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“I am more or less a failed drizzling shit with absolutely nothing to offer.��

Ah, honesty goes a long way, doesn’t it?! So does humor. And this book made me laugh out loud �� a lot! I went into this open-minded, but prepared to get more than a little pissed off with Henry Chinaski. You see, I’ve been reading a lot of, well, ‘feminist�� sorts of books of late. It made my end of year reading look a bit lopsided. This led me one day to google “the most misogynistic books of all time��! Ha! I would figure it all out once and for all, right? Wrong! The thing is, I never got angry with Henry, or Hank, as I expected. Not that I’d invite him over for a drink anytime soon though either. I’d hate to become one of his research projects. This guy would eat me alive.

“I had to taste women in order to really know them, to get inside of them. I could invent men in my mind because I was one, but women, for me, were almost impossible to fictionalize without first knowing them.��

No doubt he’s a sloppy, miserable, coarse, drunken, horny son of a bitch. And no one knows this better than Hank himself. But the women seem to fall from the sky, landing right at his feet, inserting themselves directly into his life. He, in turn, inserts himself directly between their legs. His sexual conquests are frequent, numerous, and, on his luckiest days, simultaneous. And yet, I continued to laugh. The writing was clever. Until I got bored. You see, after a while, it felt a bit like that movie Groundhog Day. Repetitive. Most of the variation was in the woman’s name, the color of her hair, and whether or not Hank could manage to follow through with his amorous devotion to the sexual act. It was never a question of whether he had a drink or not, but rather how much alcohol he happened to have consumed on any given day.

“That’s the problem with drinking, I thought, as I poured myself a drink. If something bad happens you drink in an attempt to forget; if something good happens you drink in order to celebrate; and if nothing happens you drink to make something happen.��

So, in order to justify my reading of this during the holidays of all times, I needed to conclude whether or not I found this to be a misogynistic tale. After all, I deliberately set out to read such a thing to begin with. In good conscience, I don’t think I can call it that at all. Hank is not a misogynist. He hates a lot of people, and himself most of all, I believe. I don’t think he much cares for life. He is disillusioned with everything. He tries to make sense of things through his writing.

“People just blindly grabbed at whatever there was: communism, health foods, zen, surfing, ballet, hypnotism, group encounters, orgies, biking, herbs, Catholicism, weight-lifting, travel, withdrawal, vegetarianism, India, painting, writing, sculpting, composing, conducting, backpacking, yoga, copulating, gambling, drinking, hanging around, frozen yogurt, Beethoven, Bach, Buddha, Christ, TM, H, carrot juice, suicide, handmade suits, jet travel, New York City, and then it all evaporated and fell apart. People had to find things to do while waiting to die. I guess it was nice to have a choice.��

The thing is, I don’t know how to rate this book. Most certainly it’s not a life-altering novel. But laughter is a precious commodity, especially the unexpected variety, and it absolutely delivered there. And I have to hand it to Charles Bukowski. He managed to pull one over on this reader, at least. But the truth is, I got a bit weary after a while. Since my birthday wish never came true, I’m going to have to go with 3.5 stars rounded down to 3. It doesn’t quite compare to other books I’ve stamped with all 4.

“I was a writer. I was a dirty old man. Human relationships didn’t work anyhow. Only the first two weeks had any zing, then the participants lost their interest. Masks dropped away and real people began to appear: cranks, imbeciles, the demented, the vengeful, sadists, killers.��