Today, all those many years ago, Charles Bukowski was born to parents so American that it makes you wonder why nobody has ever accused God of being a serial killer who likes the Second Amendment to the Constitution of the Nation of Miserable Fucks (NOMF™) so much because it allows Him to operate amid the confusion of ordinary madness in mysterious ways that even Kojak, Bono, Columbo would be at loss to identify the culprit.
I never met Hungry Chuck Bukowski, although I exchanged cards and letters with him for years and appeared in many small press publications alongside him, often in pseudonymous black suede shoes, before I became a virtual terrorist, committed to offering anyone with a computer and a Google addiction the opportunity to find compelling reasons to seek personally induced end of life care.
People who haven't heard of Bukowski are usually Americans because Americans are stupid, illiterate, and proud of it. Poor white Americans are even stupider and prouder of their stupidity than the rest of us.
Even irrelevantly educated Americans are averse to reading Buk the Puke because he was too prolific, too offensive, too uncaring. He cared a lot more than I do, the pussy, hiding "an extreme senstivity," according to his own reading of his own hilarious psychological profile, "beneath a poker face."
I can only assume that whoever wrote that bit of bureaucratic horseshit had at least a marginal sense of irony, considering Buk's face. He considered himself the ugliest man on earth. I saw that admission as a weakness of character.
Bukowski would have been drinking, drugging, and fucking today if death hadn't put the kibosh on his routine, so I've had to double down on Sarah Sirhan Palin to get the bobble headiness I need to celebrate Buker's birthday.
I feel the spirit coming up through my insignificant penis to mix with Peter Gabriel's sorry-ass light.
Go for it, Rush. Go for it.