How LeBron Helps Save me Money

Word around Cleveland used to be

that LeBron was a lousy tipper or

didn’t even tip at all. Now I’m not

exactly what anyone would call

a great humanitarian, but for

many years I was a good tipper.

Better than most–even when

money was tight, as it usually

was and is. But whenever I’d

look into the careworn face of

waiter, waitress, or other service

worker, I ‘d always tip at least 25-

40%. After all, I told myself, we’re

all just slaves on this global

plantation now. Hell, I’d even

tip big at the sandwhich shop

down the street, whose spokesman

struck me as disturbing, even

before he was outed as a major

kiddie diddler. But then LeBron-

mania washed over Cleveland,

and the rest of the nation, like

10,000 tons of liquified BS.

The towering LeBron billboard,

featuring the man himself in a

messianic pose no less, stood

menacingly as an affront to the long-

cherished myth of Karmic Justice

itself. After all, if the rumors are

even half-true, could even a quantum

microscope detect the soul of a man

so tiny that it wouldn’t motivate it’s

corporeal host to leave big tips for

his own adoring fans, who wait on him

at table or bar? Of course, this criticism

is only valid assuming that the rumors of

him being a terrible tipper are true,

which I couldn’t vouch for myself,

though I have talked to a dancer

and two waitresses who personally

attested to the rumor’s validity. Well,

that was enough for me, that and

the fact that I’ve noticed most star-

athletes are jerks, whether it

be in high school or the NBA.

But getting back to how LeBron

saved me money….Like I said, I’d

gotten into the habit of tipping big

and when I was thanked I’d quip

back something like, “Hey, I’m no

LeBron, okay.” To which the counter

stiff, dancer, or waitress would retort

something like “Hey, as long as he keeps

winning us games!” or even “SO WHAT?

He gives in other ways!” as if tax-deductable

“donations” are the same as real giving–

face-to-face. Well, after getting enough

reactions like these, I really had to

wonder why I was wasting my hard-

earned cabbage on cucks and clucks.

I decided to save my money, donate

more to homeless cats, and use my

money and words to beat the crap

out of humanity instead.

 

–Fyodor Bukowski, author of MAIL-ORDER ANNIE (A Story of Passion and Compassion). I won’t even bother to link it here. Go buy a LeBron bio instead, morons.

 

 

 

 

 

The Consequences of Not Winning the Lottery

The consequences of not winning

the lottery can be severe. There are

as many kinds of lotteries as there

are people, heavens or hells: the Good-

Looks lottery, the Silver Spoon Lottery,

and who could forget The-Being-in-the-

Right-Time-and-Place Lottery.

A player can win or lose as many

lotteries as that fickle wheel of Fortune

dictates. Some win them all; some none.

While some win some: take Lord Byron

for example: he won all three of those

mentioned already, but he lost The-4-

Sound-and-Healthy-Limbs Lottery…

by one. And then there other cases:

say, for example, the lame and ugly

sonneteer haunting the 21st Century

bus stop at the corner of Bad Genes

Street and Terrible Timing Avenue.

Needless to say, the consequences of

losing all three of the aforementioned

lotteries are dire indeed, while the player

who wins even one might have a

chance. Good looks, riches, or even

just four sound and healthy limbs,

with a little luck, could lead a player

to the promised land. But even one

mistep could bring the winner of just

one lottery down, causing that player

to slip into one of the many hells

that lie languidly yawning

for players like you

and me.

 

— Fyodor Bukowski, author of MAIL-ORDER ANNIE (A Story of Passion and Compassion)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Opossum in the Road

I have this walking nightmare

that sometimes comes true:

the nightmare is that I see a

wounded animal in the road and

there’s not much I can do about it.

One night when practically

nothing was going according to

plan, the Big Prick in the

sky decided to make things even

worse: I’m driving along and see

an opossum in the middle of the

road, half-upright, and staring

straight ahead. So I pull over,

get out of the car and defying

the inexorable flow of idiotic

traffic, walk up to him or her,

and notice that the legs are

crushed and there’s blood around

the mouth. It was likely the usual

case: some sports fan must have

hit him and just drove off to his

ball game, Wal-Mart, or fat wife.

I call the police, explain, and

ask for an officer to come and

put the opossum out of his misery.

The dispatcher, sounding bored,

says she’ll send someone. Fifteen

or so long minutes later, I call

back. The officers are busy with

“more important matters.” I say if

those cops were real men, they

wouldn’t tolerate a system that

keeps releasing criminals so they

have to catch and arrest them

all over again. Then with an eye-

rolling voice, she addresses me by

name and says they’re on their

way. By then I’m cursing myself for

not having a shovel with me, so I

drive home, grab one, double back,

and see the opossum’s head down–

no life in the eyes. I use the shovel

to move him or her under a

nearby tree. When the officer

arrives, he’s tired, but polite. I ask

him to shoot the poor creature,

just to make sure he’s not

suffering; but the officer assures

me he’s dead, though he doesn’t

seem to give a damn any more

than the endless steam of

motorists, driving by, towards

their own inglorious deaths.

 

— Fyodor Bukowski, author of MAIL-ORDER ANNIE (A Story of Passion and Compassion): MAIL-ORDER ANNIE (A Story of Passion and Compassion)

 

 

 

 

Real Ghosts

Forget about that cartoon

friendly ghost and forget

about that wisp-of-fog

that looked surprisingly

like Lucky, your first dog.

And forget about those

specter-detectors the

comic books tried to sell

you when you were 13.

An honest ghost-  

detective once stated

that he’d spent three

decades and tons of

money exhaustively

searching for evidence

of even one example

of ghostly activity but

could verify none.

And like the rare honest

politician, he found that

telling the truth was the

quickest way to end a

career. But there are

real ghosts. I see them

nearly everywhere now:

the library, mall, the fast-

food spot down the street.

Most would say they’re

just as flesh-substantial

as you or me, though

their clothes tend to

be frayed and ratty,

but not always. These ghosts

either mutter to themselves

or say nothing at all. Their

faces often resemble those

crumpled road maps we’d

shove in our glove compartments

back in the 80s. And like those

maps, their faces never took

them where they needed to be.

Sometimes they look hard at

those living ones who can only see

through or past them, and then these

ghosts ask themselves if anything or

anyone else is real. To tell you

the truth, I’m starting to wonder

if I’m becoming a ghost myself;

it seems like they’re the only ones

who can see me these days. Like

I’m becoming increasingly

insubstantial to the living as

the years stagger on. Even now,

as I type this, I could swear I see

my fingers pass halfway into the

keyboard. And I doubt this poem

will be felt by anyone of living blood

–or anyone who could make me

real again.

 

— Fyodor Bukowski, author of MAIL-ORDER ANNIE (A Story of Passion and Compassion) : Click on this.

Those Lives with Great Plot-Lines

We love following

and reading about

those famous people

whose lives make

for great plot-lines: the

young writer whose father

throws his first manuscripts

out onto the front lawn, who

then starves in the streets,

only to eventually be discovered

and bring poetry back

to the many;  The gangley, gap-toothed

guitarist who cops a few chords and

early rock riffs then nearly freezes

in squalor with his “mates,”

who go on to rock the balloon-filled

stadiums of the world, marry supermodels,

and grow gold as country gentlemen,

because they were good AND they hit the scene

at just the right time and place.

We especially love those rags-to-riches plots,

played-out in real life; but don’t forget that

for every one of those, there are millions of lives

marked by early struggle, sparkles or even

bonfires of promise, which only go on

to get snuffed by bad weather, hit up against too

much resistance, and so they never get

the applesauce applause, much less the country

castles. And don’t make the mistake of thinking,

that all of those were somehow less

than the the great and lucky ones;

too often the forces fail

to congeal in such a way

as to make peoples’ lives

the stuff of great

plot-lines.

 

–by Fyodor Bukowski, author of MAIL-ORDER ANNIE (A Story of Passion and Compassion) Click here: MAIL-ORDER ANNIE

 

 

 

A Good Way to Die

My favorite death scene

is when “The Motorcycle Boy”

in RUMBLEFISH breaks into

the pet store at night to free

these fighting fish. While he’s

doing it, he mutters something

about the fish, how they won’t

need to fight, if they just can

make it to the river. Now the

motorcycle boy, played by

Mickey Rourke, knows that

the pet store is guarded by

this hard ass cop who’s had

it out for him for him for a

good long time, so when the

“boy” is gunned down in the

street with that fish tank in

his arms, we get the idea

that he was ready for end

and even wanted it to go

that way.

Now I’ve been thinking

of another good way to

make a final exit, say

there’s this guy who feeds

stray cats and he’s really

pissed because the only

others who seem to care

are mostly older ladies

whose maternal urges have

been displaced onto hapless cats.

Now say this guy is mad about

more than just how society

regards cats, so when he goes

to feed them, or change the straw

in the makeshift shelter he’s built,

he’s strapped with a .38 on his side.

And say that one day (or night)

he feels that his light is spent, so

he really takes his time

pouring out the dry food and

laying the wet food over it, then

arranging the straw in the shelter

just right, until finally, some cow-faced

fool comes hoofing out of his castle of

commerce or over-mowed  back yard

and yells something like, “Hey, quit feeding

those cats!” So then our cat-guy pulls his

revolver, aims it, and blows a big hole out

the back of cow face’s fat head.

Then our hero waits for the cops to

arrive, while his hands are shaking,

because this isn’t some movie directed

by Francis Ford Coppola, and he’s just

not as cool as The Motorcycle Boy, and

he knows what comes next; but still he

has no regrets. He’s even relieved, feels

he’s chosen his end well, even if only a

few can see it that way.

 

by Fyodor Bukowski

Check out his novel MAIL-ORDER ANNIE (A Story of Passion and Compassion).

 

Keith Richard’s Mouse

When he was a lil Keef,

way before the Stones,

he had a little white mouse

named Gladys. He kept her

in his pocket, brought her

to school and fed her

from his lunch and dinner.

In his autobio he wrote that

“Gladys was true and trusted,”

which is more than can be said

for some so-called humans

from his or any other

life.

 

Well, his mother killed the

little mouse, and  Keith

“never forgave her for that.”

And it’s nice to know that

on some balloon-filled

stadium stage somewhere

in the world

under all that

tough-guy swagger

and bravado rolls

a pretty sweet

soul.

–by Fyodor Bukowski    Read his IndieReader-Approved novel: MAIL-ORDER ANNIE (a Story of Passion and Compassion)      *ALL proceeds go towards feeding and “fixing” homeless cats. (Proof available upon serious inquiry)

Click Here for MAIL-ORDER ANNIE

Dumb-Ass Cowboy Hat

How can cowboy hats

look so good in the old

Westerns, when they look

so dumb in real life these

days?

 

Saw this guy striding

across the lot today, a

pristine snow-white

cowboy hat squatting atop

his bovine head. Could

hardly keep my soy burger

in.

 

Sad truth is we just can’t

transcend this sad unromantic

reality the big bad director

in the sky has miscast us in–

not by wearing some too-clean,

well-kept “cowboy” hat that no

desperado would ever be caught

dead-or-alive in.

The Bottom Feeders

The stripper who

looks like a Bratz doll

is already working

on a cracka’ when

I get to the bar,

so I’m glad to be

packing pen and

writing pad when I

sit down at the

short side of the bar

and start trying to write

but the free cheap

bank pen only gives

ink in fits and starts

before blowing up

like the laughter

of bankers. So I’m

glad when the bar

girl gives me hers.

It’s good to look busy

when the bottom-

feeder dancers start

sizing up my loneliness,

because the bottom one

slides over and asks if

I’d like some company. So

I squeeze out a slight

smile and mutter “no thanks

but it’s nice of you to say

hello.” Then I feel bad

and sad to see her slink

away, because her and I

are really together in

the same circle in

Darwin’s Inferno.

But even so, pity and

empathy don’t override

natural selection, so I

keep writing what no one

wants to read while the

Brat doll keeps laughing and

flashing those long black

lashes of hers at the lonely

old cracka’ she’s still working

on.

 

 

 

 

 

Why Most Contemporary Writers Suck

There’s more than one reason why my pen name is an amalgamation of the names of a couple of dead writers. Put simply, dead writers do it better…in most cases anyway. OK, I’ll explain: in our totalitarian, viciously-contemporary anti-culture, living writers simply can’t tell the truth, not the whole sad bag-of-kittens truth anyway–not if they want to stay employed, earn enough to feed the strays, and maybe even enough to treat themselves to a lap dance now and then.

But before you go and assume that these are mere bitter words spewed out after sucking sour grapes, allow me to elaborate. Under my “real” name, I’ve won second place in two university writing contests, earned an advanced English degree, and a bunch of literary mags (print and online) have picked up my stories and poems over the years, a few of them are even deemed “prestigious” by those who like to deem things. Not exactly the best creds, but not the worst either.

So why am I complaining? It’s because I’ve learned the hard way that to tell the truth and stay employed, a writer today has to use a pen name. Blame it on “PC’ culture or the insanely-delusional and pablum-preferring masses; but whatever the ultimate causes, the effect is clear: IF you write the truth about people or yourself today, there’s a good chance that you’ll end up experiencing the plight of homeless cats first hand.

The masses of people have always been delusional, vicious, and hypocritical; but at least sometimes they allowed their writers and social critics to tell the truth, if only because subconsciously they wanted to hear the truth. In the 19th Century, Fyodor Dostoyevsky may have been put in front of a firing squad, but he was reprieved at the last minute by the Tsar. And his fellow Russians loved him in his own lifetime for revealing their collective hypocrisy, insanity, and occasional flashes of humanity.

In the 20th Century, Charles Bukowski may have been put in front of the post office employee review board for his brutally honest “underground” newspaper columns, but in the end they let him keep his slave job. And now the poetry and fiction sections of every good book store hold his many titles, to the undying horror and envy of most MFA instructor-authors, and to the credit of his fearless publisher John Martin and the free market.

Anyway, most writers today suck for the same reason that Seinfeld said that comedy is being killed by political correctness: those who tell it like it is these days are all-too-often marginalized and/or castigated. It’s an extreme expression of kill-the-messenger syndrome. After all, it’s easier to kill a messenger than to deal with the ugliness of unvarnished reality.

But I’m not killed so easily. Believe me, many have tried, in one way or another. So I think I’ll just keep telling it like it is and how I think it ought to be. And if truth can be likened to a bag of unwanted kittens that many would like to see drowned, I think I’ll just untie that bag and let those kittens run free.

Mick Jagger’s Facebook

Mick Jagger’s Facebook

 

It’s strange to see Mick

Jagger’s selfies on his

own social media account.

Since he was and still is

one of the most famous

men to ever live, you might

think he’d keep a personal

account private. But no, you too

can follow ( if not friend) the more-

than-famous frontman of

the world’s greatest rock

and roll band. You can even

peep Mick’s selfies and videos:

Mick on his motorcycle, Mick’s

exotic vacation pics, Mick playing

guitar in his bedroom and

harmonica in his living room,

complete with white couch

and oversized Royal Palace

pillow. I guess it’s proof enough

that for some precious few

life in the spotlight never

grows cold.

By Fyodor Bukowski. Read my novel. All proceeds go to homeless cats.

They Say Edgar Allan Poe Had it Bad

They say Edgar Allan Poe Had it Bad

 

And in some respects he did:

orphaned as a kid, and then let down

by his rich philistine foster dad,

and then there’s the living hell

of living with a poetic soul

in a decidedly unpoetic world.

But it’s just as true to say that

the man who lived “The Raven”

was extraordinarily blessed as well–

and probably more so than me or you:

despite what the hypocritical haters say

(because they know neither talent nor truth),

despite greedy publishers, and mediocre readers,

and his own inability to hold his drink,

Fate gifted Poe with the perfect wife:

cherubic, feminine, devoted and loving

and unlike most “enlightened” victims today,

Virginia married a great poet who Loved her

before the world could make her its whore.

And if you’re still not convinced

(because you’re a brainwashed, unnatural,

PC bore), I’ll leave you with some stanzas

she wrote to her “Eddy” (and lived to the fullest)

before Death whispered “Nevermore”:

“Ever with thee I wish to roam—

Dearest my life is thine.

Give me a cottage for my home

And a rich old cypress vine,

Removed from the world with its sin and care

And the tattling of many tongues.

Love alone shall guide when we are there—

Love shall heal my weakened lungs;

And Oh, the tranquil hours we’ll spend,

Never wishing that others may see!

Perfect ease we’ll enjoy, without thinking to lend

Ourselves to the world and its glee—

Ever peaceful and blissful we’ll be.”

VirginiaPoe