I'm sitting here on my couch with a cup of coffee and my rat Penelope hopping around, stopping me from typing now and then when I fondle her. Or she climbs up my naked back giving me those scratches that look like I've been whiplashed by a smurf.
I had a long phone call with my older brother last night, nicknamed Lemmi.
He told me this anecdote:
When he was reading Factotum once, he was drunk as a fish. He couldn't focus on the lines anymore and started vomitting onto the copy. He cleaned the book, but some of his vomit remained, of course.Years later he gave Factotum to a friend and didn't get his copy back.Now he wants to find out that guy's phone number, they lost contact along the way. If that copy of Factotum was in a lab, the medical detectives could still identify my brother. He needs to have that copy back.
Do you think puking onto one of Bukowski's books can be seen as true dedication to the subject?