I wonder if that kid ever realized it was you. That hindsight. I tried to meet you a couple of times at Powell's but always seem to be just too far back in line. Sad!
I used to valet cars at strips clubs in Dallas. one was a few miles from where the cowboys played and Sundays, Dallas cowboys and visiting players alike would all stream in for drinks and lappy's. you know the old saying "never meet your heroes"? it's so true. there were a few that were cool and tipped well. but for the most part, they all sucked. celebrities came through all the time; lots of A-list names and the actors/musicians that came through were cool. A grand majority of the athletes were just abysmal humans. Not saying meeting Chuck would have ruined it for the kid. But I can imagine the mystique of him not knowing then seeing this is better. That "holy shit" moment when it all clicked for him; like the ending of 'The Usual Suspects' kinda.
I met you a few years ago at an Illinois reading with Irvine Welsh. Interviewed you for a local; public radio podcast. My wife came along and the two of you hit it off and I thought “You know, if Chuck slept with my wife, I’d be OK with it. I mean, right?”
You were gracious, funny, and truly generous with your time. Also, I ate almost all of your pre-show cheese plate and you said nothing about it. Meeting one of my literary heroes was a smashing success.
I can’t stand my sister. I haven’t spoken to her in 9 years. The last time I saw her, I went to her apartment to see my cat who she would later let die. A tiny studio in suburban Massachusetts dominated by sliding glass doors that opened to a dirty parking lot. Her curtains open too wide to ensure privacy. No tv, no desk, no sofa. A twin bed, a bookshelf, a litter box and a massive vibrator lying on the floor not covered by the fallen leaves of bras and panties spread out over everything. How many neighbors had a free show from the parking space ten feet from her bed? How many went out there at night specifically for the girl living alone with two cats, a glass wall and a giant plug-in massager? I I had been born a woman l, would I ride the rush of being watched? Would I be an exhibitionist if I was someone worth looking at?
It makes my skin crawl that I’m related to this person, incapable of empathy and inevitably damaging every person around them. A selfish sex-addict prioritizing drugs over shelter, instant gratification over family and personal spite over protecting the life of an animal.
There are more things we don’t have in common than we do.
Holding my cat for what would be the last time, I looked through the disorganized bookshelf. She hasn’t read any of these. Pristine dust jackets on all the usual chick-lit-whatever-self-help-eat-fuck-pray-me-me-me. At least she only wants to appear to have read them and hasn’t wasted her time.
On the middle shelf, with creased spines and faded Border’s receipts crumpled on the last page; the very same way I mark my own books, sat Invisible Monsters, Fight Club, and Snuff. Haunted was on the floor looking deformed by the front flap of its jacket having been tucked into a page somewhere on the middle, my other bookmarking habit.
Slutty, Narcissistic, Cat-killing, Cunt. We don’t have anything in common.
Does the fact that so many strangers have perused small cross-sections of your brain ever feel isolating? As in, here is Mr. Palahniuk the writer, he wrote my favorite book and I want to take a part of him as a snapshot of that character on the surface. There's probably a threshold somewhere there that is hard to cross, maybe neither the reader nor the writer would actually want to cross it and prefer the link of books to act as an umbilical cord. Like the feeling of being connected to every stranger in a cafe via the coffee. I like that feeling.
Hey Chuck, so happy you did this substack! Your writting changed my life so much! When I read you sending us homework I thought: "Great, Chuck is passing us homework assignments from Project Mayhem!" hahaha Did you consider doing some giveaway for your followers here? I think it would be great!
And let’s not leave out Nike…the original my original holds in her hands or just do it with the brand ? Do you know my own fight club interpretation?...not the Nietzsche way !
I get as much pleasure reading your writing on your writing as I do reading your writing that is bound in books. Everything. All of it, they are stories and you are a master at telling them.
Your life must feel so surreal.
You ❤️
Also ready for the movie quiz 😁
I have gravitated to your work for almost 20 years, because you make us feel something, but you giving out hope is daunting.
I wonder if that kid ever realized it was you. That hindsight. I tried to meet you a couple of times at Powell's but always seem to be just too far back in line. Sad!
I used to valet cars at strips clubs in Dallas. one was a few miles from where the cowboys played and Sundays, Dallas cowboys and visiting players alike would all stream in for drinks and lappy's. you know the old saying "never meet your heroes"? it's so true. there were a few that were cool and tipped well. but for the most part, they all sucked. celebrities came through all the time; lots of A-list names and the actors/musicians that came through were cool. A grand majority of the athletes were just abysmal humans. Not saying meeting Chuck would have ruined it for the kid. But I can imagine the mystique of him not knowing then seeing this is better. That "holy shit" moment when it all clicked for him; like the ending of 'The Usual Suspects' kinda.
I met you a few years ago at an Illinois reading with Irvine Welsh. Interviewed you for a local; public radio podcast. My wife came along and the two of you hit it off and I thought “You know, if Chuck slept with my wife, I’d be OK with it. I mean, right?”
You were gracious, funny, and truly generous with your time. Also, I ate almost all of your pre-show cheese plate and you said nothing about it. Meeting one of my literary heroes was a smashing success.
I can’t stand my sister. I haven’t spoken to her in 9 years. The last time I saw her, I went to her apartment to see my cat who she would later let die. A tiny studio in suburban Massachusetts dominated by sliding glass doors that opened to a dirty parking lot. Her curtains open too wide to ensure privacy. No tv, no desk, no sofa. A twin bed, a bookshelf, a litter box and a massive vibrator lying on the floor not covered by the fallen leaves of bras and panties spread out over everything. How many neighbors had a free show from the parking space ten feet from her bed? How many went out there at night specifically for the girl living alone with two cats, a glass wall and a giant plug-in massager? I I had been born a woman l, would I ride the rush of being watched? Would I be an exhibitionist if I was someone worth looking at?
It makes my skin crawl that I’m related to this person, incapable of empathy and inevitably damaging every person around them. A selfish sex-addict prioritizing drugs over shelter, instant gratification over family and personal spite over protecting the life of an animal.
There are more things we don’t have in common than we do.
Holding my cat for what would be the last time, I looked through the disorganized bookshelf. She hasn’t read any of these. Pristine dust jackets on all the usual chick-lit-whatever-self-help-eat-fuck-pray-me-me-me. At least she only wants to appear to have read them and hasn’t wasted her time.
On the middle shelf, with creased spines and faded Border’s receipts crumpled on the last page; the very same way I mark my own books, sat Invisible Monsters, Fight Club, and Snuff. Haunted was on the floor looking deformed by the front flap of its jacket having been tucked into a page somewhere on the middle, my other bookmarking habit.
Slutty, Narcissistic, Cat-killing, Cunt. We don’t have anything in common.
Does the fact that so many strangers have perused small cross-sections of your brain ever feel isolating? As in, here is Mr. Palahniuk the writer, he wrote my favorite book and I want to take a part of him as a snapshot of that character on the surface. There's probably a threshold somewhere there that is hard to cross, maybe neither the reader nor the writer would actually want to cross it and prefer the link of books to act as an umbilical cord. Like the feeling of being connected to every stranger in a cafe via the coffee. I like that feeling.
Chuck, your writing constantly reminds me of Corn-pone Opinions!
Hey Chuck, so happy you did this substack! Your writting changed my life so much! When I read you sending us homework I thought: "Great, Chuck is passing us homework assignments from Project Mayhem!" hahaha Did you consider doing some giveaway for your followers here? I think it would be great!
And let’s not leave out Nike…the original my original holds in her hands or just do it with the brand ? Do you know my own fight club interpretation?...not the Nietzsche way !
I think I'm teaching myself editing, writing and deleting shit in these boxes.
I get as much pleasure reading your writing on your writing as I do reading your writing that is bound in books. Everything. All of it, they are stories and you are a master at telling them.
Well.. You need to see this
https://nypost.com/2021/09/22/brian-laundrie-alleged-cryptic-messages-on-pinterest/?utm_source=whinstagram&utm_medium=whig&utm_campaign=wh&utm_content=mnshmr
I love this.