataclysmic importance. Like war. Or poverty. And football.
The thing is, since 9/11, we’ve been on the brink so many times that instead of doing the decent thing and getting a rope and climbing back to safety, all we can do is kick back and enjoy the view, invade a country, do whatever it is we do to make people despise us. Well, this time around, the doom-mongerers may just get their wish. After all, the Middle East’s in ruins after Sharon’s personal rampage against Hamas. Meanwhile, back in the US of A, John F Kerry’s rolling up his sleeves in a bid to depose Darth Bush and come out smelling like roses in what could be the dirtiest presidential campaign ever. And just in case you didn’t realize, Sex in the City’s finally come to an end after six unfeasibly glamorous seasons. Sure, there maybe more important things going on the world right now. But do me a favour. Spare a thought for the good people of Portland, Oregon. Now, life’s not exactly a bed of roses if you live in a nowhere town like Portland. Perpetually threatened with the prospect of rising crime, a major drug problem, widespread prostitution and rampant poverty, it’s hardly Disneyland, and unlikely to feature in the next Bill Bryson. But if you’re Chuck Palahniuck, diarist of the disillusioned and possibly the quite single sickest motherfunster this side of the gates of hell, well, there’s nowhere quite like home. Fugitives & Refugees is Palahniuk’s personal tour through the place that suits him best, a rough guide to the salubrious, the salacious and the downright silly with the occasional recipe thrown in for good measure. Take, for example, the I-Tit-A-Pod Race, the annual slog through Portland’s fifty strip bars, allowed possible by the county’s liberal attitude towards the sex industry. It’s pretty simple - you pay an entry fee and whoever makes it round the most bars wins the pot. Palahniuk reliably informs us the most anyone’s ever managed is thirty. For the culinary hedonist looking for the ultimate extreme dining experience, there’s always the Apocalypse Café. Yes, you too can be kidnapped at a remote location, ferried like refugees to a hidden lair and force-fed tinned meat in an atmosphere designed to replicate the cosy surroundings of a nuclear bunker during Armageddon. It’s Douglas Adams meets Dr Strangelove with a dab of Jamie Oliver at the end of the world. As for the rest, Palahniuck escorts us through the some of the weirdest bars, museums, parks, restaurants and shops you’ll ever see. It’s pretty crazy, like some kind of Lonely Planet guide for, well, the lonely. Or Royston Vasey relocated to the dark side of the pond. In fact, it’s classic Palahniuck - take a flick through Fight Club or Survivor and you’ll see that his heroes, although peppered with torment and rife with anger, always come good in the face of insurmountable adversity. And while things aren’t quite that desperate in Portland, Fugitives & Refugees always hints at a community reveling in its own glum image. But that’s the writer all over. Always on the brink. Never looking down.
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