Charles Bukowski: The Captain Is Out to Lunch

I remember a friend of mine who was a total gambler. He told me once, “I don't care if I win or lose, I just want to gamble.” I'm not that way, I've been on Starvation Row too many times. Not having any money at all has the slightest tinge of Romanticism when you are very young.

Anyway, the Screamer was out there again the next day. Same thing: he railed against the results of each race. Think of this. It's a very hard thing to do. I mean, even if you know nothing, you can just take a number, any number, say 3. You can bet 3 for 2 or 3 days and you are bound to finally get a winner. But not this fellow. He is a marvel. He knows all about horses, fractional times, track variants, pace, class, etc. but he still manages only to pick losers. Think of it. Then forget it or it will drive you crazy.

I picked up $275 today. I started playing the horses late, when I was 35. I've been at them for 36 years and I figure they still owe me $5,000. Should the gods allow me 8 or 9 more ears I die even.

Now that's a goal worth shooting for, don't you think?

Huh?

Burned out. A couple night of drinking this week. Got to admit I don't recover as fast as I used to. Best thing about being tired is that you don't come out (in the writing) with any wild and dizzy proclamations. Not that that is bad unless it becomes habitual. The first thing writing should do is save your own ass. If it does this, then it will be automatically juicy, entertaining.

Writer I know is phoning people telling them that he types 5 hours a night. I imagine that we are supposed to marvel at this. Of course, do I have to tell you? What matters is what he is typing. I wonder if he counts his telephone time as part of this 5 hours of typing?

I can type from one to 4 hours but the 4th hour, somehow, tapers away into almost nothing. Knew a guy once who told me, “We fucked all night.” It's not the same fellow who types 5 hours a night. But they've meet each other. Maybe they ought to take turns, switch off. The guy who typed 5 hours get to fuck all night and the guy who fucked all night gets to type 5 hours. Or maybe they can fuck each other while somebody else types. Not me, please. Have the woman do it. If there is one…

Hmmm.. you know, I am feeling somewhat goofy tonight. I keep thinking of Maxim Gorky. Why? I don't know. Somehow it seems as if Gorky never really existed. Some writers you can believe were there. Like Turgenev or D.H. Lawrence. Hemingway appears to me to half-and-half. He was really there but he wasn't. But Gorky? He did write some strong thigs. Before the Revolution. Then after the Revolution his writing began to pale. He didn't have much to bitch about. It's like the anti– war protesters, they need a war in order to thrive. There are some who make good living protesting against war. And when there isn't a was they don't know what to do. Like during the Gulf War there was group of writers, poets, they had planned a huge anti-war protest, they were ready with thei poems and speeches. Suddenly the war was over. And the protest was scheduled for a week later. But they didn't call it off. They went ahead with it anyway. Because they wanted to be on stage. They needed it. It was something like an Indian doing a Rain Dance. I myself am anti-war. I was anti-war long ago when it wasn't even a popular, decent and intellectual thing. But I am suspect of the courage and motivations of many of the professional anti-war protesters. From Gorky to this, what? Let the mind roll, who cares?

Another good day at the track. Don't worry, I'm not winning all the money. I usually bet $10 or $20 to win or when it really looks good to me, I'll go $40.

The racetracks further confuse the people. They have 2 fellows on tv before each race and they talk about who they think will win. They show a net loss on each meet. As do all the public handicapppers, tout sheets and race betting services. Even computers can't figure the nags matter how much info is fed into them. Any time you pay somebody to tell you what to do you are going to be a loser. And this includes your psychiatrist, your psychologist, your broker, your workshop teacher and your etc.

There is nothing that teaches you more than regrouping after failure and moving on. Yet most people are stricken with fear. They fear failure so much that they fail. They are too conditioned, too used to being told what to do. It begins with the family, runs through school and goes into the business world.

You see here, I have a couple of good days at the track and suddenly I know everything.

There is a door open into the night and I am sitting here freezing but I won't get up and close the door because these words are running away with me and I like that too much to stop. But damn it, I will. I'll get up and close the door and take a piss.

There, I did it. Both of those things. I even put on a sweater. Old writer pust on sweater, sits down, leers into computer screen and writes about life. How holy can we get? And Christ, did you ever wonder how much piss a man pisses in a lifetime? How much he eats, shits? Tons. Horrible. It's best we die and get out of here, we are poisoning everything with what we expel. Damn the dancing girls, they do it too.

No horses tomorrow. Tuesday is an off day.

I think I'll go downstairs and sit with my wife, look at some dumb tv. I'm either at the track or at this machine. Maybe she's glad of it. Hope so. Well, here I go. I'm a good guy, you know? Down the stairs. It must be strange living with me. It's strange to me.

Good night.

This is one of those nights where there is nothing. Imagine being always like this. Scooped-out. Listless. No light. No dance. Not even any disgust.

This way, one doesn't even have the good sense to commit suicide. The thought doesn't occur.

Get up. Scratch yourself. Drink some water.

I feel like a mongrel dog in July, only it's October.

Still, I've had a good year. Masses of pages sit it the bookcase behind me. Written since Jan. 18. It's like a madman was turned loose. No sane man would write that many pages. It's a sickness.

This year has also been good because I've held back on visitors, more than ever before. I was tricked once though. Some man wrote me from London, said he had taught in Soweto. And when he had read his students some Bukowski many of them had shown a real interest. Black African kids. I liked that. I always like happening from a distance. Later on this man wrote me that he worked for the Guardian and that he'd like to come by and interview me. He asked for my phone number, via mail, and I gave it to him. He phoned me. Sounded all right. We set a date and time and he was on his way. The night and time arrived and there he was. Linda and I set him up with wine and he began. The interview seemed all right, only a little off– hand, odd. He would ask a question, I would answer it and he would begin talking about some experience he had had, relating more or less to the question and the answer I had given. The wine kept pouring and the interview was over. We drank on and he talked about Africa, etc. His accent began changing, alterning, getting, I think, grosser. And he seemed to be getting more and more stupid. He was metamorphosing right in front of us. He got onto sex and stayed there. He liked black girls. I said that we didn't know many, but that Linda had a friend who was a Mexican girl. That did it. He had to meet this Mexican girl. It was a must. We said, well, we didn't know. He kept on and on. We were drinking good wine but his mind acted as if it had been blasted by whiskey. Soon it just got down to „Mexican… Mexican… where is this Mexican girl?“ he had dissolved completely. He was just a sloppy senseless barroom drunk. I told that the night was over. I had to make the track the next day. We moved him toward the door. „Mexican, Mexican…,“ he said.