The 50th Anniversary Of The Summer Of Love, 1967- Elegy For A Los Angeles Man- The Trials and Tribulations of A Literary Man-Charles Bukowski
DVD REVIEW
Bukowski: Born Into This, Charles Bukowski and others, directed by John Dullaghan, Magnolia, 2003
Back in the early 1970’s, well- before he became a cult figure of some stature, someone, somewhere directed me to some articles written by the king of “gonzo” journalist, the late Doctor Hunter S. Thompson for the then radical political/musical “Rolling Stone” magazine. Readers of this space are well aware of my affection for the writings of the good doctor. Around that same time the same person who “turned me on to” Thompson, as the expression of the day went, also mentioned that if I liked Thompson then I would definitely go for the then emerging Los Angeles literary cult figure under review here, Charles Bukowski.
I then read some of Bukowski’s stuff, mainly poetry from the various “little” presses like "City Light" but I was not that impressed at the time. Later, in the late 1980’s, when the movie “Barfly”, starting Mickey Rourke as Bukowski, came out I again tried to read his work, this time mainly the novels. Still no sale. Now, however, with this rather well done documentary that details the ups and downs of this literary figure who may have had the same kind of feel for the dispossessed, the “street people” of L.A., that his near contemporary Nelson Algren had for Chicago I think I have to take another look.
This documentary puts together the various aspects of Bukowski’s life (and incidentally demonstrates how tough it is to be an avant guarde artist in America) from his broken childhood to his struggle to find work, but most importantly, his struggle to write with the deck stacked against him. Add in a mercurial personality, some physical facial deformities (due to severe facial acne) and a very heavy drinking problem, including periods of abusive behavior to his girlfriends and others, to help drown his sorrows and one does not get a pretty picture. The film also gives enough snippets of his work (including some readings by Bukowski himself) to intrigue me to go back and check him out again.
But here is the kicker. I am always on the lookout for those who will speak for the dispossessed (like Algren, James T. Farrell, the young Dos Passos, etc.) even if there is no direct political linkage. Maybe I missed something before. Moreover, the “talking heads” that naturally populate a documentary like this included Tom Waits, Sean Penn, Bono, and Harry Dean Stanton. These are the same guys who provided commentary on a couple of Hunter Thompson documentaries that I have reviewed in this space recently. So, maybe I did miss something. Who would have thought?
BEER
from: Love is A Mad Dog From Hell
I don't know how many bottles of beer
I have consumed while waiting for things
to get better
I dont know how much wine and whisky
and beer
mostly beer
I have consumed after
splits with women-
waiting for the phone to ring
waiting for the sound of footsteps,
and the phone to ring
waiting for the sounds of footsteps,
and the phone never rings
until much later
and the footsteps never arrive
until much later
when my stomach is coming up
out of my mouth
they arrive as fresh as spring flowers:
"what the hell have you done to yourself?
it will be 3 days before you can fuck me!"
the female is durable
she lives seven and one half years longer
than the male, and she drinks very little beer
because she knows its bad for the figure.
while we are going mad
they are out
dancing and laughing
with horney cowboys.
well, there's beer
sacks and sacks of empty beer bottles
and when you pick one up
the bottle fall through the wet bottom
of the paper sack
rolling
clanking
spilling gray wet ash
and stale beer,
or the sacks fall over at 4 a.m.
in the morning
making the only sound in your life.
beer
rivers and seas of beer
the radio singing love songs
as the phone remains silent
and the walls stand
straight up and down
and beer is all there is.
AS CRAZY AS I EVER WAS
from: Love is A Dog From Hell
drunk and writing poems
at 3 a.m.
what counts now
is one more
tight pussy
before the light
tilts out
drunk and writing poems
at 3:15 a.m.
some people tell me that I'm
famous.
what am I doing alone
drunk and writing poems at
3:18 a.m.?
I'm as crazy as I ever was
they don't understand
that I haven't stopped hanging out of 4th floor
windows by my heels-
I still do
right now
sitting here
writing this down
I am hanging by my heels
floors up:
68, 72, 101,
the feeling is the
same:
relentless
unheroic and
necessary
sitting here
drunk and writing poems
at 3:24 a.m.
ANOTHER BED
from: Love is a Mad Dog from Hell
another bed
another women
more curtains
another bathroom
another kitchen
other eyes
other hair
other
feet and toes.
everybodys looking.
the eternal search.
you stay in bed
she gets dressed for work
and you wonder what happened
to the last one
and the one after that...
it's all so comfortable-
this love making
this sleeping together
the gentle kindness...
after she leaves you get up and use her
bathroom,
it's all so intimate and strange.
you go back to bed and
sleep another hour.
when you leave its with sadness
but you'll se her again
whether it works or not.
you drive down to the shore and sit
in your car. it's almost noon.
-another bed, other ears, other
ear rings, other mouths, other slippers, other
dresses
colors, doors, phone numbers.
you were once strong enough to live alone.
for a man nearing sixty you should be more
sensible.
you start the car and shift,
thinking, I'll phone Jeanie when I get in,
I haven't seen her since Friday.
SHE SAID
from: War All the Time
what are you doing with all those paper
napkins in your car?
we dont have napkins like
that
how come your car radio is
always turned to some
rock and roll station?do you drive around with
some
young thing?
you're
dripping tangerine
juice on the floor.
whenever you go into
the kitchen
this towel gets
wet and dirty,
why is that?
when you let my
bathwater run
you never
clean the
tub first.
why don't you
put your toothbrush
back
in the rack?
you should always
dry your razor
sometimes
I think
you hate
my cat.
Martha says
you were
downstairs
sitting with her
and you
had your
pants off.
you shouldn't wear
those
$100 shoes in
the garden
and you don't keep
track
of what you
plant out there
that's
dumb
you must always
set the cat's bowl back
in
the same place.
don't
bake fish
in a frying
pan...
I never saw
anybody
harder on the
brakes of their
car
than you.
let's go
to a
movie.
listen what's
wrong with you?
you act
depressed.
THE ALIENS
from The Last Night Of The Earth Poems
you may not believe it
but there are people
who go through life with
very little
friction of distress.
they dress well, sleep well.
they are contented with
their family
life.
they are undisturbed
and often feel
very good.
and when they die
it is an easy death, usually in their
sleep.
you may not believe
it
but such people do
exist.
but i am not one of
them.
oh no, I am not one of them,
I am not even near
to being
one of
them.
but they
are there
and I am
here.
BAD TIMES AT THE 3RD AND VERMONT HOTEL
from: You Get So Alone At Times that It Just Makes Sense
Alabam was a sneak and a theif and he came to my
room when I was drunk and
each time I got up he would shove me back
down.
you prick, I tole him, you know I can take you!
he just shoved me down
again.
I finally caught him a good one, right over the
temple
and he backed off and
left.
it was a couple of days later
I got even: I fucked his
girl.
then I went down and knocked on his
door.
well, Alabam, I fucked your women and now I'm going to
kick you all the way to
hell!
the poor guy started crying, he put his hands over his
face and just cried
I stood there and watched
him.
then i left him there, i went back to
my room.
we were all alkies and none of us had jobs, all we had
was each other.
even then, my so-called women was in some bar or
somewhere, i hadn't seen her in a couple of
days.
I had a bootle of port
left.
i uncorked it and took it down to Alabam's
room.
said, how about a drink,
Rebel?
he looked up, stood up, went for two glasses.
THOSE GIRLS WE FOLLOWED HOME
from: You Get So Alone At Times that It Just MAkes Sense
in junior high the two prettiest girls were
Irene and Louise,
they were sisters;
Irene was a year older, a little taller
but it was difficult to choose between
them;
they were not only pretty but they were
astonishingly beautiful
so beautiful
that the boys stayed away from them;
they were terrified of Irene and
Louise
who weren't aloof at all;
even friendlier than most
but
who seemed to dress a bit
differently than the other girls;
they always wore high heels'
silk stockings,
blouses,
skirts,
new outfits
each day;
and'
one afternoon
my buddy, Baldy, and i followed them
home from school;
you see, we were kind of
the bad guys on the grounds
so it was
more or less
expected,
and
it was soomething:
walking along ten or twelve feet behind them;
we didnt say anything
we just followed
watching
their voultuous swaying,
the balance of the
haunches.
we liked it so much that we
followed them home from school
every
day.
when they'd go into their house
we'd stand outside on the sidewalk
smoking cigarettes and talking.
"someday". I told Baldy.
"they are going to invite us inside their
house and they are going to
fuck us."
"you really think so?"
"sure."
now
50 years later
I can tell you
they never did
-never mind all the stories we
told the guys;
yes, it's a dream that
keepds you going
then and
now.
Zack James’ comment June, 2017:
Maybe it says something about the times we live in, or maybe
in this instance happenstance or, hell maybe something in the water but certain
things sort of dovetail every now and again. I initially started this
commentary segment after having written a longest piece for my brother and his
friends as part of a small tribute booklet they were putting together about my and
their takes on the Summer of Love, 1967. That event that my brother, Alex, had
been knee deep in had always interested me from afar since I was way too young
to have appreciated what was happening in San Francisco in those Wild West
days. What got him motivated to do the booklet had been an exhibit at the de
Young Art Museum in Golden Gate Park where they were celebrating the 50th
anniversary of the events of that summer with a look at the music, fashion,
photography and exquisite poster art which was created then just as vivid
advertising for concerts and “happenings” but which now is legitimate artful
expression.
That project subsequently got me started thinking about the
late Hunter Thompson, Doctor Gonzo, the driving force behind a new way of
looking at and presenting journalism which was really much closer to the nub of
what real reporting was about. Initially I was interested in some of Thompson’s
reportage on what was what in San Francisco as he touched the elbows of those
times having spent a fair amount of time working on his seminal book on the
Hell’s Angels while all hell was breaking out in Frisco town. Delved into with
all hands and legs the high points and the low, the ebb which he located
somewhere between the Chicago Democratic Convention fiasco of the summer of
1968 and the hellish Rollins Stones Altamont concert of 1969.
Here is what is important today though, about how the dots
get connected out of seemingly random occurrences. Hunter Thompson also made
his mark as a searing no holds barred mano y mano reporter of the rise and
fall, of the worthy demise of one Richard Milhous Nixon at one time President
of the United States and a common low-life criminal of ill-repute. Needless to
say today, the summer of 2107, in the age of one Donald Trump, another
President of the United States and common low-life criminal begs the obvious
question of what the sorely missed Doctor Gonzo would have made of the whole
process of the self-destruction of another American presidency, or a damn good
run at self-destruction. So today and maybe occasionally in the future there
will be some intertwining of commentary about events fifty years ago and today.
Below to catch readers up to speed is the most recent “homage” to Hunter
Thompson. And you too I hope will ask the pertinent question. Hunter where are
you when we need, desperately need, you.
*******
Zack James comment, Summer of 2017
You know it is in a way too bad that “Doctor Gonzo”-Hunter S
Thompson, the late legendary journalist who broke the back, hell broke the
neck, legs, arms of so-called objective journalism in a drug-blazed frenzy back
in the 1970s when he “walked with the king”’ is not with us in these times. (Walking
with the king not about walking with any king or Doctor King but being so high
on drugs, your choice, that commin clay experiences fall by the way side. In
the times of this 50th anniversary commemoration of the Summer of
Love, 1967 which he worked the edges of while he was doing research (live and
in your face research by the way) on the notorious West Coast-based Hell’s
Angels. His “hook” through Ken Kesey and the Merry Pranksters down in Kesey’s
place in La Honda where many an “acid test” took place, where many walked with
the king, if you prefer, and where for a time the Angels, Hunter in tow, were
welcomed. He had been there in the high tide, when it looked like we had the night-takers
on the run and later as well when he saw the ebb tide of the 1960s coming a
year or so later although that did not stop him from developing the
quintessential “gonzo” journalism fine-tuned with plenty of dope for which he
would become famous before the end, before he took his aging life and left
Johnny Depp and company to fling his ashes over this good green planet. He
would have “dug” the exhibition, maybe smoked a joint for old times’ sake (oh
no, no that is not done in proper society, in high art society these days) at
the de Young Museum at the Golden Gate Park highlighting the events of the
period showing until August 20th of this year.
Better yet he would have had this Trump thug bizarre
weirdness wrapped up and bleeding from all pores just like he regaled us with
the tales from the White House bunker back in the days when Trump’s kindred one
Richard Milhous Nixon, President of the United States and common criminal was
running the same low rent trip before he was run out of town by his own like
some rabid rat. He would have gone crazy seeing all the crew deserting the
sinking U.S.S. Trump with guys like fired FBI Director Comey going to Capitol
Hill and saying out loud the emperor has no clothes and would not know the
truth if it grabbed him by the throat. Every day would be a feast day. But
perhaps the road to truth these days, in the days of “alternate facts” and
assorted other bullshit would have been bumpier than in those more “civilized”
times when simple burglaries and silly tape-recorders ruled the roost. Hunter
did not make the Nixon “hit list” (to his everlasting regret for which he could
hardly hold his head up in public) but these days he surely would find himself
in the top echelon. Maybe too though with these thugs who like their forbears
would stop at nothing he might have found himself in some back alley bleeding
from all pores. Hunter Thompson wherever you are –help. Selah. Enough said-for
now
DVD REVIEW
Bukowski: Born Into This, Charles Bukowski and others, directed by John Dullaghan, Magnolia, 2003
Back in the early 1970’s, well- before he became a cult figure of some stature, someone, somewhere directed me to some articles written by the king of “gonzo” journalist, the late Doctor Hunter S. Thompson for the then radical political/musical “Rolling Stone” magazine. Readers of this space are well aware of my affection for the writings of the good doctor. Around that same time the same person who “turned me on to” Thompson, as the expression of the day went, also mentioned that if I liked Thompson then I would definitely go for the then emerging Los Angeles literary cult figure under review here, Charles Bukowski.
I then read some of Bukowski’s stuff, mainly poetry from the various “little” presses like "City Light" but I was not that impressed at the time. Later, in the late 1980’s, when the movie “Barfly”, starting Mickey Rourke as Bukowski, came out I again tried to read his work, this time mainly the novels. Still no sale. Now, however, with this rather well done documentary that details the ups and downs of this literary figure who may have had the same kind of feel for the dispossessed, the “street people” of L.A., that his near contemporary Nelson Algren had for Chicago I think I have to take another look.
This documentary puts together the various aspects of Bukowski’s life (and incidentally demonstrates how tough it is to be an avant guarde artist in America) from his broken childhood to his struggle to find work, but most importantly, his struggle to write with the deck stacked against him. Add in a mercurial personality, some physical facial deformities (due to severe facial acne) and a very heavy drinking problem, including periods of abusive behavior to his girlfriends and others, to help drown his sorrows and one does not get a pretty picture. The film also gives enough snippets of his work (including some readings by Bukowski himself) to intrigue me to go back and check him out again.
But here is the kicker. I am always on the lookout for those who will speak for the dispossessed (like Algren, James T. Farrell, the young Dos Passos, etc.) even if there is no direct political linkage. Maybe I missed something before. Moreover, the “talking heads” that naturally populate a documentary like this included Tom Waits, Sean Penn, Bono, and Harry Dean Stanton. These are the same guys who provided commentary on a couple of Hunter Thompson documentaries that I have reviewed in this space recently. So, maybe I did miss something. Who would have thought?
BEER
from: Love is A Mad Dog From Hell
I don't know how many bottles of beer
I have consumed while waiting for things
to get better
I dont know how much wine and whisky
and beer
mostly beer
I have consumed after
splits with women-
waiting for the phone to ring
waiting for the sound of footsteps,
and the phone to ring
waiting for the sounds of footsteps,
and the phone never rings
until much later
and the footsteps never arrive
until much later
when my stomach is coming up
out of my mouth
they arrive as fresh as spring flowers:
"what the hell have you done to yourself?
it will be 3 days before you can fuck me!"
the female is durable
she lives seven and one half years longer
than the male, and she drinks very little beer
because she knows its bad for the figure.
while we are going mad
they are out
dancing and laughing
with horney cowboys.
well, there's beer
sacks and sacks of empty beer bottles
and when you pick one up
the bottle fall through the wet bottom
of the paper sack
rolling
clanking
spilling gray wet ash
and stale beer,
or the sacks fall over at 4 a.m.
in the morning
making the only sound in your life.
beer
rivers and seas of beer
the radio singing love songs
as the phone remains silent
and the walls stand
straight up and down
and beer is all there is.
AS CRAZY AS I EVER WAS
from: Love is A Dog From Hell
drunk and writing poems
at 3 a.m.
what counts now
is one more
tight pussy
before the light
tilts out
drunk and writing poems
at 3:15 a.m.
some people tell me that I'm
famous.
what am I doing alone
drunk and writing poems at
3:18 a.m.?
I'm as crazy as I ever was
they don't understand
that I haven't stopped hanging out of 4th floor
windows by my heels-
I still do
right now
sitting here
writing this down
I am hanging by my heels
floors up:
68, 72, 101,
the feeling is the
same:
relentless
unheroic and
necessary
sitting here
drunk and writing poems
at 3:24 a.m.
ANOTHER BED
from: Love is a Mad Dog from Hell
another bed
another women
more curtains
another bathroom
another kitchen
other eyes
other hair
other
feet and toes.
everybodys looking.
the eternal search.
you stay in bed
she gets dressed for work
and you wonder what happened
to the last one
and the one after that...
it's all so comfortable-
this love making
this sleeping together
the gentle kindness...
after she leaves you get up and use her
bathroom,
it's all so intimate and strange.
you go back to bed and
sleep another hour.
when you leave its with sadness
but you'll se her again
whether it works or not.
you drive down to the shore and sit
in your car. it's almost noon.
-another bed, other ears, other
ear rings, other mouths, other slippers, other
dresses
colors, doors, phone numbers.
you were once strong enough to live alone.
for a man nearing sixty you should be more
sensible.
you start the car and shift,
thinking, I'll phone Jeanie when I get in,
I haven't seen her since Friday.
SHE SAID
from: War All the Time
what are you doing with all those paper
napkins in your car?
we dont have napkins like
that
how come your car radio is
always turned to some
rock and roll station?do you drive around with
some
young thing?
you're
dripping tangerine
juice on the floor.
whenever you go into
the kitchen
this towel gets
wet and dirty,
why is that?
when you let my
bathwater run
you never
clean the
tub first.
why don't you
put your toothbrush
back
in the rack?
you should always
dry your razor
sometimes
I think
you hate
my cat.
Martha says
you were
downstairs
sitting with her
and you
had your
pants off.
you shouldn't wear
those
$100 shoes in
the garden
and you don't keep
track
of what you
plant out there
that's
dumb
you must always
set the cat's bowl back
in
the same place.
don't
bake fish
in a frying
pan...
I never saw
anybody
harder on the
brakes of their
car
than you.
let's go
to a
movie.
listen what's
wrong with you?
you act
depressed.
THE ALIENS
from The Last Night Of The Earth Poems
you may not believe it
but there are people
who go through life with
very little
friction of distress.
they dress well, sleep well.
they are contented with
their family
life.
they are undisturbed
and often feel
very good.
and when they die
it is an easy death, usually in their
sleep.
you may not believe
it
but such people do
exist.
but i am not one of
them.
oh no, I am not one of them,
I am not even near
to being
one of
them.
but they
are there
and I am
here.
BAD TIMES AT THE 3RD AND VERMONT HOTEL
from: You Get So Alone At Times that It Just Makes Sense
Alabam was a sneak and a theif and he came to my
room when I was drunk and
each time I got up he would shove me back
down.
you prick, I tole him, you know I can take you!
he just shoved me down
again.
I finally caught him a good one, right over the
temple
and he backed off and
left.
it was a couple of days later
I got even: I fucked his
girl.
then I went down and knocked on his
door.
well, Alabam, I fucked your women and now I'm going to
kick you all the way to
hell!
the poor guy started crying, he put his hands over his
face and just cried
I stood there and watched
him.
then i left him there, i went back to
my room.
we were all alkies and none of us had jobs, all we had
was each other.
even then, my so-called women was in some bar or
somewhere, i hadn't seen her in a couple of
days.
I had a bootle of port
left.
i uncorked it and took it down to Alabam's
room.
said, how about a drink,
Rebel?
he looked up, stood up, went for two glasses.
THOSE GIRLS WE FOLLOWED HOME
from: You Get So Alone At Times that It Just MAkes Sense
in junior high the two prettiest girls were
Irene and Louise,
they were sisters;
Irene was a year older, a little taller
but it was difficult to choose between
them;
they were not only pretty but they were
astonishingly beautiful
so beautiful
that the boys stayed away from them;
they were terrified of Irene and
Louise
who weren't aloof at all;
even friendlier than most
but
who seemed to dress a bit
differently than the other girls;
they always wore high heels'
silk stockings,
blouses,
skirts,
new outfits
each day;
and'
one afternoon
my buddy, Baldy, and i followed them
home from school;
you see, we were kind of
the bad guys on the grounds
so it was
more or less
expected,
and
it was soomething:
walking along ten or twelve feet behind them;
we didnt say anything
we just followed
watching
their voultuous swaying,
the balance of the
haunches.
we liked it so much that we
followed them home from school
every
day.
when they'd go into their house
we'd stand outside on the sidewalk
smoking cigarettes and talking.
"someday". I told Baldy.
"they are going to invite us inside their
house and they are going to
fuck us."
"you really think so?"
"sure."
now
50 years later
I can tell you
they never did
-never mind all the stories we
told the guys;
yes, it's a dream that
keepds you going
then and
now.
