Women (the book)

Charles Bukowski is an American writer and one ugly son-of-a-bitch.  He often talks about how ugly he is, but writers often do things like that and you think ‘aww…he’s just exaggerating’, but Bukowski isn’t.  His dirty hair, his grimy teeth, his old skin.  But His writing comes from the same place and he knows it.  The tough, blunt words are his and they’re easy and interesting to read and yet make you uneasy at times.  He uses words like ‘cock’, ‘fuck’, ‘bitch’ and a lot more you probably can’t think of unless you try real hard) without batting an eye.  He makes everyone around his character seem a bit ugly themselves as well, so somehow it makes it all okay that all these ugly people are together, in LA, living out their lives.  Their fucking lives.  In some ways, you can’t help but be pulled in.  The romantic fuck it attitude of his writing and story get into you and your life a little bit as well.  The ease of the writing along with the ease of reading it all makes you feel like you can do it too.  Not like those other stories where you gotta think about every word you read.  No.  No large IQ needed here.  But make no mistake, it’s gotta be tough to write the way Bukowski does.  If nothing else, living it is tough, and I imagine that he used a lot of his own life for inspiration. 

Starr told me to read Women shortly after we’d started dating.  She’d finished it and had proclaimed Bukowski her favorite writer and was already on the next book, determined to consume every one of his works until she could understand him without excuse (in the end, sleeping with him would be the only insight she’d be missing).  I liked her fortitude and wished her luck (I myself used to do the same thing only with bands and music –buy every album, learn every word, then proclaim myself an expert).  She’d sold me on the book by telling me he wrote like a Beatnik, but just a little too late (the 70’s).  She also assured me the book would stick to the title and maybe I’d learn, or identify with, a thing or two.  I was hoping for the latter.  I was hoping the book could do some talking for me.  Maybe defend me.  If I identified with the writer and the story, I could just say, ‘Hey, this guy thinks what I think, so you read it then you know what I think.   Now leave me alone and go read what I think.’  Jeez…Here I am arguing in my head and wanting to be left alone.  It seems I must be fucked up too.  That may be the only way you’ll like reading Women –you need to know you’re messed up (if only a little).  Regardless,   the book sounded good if it was anything like the picture of the author on the back.

It took me months to read.  That shouldn’t be a reflection of how I felt about it (I can read a book I love for 6 months and a book I don’t care for in a few weeks –it just depends on my attitude and what’s going on in my life) I’m certainly glad I read it.  It’s not for everybody, so count yourself lucky if it appeals to you.  The story is about a poet, Henry Chinaski, living in LA who’s basically an old man writer just going on writing and his dealings with various women that enter and exit his day-to-day.  His main love is drinking though and as I said earlier, its not easy to live this life, however romantic Chinaski makes it sound.  Chinaski has no big plans, no life quest, and just goes around fucking young women and drinking (I mean really drinking) and giving us his descriptions and thoughts on the subjects.  The descriptions are great.  Bukowski keeps it very raw and straightforward.  There’s no emotion in it, and a lot of times it’s easier to see sex for what it really is when there’s no emotion attached to it.  Same with a drinking problem.  By not adding any emotion, there’s a certain amount of romance added to the writing, probably because you’re able to take out all those sticky details (literally and figuratively).  The lack of shame Chinaski has in telling us about all he does also makes it easier for us to go along with him and take it for what it’s worth because, well, he’s honest.  Usually in these kinds of books I get caught up with a character and part of me wants to be them.  This didn’t happen so much with Chinaski (though his emotions didn’t weigh on him much, which sometimes I envied.  Sometimes.)  I didn’t know what this meant.  Was I getting older?  There was a time I romanticized being a drunk writer.    Throwing up before readings.  Having women throw themselves at me, only to abuse them and not even care.  But I fear I couldn’t handle that now.  Even Chinaski finds holes in his philosophy (if not toward the end), and in this way, the character has his arch and I’m able to say it was all tied together nicely and I was happy to go along for the ride. 

After this I’m going to read Harry Potter.  A silly little kids book that I can’t put down when I’m reading.  I’m happy to read it, but I couldn’t do it all the time.  Bukowski is similiar.  I’ll be back for more soon.  For another stiff drink.  And Women was about as stiff as they come.

 

Notes, Insights, Etc.

-Starr said she heard David Duchovny’s character, Hank Moody, from the Showtime show Californication was based somewhat on Bukowski.  This definitely seems possible.  Californication is a great show.

-Bukowski died in March of ‘94.  Kurt Cobain Died a month later.  Nixon died that same month.  I remember hearing an adult complaining about how wrong it was that People magazine put Cobain on their cover and not Nixon.  

-As this book is autobiographical, the real Bukowski lived, in the 70’s, on DeLongre Avenue.  This was not only one of the sleaziest parts of Hollywood, but at the time, he was also friends with a dirty book store manager who was the father of Leonardo DiCaprio.  I didn’t know Leo’s dad was the literary type.

-If you like to read about sex, or drugs, or drinking, then you’ll like this book.  

The Subway stops at Neil Young and the Bathroom. Or does it…

My dad and I take in dinner alot.  Usually pizza.  Sometimes Mexican.  Sometimes something else like a burger or a chicken.  He orders alot and we usually end up with leftovers which I bring for lunch the next day.  Sunday night was no different except that he was bringing home Subway sandwiches.  Not my favorite, but a change is sometimes welcome.  I got my usual Italian Combo with lettuce, tomato, black olives, cucumbers, and oil and vinegar.  Mike had gotten me into this back in the days of 3C.  My dad got some turkey, ham concoction with hot peppers, pickles, and mayo (he’s not as healthy as he used to be).  Oh, he also got a chicken.

The next day I grabbed a sandwich leftover from the night before for lunch and had half the turkey, ham thing my dad created.  By 5:15 I was wondering where he was because we had plans to see Neil Young at Madison Square Garden and he still hadn’t called.  An instant later he did call and I knew right away something was wrong.  He sounded horrible and had been throwing up all afternoon.  He couldn’t go to the show.  I got off the phone and wondered how I felt.  That sandwich was disgusting (as bad as it sounds), and though I figured I was exhausted from working all day, something didn’t seem right.  

I went to the bar with a work friend who’d agreed to go.  I was on and off, sometimes very funny, but at the same time, my stomach wasn’t 100% and I could stop shaking that thought that I just needed to get home.  Even before the concert I was wondering when I’d be home.  But it was Neil Young!  With Wilco opening up!  For $60 bucks a ticket!  I’d spent three days listening to every song he had played previously on the tour so that I’d be ready for tonight.  Old shit mostly though (the new shit wasn’t out yet), but I’d be damned if I was gonna miss it.  And besides, concerts aren’t exactly movies (even though Neil Young does come around alot).

We had to listen to some opener.  The show was wasting valuable time!  It was 8:15 and Wilco hadn’t gone on yet.  Doesn’t Neil Young know all these old people need to work in the morning?!  We sat next to Carol and her sister.  They were on something and looked like they’d taken the first dose of it in ‘75.  Just beat up old ladies that were holding onto their youth.  That’s fine though.  They thought Wilco was garbage and compared everything to Led Zeppelin.  I guess you can’t blame them.  I myself was churning like a percolator.  Whatever I thought I’d be able to handle was beginning to not be the case.  I knew I’d have to excuse myself (stupid subway sandwich).   

Wilco was playing Walkin‘ off their Sky Blue Sky album when I first got up.  If you’ve ever been to a show at MSG of an older band, you know there’s alot of characters that come out to these.  Old dudes that look like they’ve never made out.  T-shirts tucked into pants.  Long hair on people who should have short hair.  And denim.  Lots of denim.  I like that.  Even after I washed up after my first mess of a bathroom visit, I felt good looking compared to everyone else.  I’d headed to the bathroom Jeff had shown me during a Rangers game.  The secret bathroom that’s used less than most of the others.  It served it’s purpose well.

The other funny thing about the Garden when a show like Neil Young is going on is that it reverts back to it’s old self.  Everybody was smoking butts in the stairwells with no regard for the No Smoking sign behind them.  Everyone was smoking dope in the bathroom and I’m pretty sure I was the only one actually using the toilet for it’s stated purpose (though I took that function to a new level).  Even Carol and her sister were smoking hash out of an aluminum foil pipe which they passed to us but we declined (last I’d heard, the city of Monroe’s hash wasn’t the best).  

I was able to make it through a few songs of Neil Young.  He’s really good.  His voice is on point for being 63 (probably because it’s usually a falsetto), and his guitar playing is authentic and man, does he work at it.  Makes you appreciate it, really.  You don’t need to know all his songs to enjoy what he’s doing and that’s always a feat for a good artist to accomplish.  I was pissed I was so sick.  I made another trip to the bathroom and then another.  I kept making the old people next to me get up.  I listened to Mother Earth from the stall.  I listened to Unknown Legend from the stall as well (which sucks cause I dig that song).  I felt okay for all his new shit (just my luck).  And was in the stall for Old Man.

Here’s a picture of the stall. 

Here’s another picture.  If you play Old Man in another room in your house you’ll see how I felt.

On my last visit to the bathroom I check the setlist from previous shows on my iphone to see how much longer.  I knew then that I’d have to leave.  We left while Rockin’ In The Free World played.  I was pretty bummed about how the night turned out.

I was sick throughout the night.  I took the next day of work off (today), and wrote a nasty letter to Subway.  If you’d like to see it, let me know.  Later on I spoke to my sister who also sounded horrible.  Turns out she got a stomach virus too.  My baby niece was a bit sick as well.  It seems something may be going around and it’s not the Black Forest Ham from Subway after all (though it should be).  I still feel pretty bad.  My dad feels worse.  I ate a baked potato and drank some ginger ale.  Pretty soon I’ll be asleep and hopefully by tomorrow I’ll be feeling like my old, messed up self again.

Some notes:

-When I hurled in the bathroom at one point someone in another stall yelled out that there was a ‘Total Eclipse Of The Heart’ in there (meaning my stall).  I have no idea what this means but even in my poor state I found this amusing.

-Neil Young sorta looks like a rubber Halloween mask.

Meet Up Dot Bowling

Bowling is so important to America.

Way back in the ’70s, people used to bowl all the time.  In fact, people not only used to bowl more, but they used to go to PTA meetings more, picnic more, people even used to drink in the bars more.  Now they do less of it.  Why is that?  What does it mean? 

Last week my friend and I spent well over $100 bucks each drinking and bowling.  It was a great time, despite the fat rip off also known as bowling in NYC.  Apparently bowling in this town is right up there with strip clubs, fine dining, and three round trip tickets on the Fung-Wah Bus to Boston (with 10 bucks left over for dim sum).  Don’t get me wrong, I had a great time that I will never have again because I refuse to pay that much to throw a heavy ball made out of mysterious stuff down a PAM greased alley to knock over pins.  And this wasn’t even cosmic bowling.  Also, I took a look around and the people there didn’t look so well off.  I’m sure they looked better that 99% of the people in bowling alleys throughout America, but for $100 dollars, I want to see celebrities in sweatpants shooting themselves.  

Now, up until the 70’s people used to be more involved in groups, in the community, etc, increasing every year from the previous.  Across the board people went to church, ate dinner together, joined the boyscouts, and so on, but by the early 1970’s all this started to change and people stopped being less involved.  Stopped going to the PTA meetings, stopped trusting each other.  Crime rates went up, voting goes down.  BOWLING goes down! Even drinking at bars goes down.  

Bowling is so damn important to America.  

I missed the first two games, so I just ate the leftover chips and had a beer, hanging out.  But then we got more beer.  We continued gambling.  Alot of people were throwing strikes and spares so I didn’t think I could keep up.  I did.  Then I didn’t.  Then I did again.  In the second game I played in, The Machine threw 3 strikes in a row in the first three frames (right?  I’m sure you’ll correct me).  For reasons beyond me, we cheered as loud for bowling as we did for the Giants in the Super Bowl.  Being social is important.

But back in the 70’s, what happened to everybody?  Well, for one thing, people started working all the time (in my case for less).  They’d commute more too, but mostly its probably tv.  Obviously.  So everyone stops making new friends, meeting new people and instead couldn’t get enough Dallas or St. Elsewhere.  

Afterwards, The Machine took us crosstown to meet his brother Detective _______ at a bar to fight crime and celebrate his birthday.  He wasn’t there though and instead we met Stuff’s cousins from Europe.  We didn’t stay too long and Jeff was too tired to go to Long Island.  So he came here and crashed on the floor of the apartment and had coffee with my dad and I the next day.  I lent him a designer shirt in the morning which made him look good.  As The Machine will attest, I have good shirts. 

Okay, but why is bowling so important to America.  

In a story in this book mentioned below.  Two guys who have nothing in common except that they bowl in the same place.  They bowl in the same place for years.  One guy gets sick and eventually needs a kidney.  Who gives it to him?  Yup, the guy from the bowling alley. 

In a final thought, according to Robert Putnam (of Harvard fame) your chances of dying are cut in half by joining one group in the next 12 months (or something like that).  It turns out, Social Isolation is just as dangerous (if not more) as smoking.  Why?  Being alone is apparently very stressful.  I guess physically, it takes its toll.  That, and if you fall and you’re alone, who will help you up?  

No one wants to be alone.

Notes:

All the stuff about Robert Putnam and his book Bowling Alone comes from the Radiolab episode Contact.

I want to join a beginners hockey league if anyone’s interested.

The Bowling Alley was Leisure Time Bowl in the Port Authority.  Very nice place.  Waaaaay too expensive.  

Here is the link for the book: Bowling Alone