It is Charles Bukowski’s birthday. I recently started reading some of Bukowski’s stories. He’s known more as a poet but most poetry gives me the runs so I avoid it in general. What I pick up on while reading his stories about the underworld where he lived is that all of us are trapped. We’re conditioned to be this, to say that, to feel thus, to belief that away, and act this-a-way. All crap. Crap. The spiral really takes you when you understand that everyone is trapped by something. I once heard that there are only two “Free” people on Earth. A millionaire and a monk. I don’t know. I really don’t. Over the years, I’ve learned to squint my eye at anyone who claims to “Know” what it is to be “Free”.
I’m rambling because of my PVSD. So, I’ll get to the point.
Happy Birthday Bukowski. Thanks for writing. Thanks for drinking. Thanks for not giving a shit if anyone like me ever read the words you wrote. That makes them all the more enjoyable.


I’ve read a dozen or so blogs on which the blogger apologizes for being absent, and not posting, and makes some pie-crust promise about being a better steward of your time by posting more often… Sounds like a spit-take. A spit take is a comic gag in which a person spits when hearing the punchline or surprising news. I’m not apologizing for having a life that doesn’t involve blogging.


Post-Vacation Stress Disorder (PVSD) is a certified psychological condition found in adults during the business hours following vacation.
A twice-daily dose of Fukitol is recommended. Fukitol may lead to unexplained joy, laughter, increased sex drive, decreased binge eating, and sudden outbursts of unrepentant anger toward co-workers. Women who are nursing, or nursing students, should not take Fukitol as it may lead to an ill-timed shotgun blast during clinicals. Fukitol is recommended only for adults who have no history of liver disease, can’t drink alcohol at work, and have recently lost their weed connection. Trouble urinating may occur. Fukitol is not FDA approved, although use of the drug can be found in the halls of Congress on any given day.


So, I was on vacation. We put in an offer on a house, had our Fourth Baby (First Boy), and I met with my editor. Critical Mass is my life’s current philosophy. We prefer as many things happening as possible. Maybe we feel more alive. Maybe it alleviates the feeling that we aren’t really alive at all. Who knows? It might be the realization that my bucket list is burning up in a trash can while I watch another predictable ass Sitcom or some variation of Cops & Robber TV.


When I go on vacation I absent myself from as much of the world as possible. I don’t watch/listen/read the news. I really don’t listen to music unless I’m playing it. Most of my time is spent with family, friends, books, words, and alcohol. That last bit makes me sound like a drunk and implies that I may need some 12-step meeting program full of other drunks to make me feel all normal and sane inside.


I’ve been to those meetings and not once did I feel normal and sane inside. But I did learn how to make homemade wine, the best breath mints to cover up the smell of PBR, and which bars enforced the two drink minimum. Problem I had, I guess, was that I really wasn’t an alcoholic at all. The Army made me go because I got busted doing “A controlled substance” overseas. Since I was drunk when I snorted Coke, the Federal Government via the US Army, figured I was a drunk. Pretty dumb looking back at it. The cocaine, the AA… all of it. But I did learn that I wasn’t a drunk at all. I just liked to have a few drinks.


With the added family member coming home on Monday last week, I didn’t have much time to write. But I’m good with that. I believe Living gives breath to our words. (Holy God that sounds like some Creative Writing spinster talk. I sicken myself at times.)
Sitting there in front of your computer typing away all the time is bad on your eyes, horrible for your writing, and makes you smell like shit most of the time. Take a bath, hippy.

I did think of several story lines while cleaning up after Number One Son. I’ll get to them later. Words float, land, and germinate in my head. Similar to dung beetles on parade.


The heavy references to fecal matter in this message is my sorry attempt to pay tribute to Charles Bukowski’s writing. He’s the first writer I’ve met who broke a story’s scene with the following:
“Her words gave me the piles so I went to find a shitter.”


That self-pitying sensation you have sometimes is really just the smell of your bucket list burning up. Remember Smokey’s words: Only YOU can prevent bucket list fires.