My hope is to write as frequently as I can.
I was walking around New York today finishing things up. Grabbed the repaired trench coat. Stowed the car. Went to the bookstore.
I took a lot of looks at New York tonight. Remembered why I love it.
I love her dirty and sad and full of too much stuff.
I love that she's loud and pushy and smart.
I love her because...apparently she reminds me of me, wait a minute!!
I was at East Village Books tonight, I was in the last minute throws of is-there- something-I-need, and I made my way up to the counter with a couple of last minute finds.
For the very first time, I noticed the 5 tiered bookcase behind the store keeper.
It was covered in Bukowski. From top to bottom.
I asked him what for there was so much Bukowski.
He laughed and said it's like that at Barnes and Noble too.
"The junkies steal it to sell on the street."
"Well, Keroac, too."
I looked and saw some of him in the corner on the bottom.
So, junkies have very specific tastes, and the verdict is in. Bukowski is the junky street vendor's author of choice.
See you in Israel.