Review of Charles Bukowski's 'Women' [SPOILER ALERT]

I just finished reading Charles Bukowski's 'Women'. Like, just finished it. Just now. For most of the book I had no idea where he was going with the whole thing... it just seemed like one graphic, semi-pornographic sexual encounter after another. I mean, obviously I knew he was going somewhere, because I've read 'Ham on Rye', and 'Post Office', but I had no idea where, or whether it would be anywhere truly interesting, and I had absolutely no inclination whatsoever to begin guessing.

I think 'Women' is by far the best of the three Bukowski books that I've read though, and it definitely resonated with me much more than the other two... the language, he is so detached. Every sexual encounter starts with his eyes roaming up some girl's legs – they're not even girls though, really, just bodies with names on them. Then she undresses and submits to him completely; “I mounted, stuck it in, and then...” is a fair summation of the end of every other chapter in this book, and there are one-hundred and four of them. He jumps from woman to woman to woman to woman, never growing attached to them, or even seeming to care when they walk out on him. At one point around the halfway mark he muses that all of his women leave him, but it is clear that this is only the case because he will take sex wherever he can get it. Only on his terms though. Only ever the way he wants it... he knows how he is, and for most of the book he is aware that he is selfish, and a bastard, and he understands why they all leave. He is seemingly at peace.

The morning hangovers and physical sickness barely seem to drain him, and the paid poetry readings that sustain his lifestyle somehow keep popping up out of nowhere, along with groupies, and fan-mail from easy women. He dismisses the men. But he hardly talks of love – he was married once, but had been in love four times. Now a dirty old man of around sixty, he dreams of the day when he is “an eighty year old fucking an eighteen year old.” Life-long dreams of a professional pervert.

This chauvinistic, evil womaniser has his run of the town for most of the book, and the thing is... and I don't know whether this thing is scary, or sobering, or humbling, or maybe just deliciously tempting in its realism... the thing is, it speaks to me. I don't stand for all men, and I'm sure there are saints out there somewhere among us, but the way Henry Chinaski (Bukowski's literary alter-ego) laps up woman after eager, fawning woman should have most straight men salivating. It's not pretty, and it's not nice, and it sure is pretty fucking uncomfortable, but he gets right to the core of it, at least for me. No wonder there is no mention of his mother... no family, no moral compass or ties to a possibly innocent past. Just a dirty old man, “sucking beer”, puking up blood through three-hundred hangovers a year.

Towards the end though, maybe the last seventy or so pages (out of three-hundred) things start to get a little clouded for Henry Chinaski. The sex is still good – in fact the whores and sluts that he so adores only become more and more sumptuous, their young flesh more and more tempting... but he has also met a girl, Sara, who touches something else in him. He doesn't say he loves her, and I trust him, he is a very honest narrator, and is frank and blunt about his feelings, both to his women, and to the reader. He doesn't love Sara, but he knows that she is 'a good woman', and this is a phrase he uses sparingly only once before. But the difference with Sara as well, is that she won't fuck him. She knows about his continuing conquests, and she suffers through his ongoing selfishness, but she always comes back, and there is something in that that strikes a chord with old, dirty Henry Chinaski. His last few sexual encounters span the whole range of women possibly conceivable: a young, nubile belly-dancer from Canada who gives him the time of his life, and gives it to him again and again; an old, haggard, sagging woman whom he loathes even before she is between his sheets, and infinitely more afterwards; a black hooker who sucks his dick terribly five minutes after meeting him in the car park of a liquor store; a ninety-pound, eighteen year old – at last. He has seen everything. Fondled every part, fucked every crevice. Still Sara waits, over Thanksgiving, Christmas, then she gives herself to him, without his asking and says, “Happy New Years Henry”; they fall asleep together.

After he accepts terrible head from the black hooker for twenty dollars, and then drives her to an intersection where she continues to hitchhike and no doubt solicit more of the same, he makes one last attempt – and there have been many beforehand – to steel his mind against any more fucking around.

“Sara was a good woman. I had to get myself straightened out. The only time a man needed a lot of women was when none of them were any good. A man could lose his identity fucking around too much. Sara deserved much better than I was giving her. It was up to me now.”

This is his final challenge to himself... three-hundred and four pages in and barely one more to go, he convinces himself that he needs to give this good woman a proper chance, because if he lets her slip away, then he will be doomed. Then another girl calls, another admirer, and this is where I was scared. Charles Bukowski was about to offer his opinion, in this last page, in one last conversation between a dirty old man and a juicy, delicious, groaning and spread-legged nineteen-year-old temptress. In the final lines of 'Woman' Charles Bukowski would decree whether, in his humble opinion, it was at all possible for a flawed man to accept the love of a good woman.

Anyone who says that Bukowski is a sexist, chauvinistic pig is probably right... but anyone who says that this is all he is is a single-minded, blind fucking moron. 'Women' is a book that is not afraid to delve past the scared facades that we put in front of ourselves to mask our true desires in our attempts to play the role of the good guy. I'm still not sure if Henry Chinaski is a good guy or not, but I am sure that he is a real guy, about as real a guy as there could possibly ever be in my eyes, and when his time came to decide whether he could be loved in the final pages of this book, my heart was in my mouth, as I felt my fate too, rested in his decision.

He sent her back. And still, there is hope yet.

Peace, Taco.

Daydreams

Today I was eating a banana and daydreaming on the tram on my way down to lunch with a bunch of comedians. I had already finished my first banana and chucked the peel in the bin before I got on the tram, but I was about to be faced with the problem of what to do with the second peel: there are no bins on the tram, and it was looking like a solid ten minute wait between my projected banana finish-time and my stop, where I could get out and find a bin. Ten minutes holding a banana peel? Pffft... not likely, so I thought about throwing it out the window.

The tram coasted past the police station on the corner of Church St and Bridge Rd and I imagined throwing the peel out the half-open window and it landing on the bonnet of one of the three police cruisers parked on the side of the road. Glorious, I could see it there. To throw it out of the window accurately and make sure it landed on the car I would probably have had to stand up, turn around and aim my throw carefully, but if I did it deliberately then I'd run the risk of someone seeing – it was broad daylight and the tram was stopping at the lights and opening its doors. If someone – a police officer maybe? – saw me throw the peel intentionally onto their shiny police car, then I'd be in trouble. They probably couldn't pin me with much, maybe a fine for littering or at worst some trumped-up vandalism charge, but regardless, I don't need that right now. The fine for littering is probably over a hundred dollars, and I need to pay rent god DAMN it.

I imagined the police officer, just walking out to his car after grabbing a coffee or whatever police do in the station, when he sees a young, dark-haired, olive-skinned youth wearing a red Adidas jacket intentionally throw a banana peel out of a tram window at his vehicle. He would yell, “OI!”, drop his coffee on the ground and give chase. “Stop the tram! OI! YOU!”
At this point I'd be sitting in the tram, fretting and trying to think of how to get out of my fine, the cute couple sitting across from me would be smirking at me, having seen what I'd done, and now knowing they were about to see me get caught. I would run up to the front of the tram and beg the tram driver to keep going; “Pretend you didn't hear him! Please dude, just go!”

And he probably would go, because he's cool. He doesn't like cops either, and it's perfectly plausible that he didn't see or hear the police officer, who is now just an angry, but receding figure in his side-mirror, yell 'stop'. After another couple stops though, the tram driver would tell me that I had to get out, I couldn't stay in the tram – he'd be remembering his responsibility here, plus what if the cop called in another car to intercept the tram? He wouldn't want to get involved in this thing. But all the while I'd be reassuring myself that it was only a banana on a police car – how could he possibly care that much about a little, frivolous act of trivial civil disobedience. I'm sure police get that shit all the time...

I get out of the tram, and wonder where I'm going to walk now, because I still need to get to lunch, but before I can really do anything I hear more shouting, and see the angry, yelling figure running up the slight hill on Church St. Running right towards me. WHAT THE FUCK?! Overzealous motherfucker... so I run. Bolt down a side street and into the suburbs, but I know he saw where I was running, so I know I have to get away. I need to hide somewhere, I need to blend in. I stumble upon a sunny park at the end of the street with a playground and two single mums playing with their kids. Some guy in skins is doing laps of the oval before lunch and a girl is sitting on the hill reading a book with the midday sun on her back. I run, panting, up to her and sit down, still looking over my shoulder.
“We've been talking all morning.” I try to run her through my alibi.
“What? Who are you?
“It doesn't matter, look, we've been talking all morning, okay? I've been here with you all morning.”
The shouting comes from behind us and the cop charges over the little hill and runs down it, straight at me and dives, arms out and face red with fury. Tackle. He lands on top of me and we both go flying a good couple metres along the grass before he pins me to the ground and shouts something about a little prick. My ribs feel broken, I can't move, everything hurts.
“What the fuck?!” the girl jumps up and screams, looking accusingly at the officer.
“This young man is under arrest for wilfully vandalising police property! THE CHASE IS OVER BUD!”
“What chase, what are you talking about? We've been sitting here all morning!” She sticks to the script perfectly, and at that precise moment, I fall in love.

During the lengthy court proceedings that draw out over many long and arduous months, I learn her name, and her birthday, and her likes and dislikes and all her favourite things as we fight in the halls of justice against police brutality. I even remember the colour of her eyes: green. She is my witness and with her help I win a victory worth millions in compensation for the injuries I sustained, I was an innocent bystander randomly attacked by a deranged agent of the law. My injuries keep me from work and I lay a spurious claim to a life-long disability pension. Me and my beautiful witness kiss outside the courtroom, and then go off to spend our millions on eating, drinking, and being merry. I propose to her in the park where we met and for the rest of our lives we are happy, and in love.

I imagine this all, while I am sitting on the tram holding the now-finished banana peel in my hand. I imagine it, but it never happens, because I am way too scared of getting caught and fined for littering. Instead the peel goes under the seat, and I brush my hands clean, before pulling out my notebook and writing the story I am not yet brave enough to live.

Peace, Taco.

Still Boring Things

It's been a big week for your olde boy Tuck this week, no word of a lie. Just a quick thought before we dive into the serious shit though; I've been considering how much of a funny funny thing it would be to open comedy spots, or indeed this post, with the greeting, “good evening ladies and people”. Do you GET IT? Fuck yeah you do. The kicker here – and I've italicized for those of you still struggling – is that the classic 'ladies and gentleman' has been ever-so-slightly changed so that the greeting implies that 'ladies' aren't people. It's a little bit sexist, and fun for all the family really. Just a cheeky poke in the ribs for all of you who had let your guard down... IT'S STILL ME MOTHERFUCKERS... anyway, that's neither here nor there...

Three days ago I moved into my new place and two days ago that new place was the scene of a terrible fire-storm crunk session the likes of which will never be repeated in this or any other dimension. Next weekend will probably end up pretty raucous too though.... eeeh. But other than being kept up through to lunchtime by a bunch of lecherous party fiends and a man wearing a cold war gas-mask brandishing a knife, this place is pretty near tranquil. My room is severely lacking in furniture and a bit heavy on the clothes-on-floor aesthetic, but we'll get there Jimmy. We'll get there one day.

Rachel – my pretty girlie girl – left for her adventure to the foreign, depression-stricken lands of Europe on Tuesday which fairly sucks dongs and I've been kind of coping ok I guess. Frantic emails have been flying across the world in both directions but it really does suck that she's gone for pretty much the whole summer. Pretty much. Pretty certain. I saw her friends today at the Worker's pub for the regular Monday morning hang, and kept half expecting her to turn around a corner... anyway, fuck that sepia dream, I'm doing alright. And I know that crazy bitch is going to rock bells over in Europe and I'm going to be hearing all about it so there's not too much wrong with that...

I don't have much to say here again, but I still want to keep y'all (all two of you) filled in and interested in how things are moving along over in Melbourne. Well they're moving along pretty well, donchaknow. I promise tomorrow I'll sit down and write a story on here, because these mundane status updates are barely even interesting enough to hold MY attention, how can I expect them to hold yours? Tomorrow I'll write a story, I promise it'll be good.

Peace, Taco.

Heartbeats, Fast

God DAMN it I have been busy... at least it feels like I have. Often times I have to breathe out quickly and mentally slap myself in the face, then focus on something still and try and figure out which set of emotions that I seem to constantly dart between are real and which are make-believe. Am I constantly on the verge of losing my head and jumping out of the nearest first storey window, just to exert the frantic energy that frustrates me from within? Or are the moments when my body feels most on edge simply fleeting weaknesses? Am I really so stressed? Am I really so busy? Is life really as hectic as it seems in the depths of my most flurried of moments? Or am I still floating gently through a series of difficult moments, only ever becoming conscious when the times seem far too tough?

This week I took a quick trip to Adelaide (I left on Sunday night by bus and returned Tuesday afternoon by plane) with the original stated purpose being to farewell my now-estranged ex-girlfriend, Melanie. While I had made a commitment to return for her last day in Australia several weeks ago, I knew deep in my heart as I departed Melbourne at 8pm Sunday evening that I did not want to go, and I bore a shameful resentment towards her for the fact that I was spending money that I didn't have on a trip that, really, I didn't need to take. I had a good time in Adelaide – I got to see my friends again and performed a killer spot at Rhino Room – but the truth of the matter is that I didn't need to be there and I should have just told her I wasn't coming in the end. We had fought enough and the last hug wasn't a hugely moving experience, as all the goodbyes were said long ago. I need to learn to say no to myself and to other people when faced with hard decisions that involve other people's feelings and I need to man the fuck up and cut my losses sometimes. This was one of those times. Yeah I mate a commitment to go, but what good was that commitment once it had become clear than any friendship we were going to have would be hollow and forced for the remainder of the time that she was in Australia and.... ugh, I'm just going to stop myself there. I think I've said everything I needed to say on that... Melanie is gone. Adios francessa, bien viaje.

So with that I can move on to something else I have been avoiding discussing in here – my new girlfriend... and there's an ugly little phrase if ever I saw one. We made it facebook official today... wow. If I could delete those last few sentences from this page and replace them with some sort of dot or squiggle or picture of a cat with a funny caption that could convey the same meaning, then I would... those words are ugly, and they make me cringe. Unfortunately though, they are a necessity, and while I'm not happy about writing the words themselves, the events that have brought me to this point could not have been better.

Rach and I met in the first couple weeks that I was in Melbourne while I was on the door at the Worker's Pub taking coin for a gig in the band room... she came up to the door and we chatted for a while, but I didn't ask for her number under some misguided pretence of 'playing it cool'. Good job Tugboat, cool. Professional. “Don't worry babe, I've done this all before.” Well anyway after your standard courtship etc. etc. we made it official for us on the 9^th of August (her calculations not mine) and then made it official for everyone else a few hours ago. I'm seriously fucking ecstatic to have met such a funny and interesting girl after only having been in this city for two months and am excited to see what happens with us as time goes on. But the catch – and there is always one – is that she is leaving for a gap-year tour of Europe on the 11^th of September and, while her stated return date is somewhere in February, it could be as long as that, or as short as the time it takes to get mugged at Heathrow Airport and be extradited home for vagrancy outside the international terminal.

It's the uncertainty that's really getting to me, but we'll cross that bridge when we come to it I guess, and for the moment, I'm having the time of my life... as always pretty much. I don't want to expound on this shit too much here, as these are really thoughts for my private pages and surely are as laborious for you all to read as they are difficult for me to write. Other than that though I have done three spots this week, and did as many last week, and I have a big one lined up for Tuesday at some place called Soto E Sopra which I have invited all DA BOIZ to come and check out. I know I have grown a lot in the two months that I've been here and while seventy percent of the material I put down ends up being scrapped before I even get to the stage, I have managed to put together a fair amount of good stuff including a solid five to seven minutes that I am confident I can take to whatever stage I can get on to. I can safely say that the initial period of settling in here is finished, and interestingly enough I feel like the first stage of me as a stand-up comic is over as well. I am confident enough on stage now to not fall completely to pieces if a bit doesn't work and while I am still coming up with a lot of stuff that, upon reflection really isn't very good, I can look back on the gigs when I ate shit back in Adelaide and say that I roll with the punches a lot more smoothly now.

Over the next few weeks I'll be working on a few stories that I have been telling to friends, and taking them onto the stage without having them written down word-for-word to see if I can capture a bit of the improvised feel that I have noticed crowds respond really well to. I'll still have my strict material there and will keep developing more of that stuff, but I think if I can make something that isn't written down work a few times in a row, then I'll be on the way to becoming a lot more versatile and gaining another level of confidence in myself again. It's all working towards what I know to be a very important goal – to be able to trust that what I'm going to say on stage will be funny, before I say it, and even when it isn't funny anyway, to keep saying what comes into my head again and again.

Fuck this entry is a little all over the place... um... I dunno. Maybe it reflects my slightly rattled mood at the moment. I feel like I have a lot of shit to do today, but really I don't at all... in fact when I walk back to the hostel I'm going to take it slow for once. Yep, that's the ticket folks. No worries. Maybe I'll listen to some Bob Marley... by the way, if you pay close attention, almost every one of his songs starts with a quick drum fill... now you know.

A little Easter Egg for everyone who kept reading.

Boobs.

Peace, Taco.