Post Office-Charles Bukowski
I've always been a big fan of burnt-out hippy literature (Richard Brautigan, Kinky Friedman, Crad Kilodney etc.)
I recently read Charles Bukowski's Post Office, and that was a nice addition to the genre. Reading Post Office was a little like watching a Three Stooges or Marx Brothers' movie because there is an anarchist element (or an irresponsibility, depending on your point of view) that is both exciting and a little uncomfortable.
Bukowski's alter ego, Chinaski, is a drunken slacker for twelve years, while he delivers and sorts the US mail, then he quits (presumably, to write the book you've just finished reading.) The distinguishing feature of what I call "burnt-out-hippy literature" is pointing out the small-mindedness of people who aspire to middle management as a life goal--people who worship rules, even when they're pointless and counterproductive.
Chinaski gives lots of examples. Letter sorting assignments are all supposed to be finished within the same set time period, even though the volume of work involved can vary greatly. He mentions a supervisor's lecture about hygiene, when the supervisor has terrible B.O. himself. Chinaski describes a stairway door that is deliberately designed to trap people who sneak away from their stations for unauthorized breaks. The booby trap doesn't increase productivity, it just reduces morale.
That's admirable, but the observations always seem to be accompanied by a destructive brand of selfishness, particularly when it comes to personal relationships.
For example, I love Richard Brautigan but in Trout Fishing in America, he never names his girlfriend (and mother of his child.) He keeps referring to her as "the woman." I know Brautigan had a crappy childhood and lots of mental health issues, Still, I can't help but feel that a toxic self-absorption was partly to blame for that relationship crumbling.
Similarly, Chinaski burns through countless girlfriends and has countless casual sexual encounters, but seems weirdly unaffected by any of them. He'll describe events like knocking geranium pots from shelves while he's screwing, but not how he feels when the girl ultimately leaves him.
And they always leave him.
The important thing seems to be Chinaski's insight into the Kafka-esque nonsense that controls our lives, and other people's obliviousness.
Anyway, when I blog, it will be rambles about books and movies that swim by my surfboard. If anyone wants to communicate, feel free to drop a line at m.thomas.tex@gmail.com. I'm not sure how to communicate via Amazon or Goodreads.
Later
I recently read Charles Bukowski's Post Office, and that was a nice addition to the genre. Reading Post Office was a little like watching a Three Stooges or Marx Brothers' movie because there is an anarchist element (or an irresponsibility, depending on your point of view) that is both exciting and a little uncomfortable.
Bukowski's alter ego, Chinaski, is a drunken slacker for twelve years, while he delivers and sorts the US mail, then he quits (presumably, to write the book you've just finished reading.) The distinguishing feature of what I call "burnt-out-hippy literature" is pointing out the small-mindedness of people who aspire to middle management as a life goal--people who worship rules, even when they're pointless and counterproductive.
Chinaski gives lots of examples. Letter sorting assignments are all supposed to be finished within the same set time period, even though the volume of work involved can vary greatly. He mentions a supervisor's lecture about hygiene, when the supervisor has terrible B.O. himself. Chinaski describes a stairway door that is deliberately designed to trap people who sneak away from their stations for unauthorized breaks. The booby trap doesn't increase productivity, it just reduces morale.
That's admirable, but the observations always seem to be accompanied by a destructive brand of selfishness, particularly when it comes to personal relationships.
For example, I love Richard Brautigan but in Trout Fishing in America, he never names his girlfriend (and mother of his child.) He keeps referring to her as "the woman." I know Brautigan had a crappy childhood and lots of mental health issues, Still, I can't help but feel that a toxic self-absorption was partly to blame for that relationship crumbling.
Similarly, Chinaski burns through countless girlfriends and has countless casual sexual encounters, but seems weirdly unaffected by any of them. He'll describe events like knocking geranium pots from shelves while he's screwing, but not how he feels when the girl ultimately leaves him.
And they always leave him.
The important thing seems to be Chinaski's insight into the Kafka-esque nonsense that controls our lives, and other people's obliviousness.
Anyway, when I blog, it will be rambles about books and movies that swim by my surfboard. If anyone wants to communicate, feel free to drop a line at m.thomas.tex@gmail.com. I'm not sure how to communicate via Amazon or Goodreads.
Later
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