“Some people never go crazy.
What truly horrible lives they must lead.”
–Charles Bukowski

Every writer rips other writers off.

It’s the name of the game. Hunter Thompson took Hemingway’s words and blew his brains out with them. Charles Bukowski kissed the same dirty pavement John Fante puked on and licked his lips accordingly. But even to this godless day, literary heroes are false-idols, and if worshipped incorrectly, they will lead to an inescapable quick-sand known as plagiarism. Such icons are meant to be chewed but not digested. Too many writers are bloated on their influences, and in this respect, I am morbidly obese. The trick is to spit them out before their flavor seduces you to swallow.

And if you found anything remotely sexual about that last statement, your mind is in the right place: The gutter. The gutters of Los Angeles are where Charles Bukowski lived his entire life. Born in Germany exactly thirteen years before Hitler rose to power, Bukowski’s family moved to Los Angeles in 1930. He grew up during the First Great Depression and slummed it around downtown and East Hollywood most of his life before moving to San Pedro in 1978, where he lived until his death in 1994 at the surprising age of 73. I say “surprising” because, for anyone who knows their literary ass from their cultural elbow, Bukowski lived on alcohol, nicotine and crazy women—not exactly nutritional blocks from the Food Pyramid. He managed to outlive both Hemingway and Thompson, dying just one year shy of his god, Fante. During his 73 years on Earth, Bukowski wrote six novels, hundreds of short stories and thousands of poems.

CUT TO: July 2009, an Italian-American writer from Buffalo, NY prepares to board a bus embarking on a tour of Bukowski’s world—some half-assed attempt to chase the bruised muse of a fifteen year-old ghost. In a day and age where the Internet and Twitter have turned a world of A.D.D. illiterates onto writing, no one is a writer. The magic is long gone. Hell yes, the floodgates of technology have opened and we are all awash in the rubbish of widespread mediocrity.

Surely if there is any one phantom who would be outraged about our current literary state of affairs, it would be Two Buck Chuck. Here was a man who treated words with more respect than people, and the assimilation of those words into art was nothing less than a religion for him. Can he peer out from his permanent corner in the universe and have sympathy for my plight?

Before you get all pissy with the World’s Smallest Violin, make no mistake: There is no occupation more futile in the 21st century than that of a writer. It is a lonely path rife with tumble-weed dreams and littered with road-kill hopes, especially in an industry as commercialized and cowardly as Hollywood—which is Ground Zero for modern indifference and ruled by a fraternity of eunuchs. It is safe to say there is nothing cool about writing anymore, nothing macho or rebellious, and most certainly nothing sexy. It takes a certain masochistic pride to call yourself a writer these days, and maybe that’s the niche I’ve been searching for: Self-Inflicted Musings From an Obsolete Soul and Other Creative Miscarriages. That’s it! Now we’re getting in the damn spirit of the day.

It’s the dead of summer in the belly of downtown Los Angeles. The air is malleable and the whiskey in my pocket is hot to the touch. The Esotouric bus is waiting outside of Philippe’s, one of the oldest restaurants in the city and birthplace of the French Dipped Sandwich. Bukowski frequented the joint back in the day, and it’s our launching-pad into his demented dimension. I’m the last to board the luxurious bus filled with about forty people—all upstanding citizens of The System. I squeeze into one of the front seats next to Richard Schave, who runs the tour (esotouric.com) with his wife, Kim. The couple debuted their tour in May 2007 and offer journeys into all things strange (mad scientists of Pasadena), violent (the Black Dahlia murder), and literary (Raymond Chandler, John Fante, et al). Today, we’ll retrace the ragged steps of a Dirty Old Man.

First stop on the list is the Terminal Annex Post Office, where Bukowski worked for over a decade before gaining serious acclaim as a writer. It was here that he gained inspiration for his landmark novel Post Office, which was the result of Black Sparrow Press publisher John Martin. Martin, having caught wind of Bukowski’s early poetry, offered to pay Bukowski $100 a month for the rest of his life if he would quit his position as a letter filing clerk and dedicate himself entirely to his writing. The year was 1969 and Bukowski was forty-nine years-old, effectively smashing modern ageism in the face with a hammer. Since then, the building has become the largest Internet hub on the west coast and is guarded by trigger-happy sentinels waiting for a terrorist attack.

The L.A. Grand Central Library is where Bukowski whet his voracious literary appetite, and where he discovered his personal messiah, John Fante (Ask the Dust). In the late 70’s, when Bukowski was in his prime, he had Black Sparrow Press reissue the long-forgotten novel, which reignited interest in Fante’s legacy from a new generation. In his preface to the reissued novel, Bukowski wrote about his discovery: It was like finding “gold in the city dump.” He went on to say that, “Fante was my god and I knew that the gods should be left alone, one didn’t bang on their door.” However, anyone who has read the two authors knows full-well that Bukowski didn’t just bang on Fante’s door, he kicked it open and made himself at home.

Clifton’s Cafeteria is where Bukowski (and thousands of others) ate many a free meal during the First Great Depression. Clifford Clinton was a saint during this tough time, and he opened his restaurant to anyone who was hungry. Clifton’s remains one of the oldest and most charitable restaurants in L.A. history, and you owe it to yourself to check it out. The first floor is a weird recreation of the rustic Redwood forest, complete with murals, waterfalls and Gold Rush Era décor; the second floor is like walking through a time warp, just as it was decades ago. Old men resembling Two Buck Chuck himself sit hunched over their food trays, eating in quiet solitude.

Next on the tour is 5124 De Longpre Ave., where Bukowski lived from 1963 to 1972. In this humble abode, he refined his writing and found his voice. It is here he wrote his acclaimed novel Women, among many other poems and short-stories. In a poem dedicated to his publisher John Martin, Bukowski wrote of his home:

And thank you / for locating me there at / 5124 De Longpre Avenue / somewhere between / alcoholism and / madness. / Together we / laid down the gauntlet / and there are takers / even at this late date / still to be / found / as the fire sings / through the / trees.

The story behind the conservation of the property is worthy of its own article, but the Cliff’s Notes version will have to suffice: Richard and Kim Schave initiated a grass-roots campaign to have the residence preserved once and for all as an official Historic-Cultural Monument. During the legal proceedings, the landlord—who would have stood a greater profit had he been able to sell off the property—declared Bukowski a Nazi, according to Internet rumors, and therefore should not be deemed historically significant. Fortunately for our culture, these unfounded ravings were ignored. As of 2008, 5124 De Longpre ain’t going anywhere. Thanks, Richard and Kim.

As I stand outside in the baking July heat, I peer into the kitchen window of the bungalow-style house, where Bukowski did a majority of his writing. I can almost hear the Mozart or Beethoven playing and I try to imagine him sitting there, grooving on a solid buzz and letting the words flow through him while the Vietnam War rages far away. The Mexican family who now lives there regards the tour with an amused indifference. They hang around the front porch, the men shirtless, and study us as much as we study their home. It is a relatively safe bet they have no idea what this place means, or what literary brilliance was created within their walls. To some strange folk operating on the periphery of this society, it would be like living in a holy museum. To most others, it’s just another pile of bills and problems.

Pink Elephant Liquor on N. Western Ave. is where Bukowski used to get his booze when he lived in East Hollywood. To my mind, it is the only pink liquor store in L.A., although I could be wrong. Here the tour takes a “beer break,” and a long line wraps around the store as we all get something to keep us going. This writer chooses a 40 oz. of Heineken. Gulping it under the burning L.A. sun in a dirty parking lot feels like redemption, ice-cold and smooth as sin. Then, in a moment that dances by like a butterfly, a title comes to me: “Stare Into the Sun (Until it Makes Sense).” I don’t know what it means or what to use it for, but it comes to me and stays with me. Stare Into the Sun (Until it Makes Sense).

The Royal Palms, on South Westlake Avenue, is where Bukowski lived briefly with one of his main muses, Jane Cooney Baker. Their tumultuous and passionate relationship was depicted in the 1987 film Barfly. As with any other place he stayed, Bukowski wrote, drank, fought and fucked here until being evicted for the millionth time. Since his eviction—and not without a heavy dose of irony—the Royal Palms has become a rehabilitation clinic for alcoholics and drugs addicts. Upon entering the lobby, we’re overcome with strange looks from men who have all owned real-estate on Rock-Bottom at some point in their lives. Among them, possibly, our next brilliant poet?

Four hours after we departed, the tour drops us back off at Philippe’s. This is a terrible way to simplify the tour, filled with so much wit and insight into not only Bukowski, but lost parts of Los Angeles. I come to learn on a visceral level just how superficial the city-planners are. A good 90% of Bukowski’s L.A. has been demolished and turned into parking lots or bee-hive apartment buildings. With no regard for its own history, L.A. has managed to eat itself alive decade after decade. Now, only a few Bukowski-era structures stand—lone survivors of an endless (and somehow forgotten) war.

For all intents and purposes, the story should end here. But it can’t end here. Not yet. The tour didn’t have time to visit Musso and Frank’s on Hollywood Blvd, one of Bukowski’s favorite restaurants / watering holes when he could afford it. His favorite bartender, Ruben, still serves up cocktails behind the counter. I am told he doesn’t mind sharing a story or two about one of his more famous customers.

It becomes clear to me, as I drive through the madness of Hollywood Blvd. on a Saturday night, that when Disney takes over Iraq, it will look just like this: Hot, dirty, crowded, police and fire engines flashing, music blaring, neon buzzing – Third World Glamour.

In the middle of this chaos, sits Musso & Frank’s. Open since 1919, you can feel every second of the establishment’s ninety years in business. I just know that when the last light has been turned off and the door is locked tight, that the ghosts of hundreds of pimps, prostitutes, gangsters, movie stars, and wannabes haunt the booths, winding stairs and narrow halls of the building. It must be like a spirit orgy after-hours, and Bukowski just might be in the middle of it all, humping away in the ethereal glow of swirling souls.

Ruben is a robust Mexican with graying hair and the trademark red jacket with a black tie. The vast dining room is filled with mostly older clientele, and I saddle up at the spacious bar, wondering if Bukowski ever sat on this stool. I introduce myself to Ruben, explaining my assignment, and he jovially asks me what I’ll have to drink.

“What would Bukowski have?”

“Scotch on the rocks, or vodka martinis,” Ruben says with his strong accent. “Then he would switch to sweet wines.”

Feeling classy in old Hollywood, I order a vodka martini with extra olives. One can never have too many olives. As Ruben makes it, I ask about his story.

“I jumped the border into New Mexico when I was sixteen (Ruben has long-since become a naturalized citizen). I wandered for fours days alone without anything. Random people took pity and fed me bread and water. I ate watermelons from fields. Eventually I ended up in Los Angeles. There were jobs back in those days. Not like today. You could go down the street and work here, work there. I have been working here since 1967.”

Ruben slides my martini over, and it’s impeccable. I sip it, relishing each playful zing, and ask him what his first impressions of Bukowski were.

“I asked him what he did and he asked me what I thought he did. I didn’t know. But I told him, ‘You’re always drunk, with beautiful women, you eat steaks and pay with cash. So you must be a pimp.’ He didn’t like that. He got very pissed off about that.”

Over the years Ruben and “Hank” became friends, and it was not uncommon for Ruben to drive him home when he got too drunk to drive. “He would pass out as soon as we got in my car, but I never had to carry him. He would walk on his own. He was a very strong man.”

Next to the women in his life, Bukowski’s bartender is the person who would have known him best. After all, he didn’t go to churches, only bars, so Ruben might as well have been Bukowski’s priest. I ask Ruben about the man as he remembers him.

“Did you ever hear his laugh? He didn’t laugh from here (his mouth) he laughed from here (his belly). A loud, deep laugh. Very rare.” Ruben paused from wiping a glass with a rag. “I saw him when he was broke, and I saw him when he was rich. Always the same. Money never changed him. I respected him for that.”

Then Ruben looks elsewhere, momentarily escaping back to a better time: “There will never be another like him.”

This story ends where Bukowski’s did: The Green Hills Memorial Park cemetery in San Pedro, California. The Sunday traffic moves with me down the 405 to the 110. Strange to think Bukowski’s bones are just forty minutes south of where I do my drinking and writing. A flower shop greets me as I pull into the grounds. Feeling sentimental, I decide I will place flowers on one of my hero’s graves.

If you ever come to this place for a non-tragic reason, you will be lucky to find Carol behind the counter—a youthful-looking Asian woman with a heart of gold. She helps me choose a simple arrangement and when I don’t have the cash to pay for it (no cards accepted) she’s kind enough to give them to me for free. Such generosity is unheard of in 2009, so I retrieve the latest copy of FORTH Magazine from my car and humbly offer it to her. She accepts it graciously and thanks me for giving her something to read during her long and lonely hours tending life in a place of death.

Henry Charles Bukowski Jr. (Hank) is forever nestled in the rolling green hills of the Ocean View section of the cemetery. With a highlighted map from Carol, I traverse the grounds, walking past names and lives I will never know. His grave is flat and simple, unlike the man buried therein. A simple illustration of a generic boxer with his fists raised in battle evokes the spirit of the late, great writer. “Don’t try” are Bukowski’s final words to the world, and the meaning is open to interpretation.

“So we finally meet,” I tell him.

I place the flowers in the holder and regard a postcard from Kentucky with a single cigarette being held down by a horseshoe—a gift from admirers. Who knows what strangers will one day stand over our graves? I kneel down and gently pat the headstone with affection, musing over Bukowski’s last laugh: “Don’t try,” he says. No matter how old, how ugly, drunk, broke, lost, or loveless, “Don’t try.” Do. Do it with everything you’ve got.

Stare into the sun until it makes sense.