I'm sitting at Eagles, as usual, minding my own business, doing exactly what I want to be doing, I am unemployed, when a shadow falls across my notebook, and a voice says, "I don't mean to interrupt you."
What can that possibly mean? He doesn't mean to interupt me, but of course that is exactly what is happening. The base act of speaking to me accomplishes that which he means not to do.
"I don't mean to interupt you," he rasps, "but I see you're reading Bukowski." I wasn't. Yes, I had Notes of a Dirty Old Man lying on the table, but I wasn't reading. I was writing. It is okay to interupt a reader. A scrotum rotorootering offence to interupt a writing. He told me a movie was playing at the Nuart about the beat poets. I told him I haven't ever really read them. Then, he named them, "Ginsberg, Kerouac..."
"Yeah, I know who they are," I say. "I'm just not a big fan. I like Bukowski," then I clarify, "but not his poetry so much." He says, "People didn't like them much. They were harsh. Told it like it is." Now I'm having trouble maintaining eye contact. It's hard to look some people in the eyes. Guys that romanticize the lives and importance of the beat poets are some of them. Gals that do the same thing are great as long as they're drunk and the bar is closing and you should read their writing. I'll digress no further; back to the age-ed rasper. Who is this beat poet lover?
In his words: "I use to run with that guy," referring to Bukowski. "He lived in the area. Well, I didn't run with him. I was around where he was a lot. Tom Waites too. He's a musician." I tell him that Tom is an actor too. Do I believe him? Would it matter if I did? I decide to neither believe nor disbelieve. It is best to be disassociative on the issue. By that I mean, it is best to associate what he said with his reality and not impose his statements on the truth of the world as it exists outside of him. Am I missing some great first hand accounts about Bukowski? Maybe, but then again, those accounts would end up belonging to the world of fiction. No me importa.

Tomorrow, as always, tomorrow I'll be grabbing applications from coffee shops all around the valley. Selling myself short? Who gives a fuck? Not me. Why? Things always in all ways be worse. I could be the asshole driving his new yellow bug down Lankershim Blvd., with vanity plates reading "Yolkwgn." Why is it bad to be this asshole? I'll tell you. I get the distinct idea this pop-culture snorting Hollywoodite based his purchase of the yellow bug, particularly the color yellow, on the idea he had for his vanity plates. "Yeah, that's it! Yolks Wagon!!!" he shouted triumphantly after trying various ideas like fahrverpukin' for the lime green and VolksRaggin' for the blood red. Where's the drug dealer with "Cokewgn?" Idiotic sub-neo-yuppie foreign piece of shit driving dink! So there. Ha!

Well, now that I've surely made him cry, let us move on. Actually, let's not.

This has been day 2.

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