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Bukowski: Sublime Genius, or Mean-Spirited Hack?

The scope of human perspective has always been limited - limited by the environment we're born into, by the social circles we chose or are compelled to move in, by our familial resources, by geography, by our relative intelligence. At least that's the way it used to be. Then the internet happened and fixed all of that! Finally, all ignorace and misinformation will be eradicated, weeded out, as the light of knowledge spreads to every corner of the earth. Forward, brave information dissemination juggernaut! But I've digressed before I've even started . . . In the circles I move in, Charles Bukowski is looked on pretty fondly. He's everybody's favorite dirty, drunken uncle. Sometimes he gets a

Writing, Lawn Care and the Great Baseball Metaphor

I enjoy mowing my lawn. It's not for the aesthetic results; the lawn is mostly weeds and the day after a mowing, it is aleady overtaken by dandelions. I like it because for the 45 minutes it takes, I am unreachable in my aural deprivation bubble. I do some of my best thinking in there. Being a writer, the most self-absorbed of God's creatures, I think mostly about the importance and meaning of my work and like, you know, put it in historical terms. How might I elucidate the great esoteric? How might I put it in everyman's terms? Battling through a swarm of tenacious lake flies hovering around our rotten wood fence, the idea hit me like a bolt of lightening: I will relate it in a baseball met

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