Acid for the Children: A Memoir

by Flea

I met Buk once, sitting on a stool, sucking on a Budweiser, in a downtown L.A. bar. I controlled my excitement and he tolerated me. He’d written a particular poem that melted my heart, an ode to his cat, “The History of One Tough Motherfucker.” That poem made me cry, I told him so, and he accepted my praise graciously. Then he said, “So you love cats, what else do you love?” I told him I also loved basketball, to which he replied sardonically, “Ahh a bunch of black guys in stinky shoes running up and down and up and down BLAAAHHH,” then turned his head to speak with someone else. He came from another world. It was rare for me to find someone to whom I could relate my love of reading. A couple of my closest friends actually put me down for it. They both said the same thing—that I was living in a fantasy world because I couldn’t deal with the real one.

Meeting Charles Bukowski.