I've been reading Bukowski again, after a 25-year hiatus. I cried when he died, leaving angry assholes like me in the lurch, trapped in a postmodern literary world of PC polemics and the soul-crushingly sad navel-gazing of abused women. It took me a while, but I've responded with a book to prove that, here and there, a writer might still be able to reconnect with his pissed-off side without resorting to the sort of Homeland Security porn being promulgated by Tom Clancy and Alex Berenson. Here it is:
- No, we don't promote books with our first posts. - .ed
- No, we don't promote books with our first posts. - .ed
