Yesterday was the anniversary of Charles Bukowski's death. I thought about him a lot all day and how much he shaped my world view in my early twenties. I wonder if I would have still loved him so much if I discovered him later in life. I wonder if any of my old favorites would hit me in the same way or if I would write him off as an old misogynist drunk with nothing to say that I needed to hear. I'm glad I found him when I did, when my older cousin Craig lent me Notes of a Dirty Old Man my senior year in high school. I was hooked immediately and Bukowski was a constant companion through my twenties, while I was figuring out who I wanted to be. Thanks, Chinaski, for keeping me company. You are missed.
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