listen, Tommy, the next time an old lady very active in church work leaves fleas and lice behind, you tell the man. you missed a perfect shot. I been kicked out of too many rooms for being a drunk and a madman, a bringer-in of ladies of the street. kafka would have spilled the beans on her; me too. if a church lady has fleas and lice the church is fucking her up. sometimes I think twice before killing a fly, but I always end up killing it if I can. all that stupid flesh recognizes is shit. in a pigpen you wouldn’t stand a chance of getting a piece of ass. let us know where we are, then we can be kind when kind is sensible. when kind is insensible we are only adding to error. we’ve got enough help with that. end of lecture.

I have written 40 or 45 weekly columns for the local underground newspaper Open City. column called “Notes of a Dirty Old Man.” some smut-peddler in North Hollywood who thinks that I am dirty instead of literary wants to run columns in book-form. hinted $500 to $1000 advance. but I am so fucked-up, job killing me, health bad, sucking on beer bottle, smoking smoking, I get on phone now and then and talk to the guy, hard to reach, must get past his fucking switchboard, “this is Charles Bukowski,” I say, “I’d like to speak to Mr. X.”

“Charles Bukowski? are you one of our distributors? your name sounds familiar.”

“no, baby, the only thing I distribute is the end of my cock into wet and throbbing pussies.”

she gasps and connects me with Mr. Big.

“ah, Bukowski!” he says. “what is it?”

“ummm, ummm,” I say.

“what is it?”

“I’m tied up. can’t get out to see you. must get things in order. tremendous fucking job.”

“I know. yes. well, Charles, line it up. can you call me Tuesday?”

“I think so.”

“o.k., you call me Tuesday.”

Tuesday comes. she gasps and connects me.

“listen, Mr. X, I got fucked-up. I don’t know, you know.”

“I don’t understand.”

“ummm, ummm.”

“what?”

“how about next week? I should have all the stuff lined-up by then. hell, I gotta buy some kind of artist’s portfolio to haul the crap down in and I hate to go into Art stores, everybody is fake as hell and it takes ten years off my psyche.”

“o.k., call me Wednesday next week, line it up, and then phone me.”

“o.k.”

I think I’ve had 5 or 6 conversations with this guy but I haven’t moved an inch. I kind of know what Harold is bothered with over in England: THE FROZEN MAN IN THE BARGAIN BASEMENT OF HELL. I can’t move. it doesn’t matter. after all, who really wants fame or money or pussy or anything you have to STRAIN at or WORK for?