Men

How did twelve days pass? I haven’t had focus for twelve days?

Did you ever read the Charles Bukowski book Women? I haven’t read it in many years, and have probably passed on to someone so don’t have it on hand to read again (in my fantasy life, where I have time to read a whole book). What I remember about this book is that its title is Women, but the book was really all about men. One man in particular, a drunken postal worker who did lots of writing, but in the book he sort of represents everyman. At least a part of the larger man-ness. Despite the main character’s ridiculous sexism and rampant womanizing (I should look up exact def. of womanizing), when the book was done, I actually think I liked men more than when I started it. There was a certain innocence to this guy, an honesty. He loved to fuck, when he wanted to fuck, so he fucked. He wanted to drink all the time, so he did. He was driven to write, and no matter what was going on around him, no matter what woman he was ignoring or treating badly (I vaguely remember he hit someone!), he still wrote. Because he was this guy. And it was all about him. And he was brutally honest about that. About being a neanderthal.

The past week I’ve been observing men. They are strange beings. Sometimes it seems like they are listening to you and interested, then they’ll look at your boobs. And you are reminded of something. Men.

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1 Comment

  1. I need to read that. I had the same reaction to Wallace’s Brief Interviews with Hideous Men. Really f—ed up men. Really sad, scary, self absorbed, interesting men. Not stereotypes or archetypes. Just a bunch of men. Hideous.
    Rotters.

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