Sonja and I were off to visit my mom and Reggie for dinner yesterday. They are just back from Costa Rica, where they had an excellent one month vacation with another couple until my mom was attacked by an alligator. I will get to that later.
First Sonja wanted to visit a big Chapters bookstore on the way. We do not have one of those in Steepleton. The store is very big. I picked up a copy of Bukowski's poetry, "Love Is A Dog From Hell," and the second volume of Hunter Thompson's letters, "Fear and Loathing In America." I have read all Bukowski's prose, over and over, but little of his poetry. Thompson's letters can be very entertaining, unlike most of Bukowski's.
Here is one of Bukowski's poems, the shortest one in the book, titled "Dog."
a single dog
walking alone on a hot sidewalk of
summer
appears to have the power
of ten thousand gods.
why is this?
Sonja bought some more of the books that, when she closes her eyes, make her still want to fuck me until I just about have a heart attack on a Sunday afternoon. If you are reading this and you write or will one day write novels as hot as Sonja reads, I, and millions of men like me, thank you from the sweaty Anarchy of our sheets and the cold dampness of our graves.
We were hungry after book shopping so we went to the nearby Milestones. Had not been in one of those in over a decade. Food was good; our perky-bottomed Christian university attending waitress, overworked and chatty, inattentive of us. We left before we could have our much needed second drinks but not before Sonja had a word with the manager about how he needs to keep more staff on hand.
"I thought he would at least apologize, maybe give us a coupon or something. Motherfucker would not even look at me!" The letter to Milestones head office is already in the mail. Sonja can communicate the fact Milestones owes us two fucking drinks much more politely than I ever could.
When we got to my mom's the first thing I did was ask her why the alligator attacked her. "I was poking it with a stick." Or, to be more accurate, she was drinking heavily and poked it with a stick.
"It may have bit me but I jammed my martini glass in its mouth when it tried. That's when it turned, mouth full of broken glass and blood, and swiped me off my feet with its tail. Broke a couple bones in my left foot and bruised that whole side of my body when I fell. Nothing that could keep me off a bar stool for rest of our vacation, thank God."
"The alligator bit your mother because she is an asshole," Reggie concluded.
Dinner was excellent. Alligator medallions, sticky rice, a jungle of a salad, consumed with two bottles of a wine from Australia named "Bitch." My mom will be ok but her alligator wrestling days may be numbered.
6 comments:
I had most of Bukowski's works, including some first editions and a wonderful hand-made book from 1963 (Crucifix in a Death Hand), autographed by the author. I exchanged the whole lot with a bartender for a year of drinking free. Buk would have been proud. He writes prose like no other. His poetry is wonderful, too (The Loser, especially). Glad you're a fan, too.
I love your mother and her swilling, unapologetic ways.
Jymn - Great bartender story. Worthy of a poem.
Stephanie in Vcr: I wonder sometimes if you are still reading. Good to hear from you. Everyone my mother knows agrees with you, even her downhomey charity group.
besides kicking the shit out of alligators what else does your mother do,what a wonderful woman. I wish I really do, that just once,even I'd take a half a once, I could have met and drank with Charles. Have a nice sunday
Keep your head down Uniplumber, you are surrounded by dope mad Oregonians.
Strange how nice that makes me feel, thx Beer. Def always reading. I'm glad you keep writing.
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