they look adorable. they are adorable. their little voices. their weird ability to seem reasonable and human-like.
they know the sunglasses are upside down but they dont care. and you laugh and they laugh and even the wind and the sun and the trees laugh.
but then you take them to a red lobster on a saturday evening and omg.
they cry and wander and scream and destroy their food without eating any. and cry and annoy other diners and cry and crawl under the table and stand on their chair like Look At Me!
and loudly discuss religion AND politics.
then when you arent watching they defund planned parenthood as if it wouldnt affect countless women,
many of whom are poor
and without a lobby in DC.
but theyre cute
AS IF CUTE HAS SOME VALUE!
what is cute? why do we like it? are we foolish enough to think that it’s a reflection of US? why does cute matter? did cute get us to the moon? did cute cure polio? can cute help you sweep the Cardinals in September and help you avoid that super scary one-game wildcard playoff?
will cute get you into heaven or heal your back or stop a bullet?
if anything cute just gets us in trouble. it makes us believe in butterflies rainbows and unicorns. it makes us think that happily ever after really is a thing.
it makes us believe that yes yes yes instead of omg are you out of your mind?
the bible isnt cute. Jesus wasnt cute. freakin John the Baptist seemed like a looney toon with a hairshirt(!) and michaelangelo sculpted Moses with horns on his head.
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.
americas 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.
first, start by knowing that when you die you go to Heaven.
second, start watching sports.
what we love in sports is the team who comes back from an impossible deficit, with their star or unlikely star on the ropes, partially injured, undersized, outclassed, who no one believes in anymore
who makes magic happen when it matters.
and wins by a narrow margin.
no one loves the blowout. no one cares for a team that starts strong and finishes strong.
even the angels and saints want drama, despite what you want.
speaking of… third, read the bible.
theres all the stories about david and goliath, but that’s a red herring because david was never the Everyman, he was a superstar with no peers from the get go.
the better stories are the ones like shadrach meshach and abednego who straight up Trusted the Lord and stayed true to who they were when they were led into the fiery furnace.
always stay true, ponyboy.
it’s easy to whine, it’s easy to say oh woe is me, it’s easy to say damn it sure feels like forces are lining against me, but fuck that. life could be a million times worse. theres people with missing limbs, theres people who have babies and the babies are all effed up. theres people who have terrible things that have happened to their faces and brains and imagine what it is like for them to try to find a job
or try to get a girl to go with them to the dance or even a hay ride.
crappy as things might be for you, odds are you could find someone to go on a hayride with you.
then remember if parts of life weren’t tough we’d never have poetry or shakespeare or hbo or rage against the machine.
winter IS coming, fyi
are you just gonna sit there and whimper and look over at your neighbors green grass and envy what you think is going on over there.
i’ll tell you whats going on over there
none of your business is going on over there.
you have your own life to deal with, and it’s a full life, and it’s yours.
you are bigger than your struggles.
you have a terrible flu, youre in utah, and you have the ball.
do you really want to be known as the black dude who lost a basketball game in utah?
or do you wanna be known as one of the three bad brothers who casually danced into the firey furnace
and then breakdanced inside it?
theres a reason you learned how to pop lock
theres a reason the Good Lord smiles when He hears your name.
theres a reason when you walk down the street all the little pretties wave their hand.
a beautiful black xbi lady doctor today told me that i should get surgery on my hands and wrists and stop dicking around with the compression sleeves and icy hot and just let trained professionals cut and yank and remove all the bad stuff thats causing me pain.
all i want is you.
that and to go back to isla vista when a band could play on your balcony as the sun set and the keg settled in the ice bucket and the ladies of the house said hey
i just want to buy a house one day and not have to rob a band first to do it.
i just wanna write a book one day that will get taught in the same college class where Bukowski is taught but i aint got no stories like his to tell and they dont teach him to the kids no way anyway so why do i even think we’d both get taught when theyre obsessed with all the gold standards of yore who were fine and all but come on pappy.
pretty girl got in my car yesterday and said home james and i said if only. as if. you wish. turned out she was in the wrong Benz. and i said arent we all bb, arent we all.
got home and jeanine had done my laundry, hung my drapes and worked out a way the cats could sit in my windowsill and give eskimo kisses to the one eared black stray who lives under the house and this morning i got paranoid that he would give them fleas so i shut the window and they meowed in such a way that woulda broken any normal mans heart but i have no heart any more and i aint been normal since leon bull durham let that ball go through his legs in san dieger which is why i hate san dieger and wont ever name my kid leon bull durham
thats for damn sure.
but what do i want? i wanna girlfriend who, if i was in jail with a 5 million dollar bail, would bond me out after she won the powerball even though im probably the lamest heroin dealer in the world. she still believes in me and doesnt want me in jail even though now that shes a millionairess could get any man in the world.
except for the busblog. bc the busblog only cares about ur heart.
and when he kisses the right girl with the right heart sees a hippie band jamming on a balcony on DP in IV
as the sun is setting
and the old keg is getting pulled out as the new keg is getting lowered
into the tub of ice, topped with red solo cups, one of which has this name scribbled on it