This Sunday: Lazy, Bookish, and Questioning My Faith in Humanity

There are a handful of days in my life out west that I will always remember. I've only been here for a few months, but I will never forget that first meal with Monk and Stef at Palace Kitchen after deplaning at Sea-Tac. I was exhausted, mentally and physically, a signed copy of House of Leaves still heavy in my hands, and a 40-lb. backpack cutting into my shoulder with the weight of all the worldly possessions I'd had for two weeks, and all I would own for another two.

I will never forget my first trip to Fry's Electronics and being totally lost amongst the cables, hard drives, DVDs, batteries, and electronic eclectica, and not minding my predicament in the slightest.

And I will remember today for its unbelievable perfectness.

It began in the early afternoon, waking up to the sound of Monk telling me to put on pants so we could go to the liquor store to buy cognac. Even though I abstained from buying anything, I priced the vodka and Kahlua for the imminent day I start mixing white Russians again. Stef made figgy pudding. I made very wet egg nog using the old trick of dumping as much milk into it as the mixer can sustain. In what is undoubtedly a very rare event in the cosmos, nothing of any consequence has gone wrong today. I fucked up the egg nog? Not exactly. Monk can't get enough of it, declaring Batch Three "the best yet". Stef and I both like it a bit thicker.

I spent this evening reading Palahniuk's Fugitives and Refugees, a fast read of an unblinking gaze down Portland alleyways and into the back rooms of the author's own mind. From the stories of his Santa-suited confrontation with cops in riot gear to the story of how as a hospital volunteer he watched a woman molest an overdosing, restrained man with a safety pin while her son died of AIDS in a room down the hall, Fugitives and Refugees is an alternative view of Portland, a look at a side of the city that few people would stumble upon if they only did something absurd like randomly rent a hotel room there for three days and hit the streets with wild abandon.

It is not a thorough tour of the town, nor a complete historical companion, but simply, as Palahniuk humbly points out, a series of snapshots of people and places that make the city wonderful by being iconoclastic and unique. Recommendations for museums, restaurants, swingers' clubs, and all manner of other tidbits about his stay in the city make this book an absolute must-have for anyone who lives within convenient driving distance of Portland.

As my friend Toni points out, don't necessarily try to recreate Chuck's adventures for yourself, but you certainly will be wiser knowing his steps as you take your own. The street corner where Palahniuk got the crap kicked out of him videogame-style is now a nice restaurant with a tasty, fruity drink on the menu that Monk ordered (but that only Stef still craves). I wish I could remember what was in it, but it apparently tasted like raspberries.

We had our own adventures when we were there, but I would truly have enjoyed knowing that esteemed author Chuck Palahniuk had the crap kicked out of him just outside as I dined there for a second time, snarfing down my Earl Grey and steel-cut oats. In true Palahniuk fashion, he relates that as he was getting tenderized by Doc Martens, a friend of his was simultaneously discovering that her date had ejaculated all over her couch and run out of her apartment while she was cooking him dinner. See? Wouldn't you be happier knowing these things had happened? Wouldn't you want your tagalong roommate telling you these things while you try to eat your scrambled eggs and toast? I know I would.

So yeah, I'm pretty sure that a copy of the book will make its way into a permanent residence in this house before long.

I've been having a lot of flashbacks lately, and I'm hesitant to immediately suggest that it's all because I've stopped taking St. Johns Wort. Fortunately, not all of the flashbacks are bad, but even the less-angering bursts of nostalgia just leave me cold. I was walking through the grocery store this afternoon when I realized that, like all things, my life's ambitions can be perfunctorily summarized in just a few words. The only thing I want in a relationship is loyalty. Looks, attitude, pet peeves and food allergies, hell, even gender all pale in comparison to that one simple attribute that just doesn't seem to exist anywhere. I'd probably turn gay if it meant I could have an utterly loyal boyfriend. He'd probably get upset that I still kept so much hetero porn available, though, so perhaps it wouldn't work out between us anyway.

In all its seemingly juvenile fictitiousness, it still amazes me that I am left slack-jawed and speechless, standing in awe at the infinite wisdom of Bayushi Ujiro. It goes without saying that I don't game anymore, and still this concept of loyalty — true loyalty, above all else — haunts me. Does such a thing exist? Can it ever be found? How do you go about selecting potential mates based upon their ability to exemplify loyalty? One-night stands are right out, as are the bevy of fun girls at the bar that will loudly bellow "I already have a boyfriend!" to all but the most persuasive of prospective suitors.

Loyalty, it seems, is not really something you can easily measure. Perhaps dating is just too much hassle. For the foreseeable future, I shall stick to egg nog and library books, two things that, so long as I treat them with the proper reverence, will never betray me.

"So long as I treat them with the proper reverence". Important words, not to be forgotten. It's easy to stand here and act blameless, but in reality I probably instigated (and certainly perpetuated) as much hostility in the old relationship as was thrown at me. Herein lies a paradoxical problem: how do you go about establishing unquestioning loyalty without also treading into territory that would make a disloyal person question their loyalty? How do you know which soldiers will march off into certain death at your command if you never command them to do so?

It would seem, Bayushi Ujiro, that you died too soon.