Not far from where I was staying, in a former Mexican ghetto called Echo Park, in east Hollywood, I found a bookshop which also held young writers' workshops. It looked perfect and sounded very interesting.
But this was slept on by the people working there who seemed more occupied with their appearance. They had really taken there time on their look that morning. I was immeadiately sceptical. This type of person is too busy brushing their hair, to fuck. It's really a desperate existence and one that breeds little of anything and lots of nothing.
Nonetheless, I gave the benefit of the doubt and approached them to talk about the latest issue of McSweeneys. The store was hosting the launch party the day after I was to leave town (it was typical these trendies would have the pleasure and not I). And to my horror, but in line with my suspicions, they didn't even know who Dave Eggers was (if you don't either, google him, and let's pretend that never happened)!
That was infuriating. I couldn't stop my top lip from raising slightly and letting out a sneery snigger. But then walking away from that place after they'd refused to stock my book, apparently they only stock authors they have published, I felt deflated that people of their sort hold the enviable positions of power and have ample opportunities most can only dream of.
How could they be so retarded? My answer: it's in the city's ethos of 'style over substance'. And so I came to the conclusion that Hollywood sucks.
The following day I woke up with a stinking hangover. I had over done it the previous night due to the bookstore experience.
I caught a taxi to downtown LA to embark on a shameless act of tourism. I was going on a tour. A guided tour. But, before you write me off as a complete loser, it was a tour of Charles Bukowski's LA. Surely that's worth a little redemption?!
This was something I couldn't resist. He was one of my boyhood heroes. Still is. He taught me it was alright to be yourself despite the offence that might cause, and more importantly, raised the importance of holding others in contempt. Where necessary of course! And so I figured it would only be right for me to go and see where, those depressing but beautiful tales he so eloquently wrote about, occurred.
We met at Phillipe's sandwich joint. This is where he would go before, during, and after his shifts at the Post Office. The place still charged 20 cents a coffee. In fact very little had changed there. The staff were still crooked, old pensioners like they had been when Hank used to drop by. And the floor still had sawdust down to spare the frail staff from having to clean ash trays. However, you cannot smoke in there anymore so the sawdust was somewhat confusing and irrelevant, but a nice touch nonetheless.
We moved on to the Pink Flamingo liquor store where Bukowski met the infamous broad, Jane. I bought a beer and slugged it out of a brown paper bag beneath the petulant stares of LAPD officers cruising the neighbourhood looking for trouble.
Then we moved on to the apartment the angry-alcoholic couple shared together, which still had the most majestic ballroom space downstairs. Ironically this place is now a half-way house. The incumbent occupants found this stream of tourists traipsing through their door rather amusing - though I felt a little uncomfortable and ashamed.
Afterwards we saw how skid row had been raised to the ground to make way for multi-storey carparks. Even Bunker Hill, immortalised by John Fante, is now a procession of skyscrapers and tower blocks. This seemed outragousley wrong though very ironic, and I wondered what Bandini would make of it all.
The tour ended with a few poems and I left the city feeling revitalised. Bukowski had won me over despite yesterday's poor showing in hipsterville.
How could they be so retarded? My answer: it's in the city's ethos of 'style over substance'. And so I came to the conclusion that Hollywood sucks.
The following day I woke up with a stinking hangover. I had over done it the previous night due to the bookstore experience.
I caught a taxi to downtown LA to embark on a shameless act of tourism. I was going on a tour. A guided tour. But, before you write me off as a complete loser, it was a tour of Charles Bukowski's LA. Surely that's worth a little redemption?!
This was something I couldn't resist. He was one of my boyhood heroes. Still is. He taught me it was alright to be yourself despite the offence that might cause, and more importantly, raised the importance of holding others in contempt. Where necessary of course! And so I figured it would only be right for me to go and see where, those depressing but beautiful tales he so eloquently wrote about, occurred.
We met at Phillipe's sandwich joint. This is where he would go before, during, and after his shifts at the Post Office. The place still charged 20 cents a coffee. In fact very little had changed there. The staff were still crooked, old pensioners like they had been when Hank used to drop by. And the floor still had sawdust down to spare the frail staff from having to clean ash trays. However, you cannot smoke in there anymore so the sawdust was somewhat confusing and irrelevant, but a nice touch nonetheless.
We moved on to the Pink Flamingo liquor store where Bukowski met the infamous broad, Jane. I bought a beer and slugged it out of a brown paper bag beneath the petulant stares of LAPD officers cruising the neighbourhood looking for trouble.
Then we moved on to the apartment the angry-alcoholic couple shared together, which still had the most majestic ballroom space downstairs. Ironically this place is now a half-way house. The incumbent occupants found this stream of tourists traipsing through their door rather amusing - though I felt a little uncomfortable and ashamed.
Afterwards we saw how skid row had been raised to the ground to make way for multi-storey carparks. Even Bunker Hill, immortalised by John Fante, is now a procession of skyscrapers and tower blocks. This seemed outragousley wrong though very ironic, and I wondered what Bandini would make of it all.
The tour ended with a few poems and I left the city feeling revitalised. Bukowski had won me over despite yesterday's poor showing in hipsterville.
0 comments:
Post a Comment