"Sometimes you just need to pee in the sink"

Back in my vulgar and mostly inebriated days of college, where I foolishly fell into the highly versatile, but non-marketable, degree path of an English major, I was doing a lot of reading, as you can imagine.

Ok, read this canon of literature one day, read this legendary author the next, and then, if there's any time left, a little focus on Shakespeare, shall we?

Too many epic writers and their masterpieces jammed down our throats, in a very short span of time, you soon get a little fatigued by their greatness.

One day, I'm sitting at the library (yes, I actually went to the library. Good place to study and simultaneously look at girls), when a friend came up to me and put down a weathered, well-used book with pages marked and tabbed in front of me. This same friend asked earlier in the day if I had ever had the pleasure of reading Charles Bukowski.

"Can't say that I have."

Her eyes gleamed and a smile slowly crept up on her face. "Start with the first one I've marked. Then enjoy."

His writing was raw. Blood and guts and everything in between. It sucker punches you straight in the stomach and spits on your face while you're down, leaving you gasping and hawking for breath, yet hungry and delirious for more.

I naturally loved it.

This was the first poem of his that I read:

Piss

remember once I was sitting in this hotel
room when my woman came in drunk and said,
"Christ, I couldnt hold it, I had to piss in the,
elevator!"
I was drunk too, I was barefoot and in
my shorts.
I got up and walked out the door and down
the hall and pushed the elevator
button.
it came up.
the door opened.
the elevator was empty but sure enough
there in the corner was the
puddle.
as 1 was standing there a man and a
woman came out of their place
and walked toward the
elevator.
the door was beginning to close
so I held it open with my hand
so they could get
on.
as the door began to close I heard the
woman say,
"that man was in his shorts."
"and he pissed in the elevator."

I went back to the room and told her,
"they think I pissed in the elevator"

"who?" she asked.

"people."

"what people?"

"the people who saw me standing
in my shorts."

"well, screw them," she said.

she was sitting there drinking a glass
of wine.

"take a bath," I said.

"you take a bath," she said.

"at least take a shower," I said.

"you take a shower," she said

I sat down and poured a glass of
wine.

we were always arguing about
something.

Makes me want to grab a bottle, pop open the top with my teeth, tilt it back, and let the fire liquid burn a path down my throat into the lava pit of my stomach.

Why am I bringing up Bukowski on a wine blog? Well, naturally because the guy writes about drinking. Mostly drinking, and women. Good subjects that people never tire of. Try him out the next time you got a good bottle of wine that needs some company.

I think I will start drinking.

Drinking brings forth the scribe and the fool at the same time.

I'm mostly a fool, but at least God favors fools.

James