Neanderthal man stumbles into a Barnes and Noble somewhere near Mailbu, his head swimming from the 17 dollar pasta he just ate and the line of employees thanking him on the way out....They must be confused, the pleasantries throw him off balance, what is it with these earthquake riders. these plastiques? His guide on this foray is a former east coast asshole who has been soaking up the beauty vibe for the last decade and is a fountain of west coast knowledge and trivia. He seems to have successfully transitioned his OCD from footbal trivial to guru. He's full of advice which on the east coast came out as harsh and judgemental, but here its been magically transformed, all unicorns and butterflies, projecting the right image and channeling the late Patrick Swayze in "Roadhouse" and "just be nice" Dude your energy is harshing my mellow.
Our caveman hero seeks refuge in the poetry section and opens a Bukowski to recenter his Chi. Its not working. The words dance, is there something pumped into the air like in casinos ? He walks down to the cafe' and manages to grab a seat at a table among the Pepperdine law students and the sad old men who surreptisciously leer at both sexes. He tries the bukowski again, but the picture is even sadder this time, and now he's worried about his image, Foul SoCal, what are you doing to my normally cavalier image? It's not all SoCal's fault, his transplanted pal's monologs were also trying to condition our cave pal, well not anymore. He strides purposefully to the restroom and comences his own program of conditioning the air.
Maybe that was all it was afterall, some gastric distress, but he hasn't been sleeping right and is up every morning at a the time he always gets up on the East Coast but here it's still dark as shit and there's coyote's. Well not here, that was the wonder valley and maybe thats where he should be heading. Back to where things sort of make sense. Broke people being nice to each other. Dark skies at night. Crazy hippies. Meteors.
He wakes up in Simi Valley and it is predictably dark. Revealtion. The confusing thing about the bookstore is that so many people are devoting so much time to produce books of poetry by cats, diaries of wimpy kids, useless love advice and vampire porn. There's still a few geniuses (Genii?) on the shelves but the people who understand the great thoughts contained in thier pages also understand that there are better ways to get your word fix than the retail nightmare that was ripping the flesh of poor Mr. Neanderthallus last night.
The reason he is son attracted to Bukowski is his efficiency. No four page descriptions of table tops. No long metaphors about whales or vanity. He found a cute little porch to hide under and growl and talk about the real things in life. Relationships, Beauty, the burning Empire, violence and Baccanaila. The ultimate survivor, a lyrical cockroach madly typing away in short little efficiencies that distract the neanderthal just enough to loosen his bowels, but not so much that he forgets to check for the sabretooth.
Our caveman hero seeks refuge in the poetry section and opens a Bukowski to recenter his Chi. Its not working. The words dance, is there something pumped into the air like in casinos ? He walks down to the cafe' and manages to grab a seat at a table among the Pepperdine law students and the sad old men who surreptisciously leer at both sexes. He tries the bukowski again, but the picture is even sadder this time, and now he's worried about his image, Foul SoCal, what are you doing to my normally cavalier image? It's not all SoCal's fault, his transplanted pal's monologs were also trying to condition our cave pal, well not anymore. He strides purposefully to the restroom and comences his own program of conditioning the air.
Maybe that was all it was afterall, some gastric distress, but he hasn't been sleeping right and is up every morning at a the time he always gets up on the East Coast but here it's still dark as shit and there's coyote's. Well not here, that was the wonder valley and maybe thats where he should be heading. Back to where things sort of make sense. Broke people being nice to each other. Dark skies at night. Crazy hippies. Meteors.
He wakes up in Simi Valley and it is predictably dark. Revealtion. The confusing thing about the bookstore is that so many people are devoting so much time to produce books of poetry by cats, diaries of wimpy kids, useless love advice and vampire porn. There's still a few geniuses (Genii?) on the shelves but the people who understand the great thoughts contained in thier pages also understand that there are better ways to get your word fix than the retail nightmare that was ripping the flesh of poor Mr. Neanderthallus last night.
The reason he is son attracted to Bukowski is his efficiency. No four page descriptions of table tops. No long metaphors about whales or vanity. He found a cute little porch to hide under and growl and talk about the real things in life. Relationships, Beauty, the burning Empire, violence and Baccanaila. The ultimate survivor, a lyrical cockroach madly typing away in short little efficiencies that distract the neanderthal just enough to loosen his bowels, but not so much that he forgets to check for the sabretooth.
