That hipster drool narration sounds like a pervert with a cassette recorder in a linen closet, trying not to speak too loudly for fear that he'll wake up his mother and she'll find out what he's really up to when she's not looking.
Other than that minor quibble, honestly, it's becoming a little sad, this never-ending romantic, nostalgic desire that some people have to somehow locate "Bukowski's Los Angeles."
The address has been up on the timeline for some time now. It first went up on some manuscripts that I neglected to edit and the earth didn't stop spinning and swallow us all up, so I just left it. The address is out there in the big wide Internet anyway, so not having it available here doesn't protect anyone.
But a note to anyone who feels compelled to drive down there: there's nothing to see from the street. So stay home. You're just going to be disappointed. Go rub up against some other building in Bukowski's Hollywood.
I'm sorry, but what I think is additionally sad, nostaligic and just plain retarded is the reverence some people give to the bitches that Bukowski fucked at one time or another. Why the reverance? Buk never gave them any when he was alive. Why do you?
I don't know anything about reverence on our end, but Pamela "Cupcakes" Wood wrote an excellent book just a few years back. So some of us think highly of her for that. And while I wouldn't necessarily call it reverence, the way Buk wrote about Jane Cooney Baker was very deep. We don't have much to go on regarding their time together while she was alive (Buk simply hadn't written that much by 1962 and, of course, no novels exist from that time), but I get the sense that the loss of her had something to do with his future relationships.
Jane never had a chance to write a book nor would she have given him any hope for becoming who he ended up being - much like his mom. No doubt Jane was a major influence -- my mistake for leaving her out of that opinion. The rest? Who really gives a shit? Including the clueless bitch that he married and who ruined much of the Hollywood novel -- he clearly didn't want her around-- and maybe that's the most telling thing in the novel.