there was this thread on twitter against bukowski

all these so called educated people talking about how much they hated him

it made me curious how much theyd read

but surprisingly they had lots of examples of how bad he was

terrible examples, of course, because everything they posted was beautiful

and real

and true.

it just shows to go ya half the world isn’t gonna love you

no matter who you are.

no matter what you do.

no matter what you write down, or experience, or battle through

bukowski was living in the worst part of skid row

and he died a millionaire.


and it was the opposite of top 40

it was dirty and grimy and lots of times he painted himself out as the villain

and for sure not heroically.

that alone is worthy of praise

but i didnt wanna fight em.

some things you cannot debate to the madding crowd

today is charles bukowski’s birthday, hes 101

i went away for 5 days and when i did i took two books. one was a bukowski book.

number of books i even opened: 0

maybe i should just sell all my books because seriously, who am i kidding?

i am feeling good today. for two reasons. i made some shrimp and scallops, rice, and very large broccoli

i may have undercooked the seafood and thats why im feeling buzzed and light headed.

if i die know that i loved every girl ive ever kissed and i felt lucky every time.

found a pic of an old gf the other day, standing nude in the rain.

how have i been blessed this much? me? was i really that funny? is that all it takes?

i ask these questions now because i have no prospects for any love in the future and that might be fine because i dont have any job prospects either.

will i die poor and heartbroken?

bukowski didnt and i feel i have as much to bring to the table as that guy.

for starters im not an alkie. not that theres anything wrong with that, but im not gonna get into fights and blow a ton of cash on $17 beers at the Rams games

but will i write a novel like Post Office?

probs not either.

so maybe i will die heartbroken

and poor.



I really hope Miss Ford didn’t give up on her dreams


Sometimes you don’t know why you get a rejection letter. Sometimes they spell it out to you. Sometimes you don’t get one at all.

For decades today’s birthday boy, Charles Bukowski got one rejection letter after another telling him he was gross, disgusting, sloppy, immature, unrefined, and writing about the worst parts of Los Angeles.

It wasn’t until he turned 51 that he had his first novel published, Post Office, which to this day is beloved, in part because it is gross, disgusting, sloppy, unrefined and about the worst parts of LA. It’s also super funny and totally relatable about how tough it is to work a job you aren’t really into.

Today Bukowski would have turned 99. It’s incredible that he lived past 35 as that was when he nearly died from a bleeding ulcer from drinking so much and eating so poorly. But someone upstairs wanted him around. I think it was to give us all hope.

And to show that if you stick to your guns and be yourself, that you don’t have to try to adjust to the times, the world will spin towards you.

The guy who couldn’t sell a poem to any distinguished outlets for most of his life sold millions of books after his 50th birthday.

If you are discouraged, hurt, or sad, keep this in mind: They can’t all say no.

Happy 99th to America’s greatest poet and LA’s patron saint.

maybe i wasnt meant to be bukowski

John Martin and Bukowski

maybe i was meant to be john martin, the publisher who “discovered” him.

despite the fact that he was getting printed in various magazines and smut papers, charles bukowski, as legend would have it, was plucked from obscurity by a book publisher in santa barbara

who told him that he would pay him whatever he was currently being paid at the post office

and then give him royalties on his books

if only he would quit sorting mail.

the deal was agreed to and the rest was literature history.

if i was a publisher i would pay good money to get Zulieka outta the mail room

because look what she wrote yesterday

today is charles bukowski’s birthday, he’s 24

charles bukowski let it kill youborn in a rowboat in Lake Los Angeles during the stock market crash, charles bukowski, americas greatest poet, never saw riches until he was in his 50s and never cared about them once he had them.

what he loved he did, be he broke or wealthy: the drink, the dance, the fight, the fuck.

he had a higher voice than youd expect and he sang when he spoke.

how do you doooooo, he’d say as his horse rounded the home stretch with the lead.

he loved to gamble on the ponies so much that he’d often drop off his wife at the huntington library in pasadena even if the horses were running in hollywood park. afterwards he would pick her up. was he drunk? probably. did he ever get a DUI?

did mark twain?

did hemingway?

did Moses?

if you were talking to Tom Petty right now would you ask him such a question?

Charles “Henry” Bukowski loved cats and classical music. he didnt care for your questions unless you were a pretty girl at a poetry reading at a college where he was invited to speak. and then he would just watch their lips move and eyes crinkle and hair gently flow.

did he ever cheat on any of his girlfriends or wives? WHERE DID YOU GET THESE QUESTIONS? DID ROOSEVELT? DID MONROE? DID LASORDA?

he smoked when he drank and drank when he wrote and wrote in a rocking chair in front of a typewriter until the year 19 hundred and 90, the year punk broke when he switched over to an Apple Quadra. the step brother of the Mac. a very young Steve Jobs himself  poured sand in Bukowski’s keyboard so the clicking sounds would be louder.

once Jobs offered Bukowski LSD but the poet didn’t want any of that nonsense. he wasn’t a Beat! he’d bellow. give that hippie crap to Ferlinghetti or Proust or Philben! he just wanted a cold bottle of something bubbly

and your undying love.

you, the one with the ruby red lip colors

you with the barrette

you with the notepad half filled with scribbles.

hop into my rowboat.

the lesson of charles bukowski

charles bukowski

friend of the busblog, heather the rabbit havrilesky aka ask polly got a great letter this week and responded to it in the perfect way.

someone wrote to her and said that shes a freelance writer and shes done ok but some of her friends have done better and she hasnt really gotten over the hump yet and oprah hasnt shined her light on her yet and well “Should I Just Give Up on My Writing?“.

and heather, writing in new york magazine answered perfect and said YES FOOL! (jk) but the one little minor thing she left out of her otherwise sparkling incredible response was the lesson of charles bukowski.

bukowskiamericas greatest poet WAS NOT DOING OK when he was 50. he wasnt living in silver lake, he wasnt living with a spouse who supported him emotionally, he wasnt any freelance writer, he was struggling, he was living in east hollywood working for the post office. he hated the post office. he was drunk. he was ugly. he was overweight. he had anger issues. he smoked. he gambled. he got in fights. he won zero fights. he was being rejected over and over and over.

but he kept writing. sometimes for money. sometimes because he was a horny middle aged man and some sex papers would let him write out his bizarre fantasies for beer money. but he kept writing.

it wasn’t UNTIL he was 50 that a rich, visionary publisher from santa barbara discovered bukowski and said dude whatever the post office is paying you i’ll pay you just write and i’ll split the royalties with you.

the lesson of bukowski is keep doing what you love. who cares that your friends are on tv or writing for new york magazine or married or have a house or two houses or three houses. or fourteen wives. or all their hair or the hair of fourteen sheep dogs.

keep doing what you love.

or if for some reason youve never gotten around to start doing what you love: start. because. thats why. start! some people never get the chance to start. they fool around with fireworks and their hands get blowed off. or they get involved in a dead end job or a super sexy woman and their lives get destroyed.

the lesson of bukowski is motor through all of that. we have so many hours in the day. surely there are a few of them where you could stop watching tv or stop reading books or stop sleeping and sleeping and sleeping and you will get off your ass and express yourself, madonna. surely there is an ounce of courage that you can squeeze out into the juice glass of life and share.

surely you know that your friends are wonderful but they are not you and you have a unique story to tell that is all yours and no one elses and only you can deliver it. and if you dont tell it no one will, which is a lie, actually someone will but, spoiler alert: they will fuck it up royally.

so you better write it down and quickly.

the lesson of bukowski is god bless oprah but she’s dunzo and theres no one else whos gonna save your soul except jewel and shes happily married to a rodeo cowboy so you better work rupaul.

that is what i learned from bukowski and i never would have learned it if he had given up on writing and just did his post office gig and drank and whined that he didnt have hella twitter followers. so you write your damn deal and f the haters in ur head.

todays bukowski and madonnas birthdays, theyre 24

bukowski, madonnahad a good hot weekend. it was hot. like hottern itd been all year.

slept over the covers with the windows open and the fan twirling and the cats purring and the moon looking down saying it dont look that hot from up heres

and the earth saying who the hell asked you anyways

friday ali said what are you up to tonight i said imma see a one woman show. she said no way. i said i know i never do that.

she said i wanna come. i said fine meet me at my place and we’ll take a lyft over there. she said not an uber?

i said, its good to keep the competition going.

the show was The Mermaid who learned how to Fly. kyla garcia. she was incredible. did like 20 different characters. two of them were in love with her. so basically she made out with herself twice.

once even as a lady.

it took me a little while to get into it because i dont go to plays. and it was hot. and you have to suspend your belief and just let go. but once you do, it gets fantastic.

so at first i didnt like her irish narrator fairy lady but as the play went on i kept hoping for her to come back, and when she did i was so happy. also of interest was the narrator was sorta falling apart physically as the play went on. bad back. it was funny. kyla was very surprising.

after that ali and i went to malo and ate tacos and drank margueritas. im not crazy about that place but its close and they had an outside so we cooled off.

saturday i ubered a little. hit my goal and then went to the academy to see Straight Outta Compton. it needs to be stated that since that record dropped back when i was in college, NWA and that record have been super important to me.

so to see it for free in the best theater in LA was incredible.

ice cube and the fans

full house. and almost everyone stayed afterwards to hear Ice Cube, his son, the director, a producer, and the dudes who played Dr. Dre and Eazy talk about it.

ive never seen that many people stay.

or cheer so many times at the end.

i give the movie a B+ but i give ice cube an A+ for staying after the talk and taking pictures with everyone who asked. which were hundreds. he didnt care. he soaked it in.

and the movie won the weekend. making something like $60 million. smash hit of the summer. a movie about black gangsta rappers whose music is not played on the radio. and yet one of the rappers turns into a movie star another tuns into a billionaire and a third dies of AIDS. so freaky.

xbi texted me when i was still in the theatre. they wanted a favor i said no. they said order an uber and we can help you out.

tanya and freedai said i didnt need any help. i was happy. i was in great spirits and i wasnt gonna do squat on sunday. they said dont be a dope, order an uber.

and when i did a toyota avalon appeared with this great reggae singer as a driver

and two swedish girls in the back

and the whole trip i thought, theyre gonna kill me, arent they?

this is how it ends?


reggae in swedish probably means good bye i thought but no

id been to sweden and i knew that hej då meant good bye

or did it mean hello?

the girls were just laughing at me.

they kept calling me Chicago.

hey Chicago, why dont you change your clothes and meet us at the Chateau

i said how do you say nothing ever good happens to chicagoans

late at night at the chateau

in swedish

today is charles bukowski and madonnas birthdays, theyre 24


last night i drove an 18 yr old kuwaiti kid from marina del rey to newport beach.

hundred bucks.

he sat in the front seat and told me about how in kuwait they’ll throw you in jail for life for having a beer

if a girl dates a guy and they break up and dont get married then shes shunned forever

that the worse thing you could do to you or your family is say youre an atheist.

88 minute drive and the whole way was nonstop about the persian gulf, religion and politics as wiz kalifa bumped in the background.

traffic was light, he had just been to six flags with his buddy, he wants to study engineering out here for college but it’s very hard he says for international students to get into a UC unless they have a 4.0 average.

so, just like i did, he is going to take two years of junior college and transfer in that way.

he says he loves LA, was not impressed by San Diego, was too young for Vegas, but thinks Dubai is the coolest place in the world.

no offense sir, but their taxis are Bentleys.

i dropped him off at a swanky hotel near fashion island and watched as cars unloaded with the most amazing young women in outfits i had not seen in hollywood.

and i was, salaam alaikum, g

and he was like alaikum salaam

every writers goal shouldnt be to write three good books like bukowski


it should be to write one good one.

like a really good one.

one thats more about all of us instead of just you.

one that future Tumblr kids can quote on their hologram blogs.

one that has meaning and surprises and is edgy and woulda gotten banned just like all the other great banned books.

one thats so good you need to write it under a fake name because it tells all the juicy stuff thats still juicy long after youre dead.

lets say you had a grandpa and hes long gone and you get a package one day from the people who now own his house

and they send you an old golden paged diary with a note:

we found this in our attic. it belonged to your relative. its so personal and good we dont feel right keeping it.

we googled you and found how to get this to you.

we promise we didnt read too much. sorry.

and when you read it you’re all GRAMPA!

thats the book we should be writing right now.

some ppl type about bukowski like they know him

bukowskithey pretend theyve read him.

likewise they think they know the first thing about this 22 year old virgin

living in isla vista.

i can imagine being on the moon

but i have no clue what it would be like to be 22 and never had even held hands with a girl

i was a 21 year old virgin in isla vista many moons ago.

long before instagram and facebook and twitter and youtube.

i cant imagine what weird ideas i would have had about my classmates if that was shoved in my face

but id not only kissed a girl or two before that, but had love.

still, i dont know the first thing about that stupid sad murderer who is now dead

and good riddance.

anyways, for some reason when you mention bukowski to some people all they remember is when he kicked his adorable wife Linda in that doc.

i flinched too when i saw it at first.

we forget that the drunken fool, the guy who rarely refused barfights (in his tales), could turn on the woman who loved him the most. on camera. for a brief moment in time.

we forget that people are complicated.

we try to pretend that we aren’t.

heres my favorite bukowski poem


there’s a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I’m too tough for him,
I say, stay in there, I’m not going
to let anybody see
there’s a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I pour whiskey on him and inhale
cigarette smoke
and the ****s and the bartenders
and the grocery clerks
never know that
in there.

there’s a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I’m too tough for him,
I say,
stay down, do you want to mess
me up?
you want to screw up the
you want to blow my book sales in
there’s a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I’m too clever, I only let him out
at night sometimes
when everybody’s asleep.
I say, I know that you’re there,
so don’t be
then I put him back,
but he’s singing a little
in there, I haven’t quite let him
and we sleep together like
with our
secret pact
and it’s nice enough to
make a man
weep, but I don’t
weep, do