Leonid´s announcement

Leonid Paukku goes Bukowski

This announcement is for all those followers of Henry Charles Bukowski (1920-1994), including those who are more interested in the man than his work. These people exist, you know. Don’t think me weird, but ever since a copy of his short stories was thrust into my hand sometime in the ‘80s, I have wanted to meet Bukowski and share that moment with as many people as possible. Before we move on, please allow me to tell you how all this began. If you would rather skip the story, which I quite understand, but would like to participate in the unique get-together, please jump to the end of this announcement.

Just couple of days ago I was sitting in a chair of a local Turkish barber, ready for my metamorphosis. I had a check from the dole for a haircut. They gave me a list and I picked the closest barber to where I live. They tried to convince me that cutting my hair would give me a better chance of landing a job. Have you had a similar experience? The barber had a black moustache and he guided me to his chair humming a Persian tune, covered me with a shiny sheet that was fastened close to my neck, and started cutting my hair without asking my opinion. He probably knew that I did not have any particular desire, and I got the feeling that he only knew one way to do it anyhow. His scissors were clipping away uncomfortably close to my ears so I decided to divert my attention. I grabbed a magazine from the top of the pile and started to glance through it.

It was an Italian fashion magazine, full of pictures of skinny women in evening dresses. It was as grotesque as a fashion show with women from concentration camps being forced to walk a rough plank catwalk. Trembling with disgust I continued browsing the magazine until I came across a familiar unshaven face. It was a black-and-white photograph of Bukowski with a cigarette on his lips and his beady eyes all moist like he was mourning mother earth. Mourning her because she had to carry the weight of people’s stupidity. Then again it is more likely that his eyes were moist because of the cigarette smoke. I was struggling to understand what the story on Bukowski was about, but looking at the photographs I was able to see what a joke it was. One showed a group of people sitting around a table holding hands. In the middle of the table stood a framed photograph and in front of one person, a psychic or someone pretending, whatever the difference might be, was a crystal ball. They were obviously trying to connect with the author I love. Who those stupid, mediocre people were was not clear to me, but I realised straight away that the whole story was a hoax for sensation-hungry readers. Nevertheless I felt the snake of envy crawling under my skin, and my hands were shaking as I threw the magazine back onto the pile.

The article I had read was bothering me the following day, and the day after that, to such an extent that I had to return to the Turkish barber to see whether he would give the magazine to me. I explained to the barber why I had returned. In the barber’s chair sat a man who was clearly originally from the same area of Turkey as the barber, because he had the same black hair and big black moustache. I went through the pile of magazines twice with no luck. It had disappeared. The barber stopped his humming and spoke to the people in the shop, mimicking the trembling magazine reader. I left the barber’s shop with the sound of laughter ringing in my ears, cursing my bad luck. If you happen to have a copy of the magazine, I would really like to get a copy of the article.

I was thinking about the article all the way back to my dormitory and I was convinced that Bukowski would not give a flying fuck if some self-important bastard of a psychic, who was royally ripping off all sorts of drooling celebrity nobodies who were willing to spend their money in desperate attempts to boost their egos, was trying to meet him. If Buk was going to make an appearance he would descend from the heavens and hover over the psychic’s rag-covered head and pull out his cock and empty his bladder all over him. The rest of the company would be welcome to get their share too. I don’t think he would bother sharing anything else.

I have received an atheist upbringing, or more precisely I have been baptised in multiple stages in the Soviet ideology bath, where the teachings of Jesus – his suffering, sacrifice and second coming – were always replaced with nationalist imagery. If some of you think that it is blasphemy to talk about someone apart from Christ having a second coming, let me assure you that in the Soviet Union, and now in Russia, it was and is quite common to put your hope in the second coming of a dead leader to cope with all the filth that surrounds you. If people in my old motherland used to gather around to gaze at the evening sky in the hope of seeing extraterrestrial visitors, my personal wish to see a second coming – or visit, if that expression sits easier with you – by Bukowski is not that difficult to understand, is it not?

Many of you may doubt whether my endeavor will succeed. I have also heard somebody saying that they don’t think that resurrection in itself is a miracle, but why the hell would Bukowski of all people want to return to Earth after he finally managed to escape? Nevertheless, if my wish comes true I, Leonid Paukku, promise the following:

1. I promise to organize a place that will be big enough to host this event. I will even get us a hippodrome, if a racetrack is not available. There will be room for all who have registered to attend and it doesn’t matter who registered first.

2. Everyone will be given an opportunity to ask one question from the author. You can submit your question at the same time as your registration or later on. Buk will answer your questions if he so pleases. It is quite likely that he won’t.

Everyone is to bring their own drinks and will give one tenth of it to Bukowski.  Please leave your name, email address and the question you would like to ask Bukowski. The list of participants will be updated manually.