Time was a fool with a banjo.


I haven't always been one to wear his heart on his sleeve,
however I do believe that a few individuals have managed to steal my heart like,
candy from a baby
or motivation from a suicidal teen
or dignity from the bush administration.


Besides the regulars, who should know who they are. (*if I were of oriental discent, here's where I would put the winking emoticon.*) There are a number of people now deceased that have captivated my heart in a similar fashion.

To Name a Few:
Weezy F. Nietzsche,
Albert Camus,
Kurt Vonegutt,
and of course, Cat Stevens

As you all must be wondering now, "what the fuck is this post about, and what do dead people shikhar get's off to have to do with time being a fool with a banjo" **

and now, for a side note:
[[ ** despite popular belief, I love Nietzsche and everyone else on that list in a different light. Physically, they're quite unattractive and boring. Also, Nietzsche had syphilis. ]]

Back to the meaning of life,
there is one, and only one link between banjo's, time, and the forementioned list. Ready for it:
too bad, other people are...
Charles Bukowski.

He looked like this:

After picking a few of his books from the excesses of capitalism, (for more hilarity, see "obvious euphemisms)
I have realized he is precisely what was missing from my life.
pre-empt: no, he's not a woman, or a life, or a gym, or religion.

he is, however a god among men. err, at least was. He fell off the map in 1994 just as he published his last book. (they say he suffered from perpetual awesomeness. This continual dose of awesome ultimately culminated in an awesomeness attack, which claimed the life of the greatest half-german half-american bastard to ever write a book.

Without further ado, here's a short story:

this story is fucking weired, but nevertheless I like it. My favorite quote is bolded.

back to the goods:


I was sitting in a bar on Western Ave. It was around midnight and I was in my usual
confused state. I mean, you know, nothing works right: the women, the jobs, the no
jobs, the weather, the dogs. Finally you just sit in a kind of stricken state and wait like
you're on the bus stop bench waiting for death.
Well, I was sitting there and here comes this one with long dark hair, a good body,
sad brown eyes. I didn't turn on for her. I ignored her even though she had taken the
stool next to mine when there were a dozen other empty seats. In fact, we were the
only ones in the bar except for the bartender. She ordered a dry wine. Then she asked
me what I was drinking.
"Scotch and water."
"Give him a scotch and water," she told the barkeep.
Well, that was unusual.
She opened her purse, removed a small wire cage and took some little people out
and sat them on the bar. They were all around three inches tall and they were alive and
properly dressed. There were four of them, two men and two women.
"They make these now," she said, "they're very expensive. They cost around $2,000
apiece when I got them. They go for around $2,400 now. I don't know the
manufacturing process but it's probably against the law."
The little people were walking around on the top of the bar. Suddenly one of the
little guys slapped one of the little women across the face.
"You bitch," he said, "I've had it with you!"
"No, George, you can't," she cried, "I love you! I'll kill myself! I've got to have
"I don't care," said the little guy, and he took out a tiny cigarette and lit it. "I've got a
right to live."
"If you don't want her," said the other little guy, "I'll take her. I love her."
"But I don't want you, Marty. I'm in love with George."
"But he's a bastard, Anna, a real bastard!"
"I know, but I love him anyhow."
The little bastard then walked over and kissed the other little woman.
"I've got a triangle going," said the lady who had bought me the drink. "That's Marty
and George and Anna and Ruthie. George goes down, he goes down good. Marty's
kind of square."
"Isn't it sad to watch all that? Er, what's your name?"
"Dawn. It's a terrible name. But that's what mothers do to their children sometimes."
"I'm Hank. But isn't it sad . . ."
"No, it isn't sad to watch it. I haven't had much luck with my own loves, terrible luck
really . . ."
"We all have terrible luck."
"I suppose. Anyhow, I bought these little people and now I watch them, and it's like
having it and not having any of the problems. But I get awfully hot when they start
making love. That's when it gets difficult."
"Are they sexy?"
"Very, very sexy. My god, it makes me hot!"
"Why don't you make them do it? I mean, right now. We'll watch them together."
"Oh, you can't make them do it. They've got to do it on their own."
"How often do they do it?"
"Oh, they're pretty good. They go four or five times a week."
They were walking around on the bar. "Listen," said Marty, "give me a chance. Just
give me a chance, Anna."
"No," said Anna, "my love belongs to George. There's no other way it can be."
George was kissing Ruthie, feeling her breasts. Ruthie was getting hot.
"Ruthie's getting hot," I told Dawn.
"She is. She really is."
I was getting hot too. I grabbed Dawn and kissed her.
"Listen," she said, "I don't like them to make love in public. I'll take them home and
have them do it."
"But then I can't watch."
"Well, you'll just have to come with me."
"All right," I said, "let's go."
I finished my drink and we walked out together. She carried the little people in the
small wire cage. We got into her car and put the people in between us on the front
seat. I looked at Dawn. She was really young and beautiful. She seemed to have good
insides too. How could she have gone wrong with her men? There were so many ways
those things could miss. The four little people had cost her $8,000. Just that to get
away from relationships and not to get away from relationships.
Her house was near the hills, a pleasant looking place. We got out and walked up to
the door. I held the little people in the cage while Dawn opened the door.
"I heard Randy Newman last week at The Troubador. Isn't he great?" she asked.
"Yes, he is."
We walked into the front room and Dawn took the little people out and placed them
on the coffeetable. Then she walked into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator and
got out a bottle of wine. She brought in two glasses.
"Pardon me," she said, "but you seem a little bit crazy. What do you do?"
"I'm a writer."
"Are you going to write about this?"
"They'll never believe it, but I'll write it."
"Look," said Dawn, "George has got Ruthie's panties off. He's fingering her. Ice?"
"Yes, he is. No, no ice. Straight's fine."
"I don't know," said Dawn, "it really gets me hot to watch them. Maybe it's because
they're so small. It really heats me up."
"I know what you mean."
"Look, George is going down on her now." '
"He is, isn't he?"
"Look at them!"
"God o mighty!"
I grabbed Dawn. We stood there kissing. As we did her eyes went from mine to
them and then back to mine again.
Little Marty and little Anna were watching too.
"Look," said Marty, "they're going to make it. We might as well make it. Even the
big folks are going to make it. Look at them!"
"Did you hear that?" I asked Dawn. "They said we're going to make it. Is that true?"
"I hope it's true," said Dawn.
I got her over to the couch and worked her dress up around her hips. I kissed her
along the throat. "I love you," I said.
"Do you? Do you?"
"Yes, somehow, yes . . ."
"All right," said little Anna to little Marty, "we might as well do it too, even though I
don't love you."
They embraced in the middle of the coffeetable. I had worked Dawn's panties off.
Dawn groaned. Little Ruthie groaned. Marty closed in on Anna. It was happening
everywhere. I got the idea that everybody in the world was doing it. Then I forgot
about the rest of the world. We somehow walked into the bedroom. Then I got into
Dawn for the long slow ride. . . .
When she came out of the bathroom I was reading a dull dull story in Playboy.
"It was so good," she said.
"My pleasure," I answered.
She got back into bed with me. I put the magazine down.
"Do you think we .can make it together?" she asked.
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, do you think we can make it together for any length of time?"
"I don't know. Things happen. The beginning is always easiest."
Then there was a scream from the front room. "Oh-oh," said Dawn. She leaped up
and ran out of the room. I followed. When I got there she was holding George in her
"Oh, my god!"
"What happened?"
"Anna did it to him!"
"Did what?"
"She cut off his balls! George is a eunuch!"
"Get me some toilet paper, quickly! He might bleed to death!"
"That son of a bitch," said little Anna from the coffeetable, "ifI can't have George,
nobody can have him!"
"Now both of you belong to me!" said Marty.
"No, you've got to choose between us," said Anna.
"Which one of us is it?" asked Ruthie.
"I love you both," said Marty.
"He's stopped bleeding," said Dawn. "He's out cold." She wrapped George in a
handkerchief and put him on the mantle.
"I mean," Dawn said to me, "if you don't think we can make it, I don't want to go
into it anymore."
"I think I love you. Dawn."
"Look," she said, "Marty's embracing Ruthie!"
"Are they going to make it?"
"I don't know. They seem excited."
Dawn picked Anna up and put her in the wire cage.
"Let me out of here! I'll kill both of them! Let me out of here!"
George moaned from inside his handkerchief upon the mantle. Marty had Ruthie's
panties off. I pulled Dawn to me. She was beautiful and young and had insides. I could
be in love again. It was possible. We kissed. I fell down inside her eyes. Then I got up
and began running. I knew where I was. A cockroach and an eagle made love. Time
was a fool with a banjo. I kept running. Her long hair fell across my face.
"I'll kill everybody!" screamed little Anna. She rattled about in her wire cage at 3
a.m. in the morning.

For any of you who cared enough to read through that, the rest of the book is on ScribD.

"South of No North - A Collection of Short Stories by Charles Bukowski"

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