Customer Reviews

The Captain is Out to Lunch

5 star:		(5)
4 star:		(8)
3 star:		(1)
2 star:		(0)
1 star:		(0)

 

 

Charles Bukowski, The Captain Is Out to Lunch and the Sailors Have Taken Over the Ship (Black Sparrow, 1998)

A year in the life of Charles Bukowski, 1991-92, as he neared death. He knew he was nearing death; he writes about it as often as he wrote about the deaths of other things in his poetry. Of course, his is not the only death to mention in these pages; car accidents, a falling neighbor, etc.

Other than death, Buk's diary talks a lot about horseplaying. Great for me. Perhaps not so great for others.

Bukowski was always a better poet than he was a prose stylist, but The Captain Is Out to Lunch... is likely the most readable piece of Buk's prose I have ever come across. Probably because there was nothing to writing it; instead of coming up with characters, plot, theme, etc., they're sitting there at the track or in the neighborhood waiting for you.

Worthwhile. One of the better posthumously published works. *** ½

I say that facetiously, of course, because I am a long time Bukhead. This journal is a great opportunity to get a glimpse inside Bukowskis mind in his later years. He may have mellowed but it is still vintage Buk. The wine continued to flow and the typewriter continued to produce. It does not equal his poetry or novels but it is still beneficial reading for any fan of Buk. And the illustrations by R. Crumb are almost worth the price of admission on their own. R. Crumb is still as demented and crazed as ever. A worthwhile addition to any personal library.

This collection of journal entries could appear to be getting at the heart of this author's eminently true-to-life writing, seeing as how his works are so autobiographical. But as he says in the book, "Pain doesn't make writing, a writer does." That is, Bukowski's arduous work as a writer created the dozens of titles under his name, not some unfiltered suffering and inspiration we may hope to find by digging through his sock drawer to find his diary. Judging from the tendancies of 20th century fame, I suppose the issuing of his journals should come as no surprise; it's only a matter of time until we want to know everything about our heroes. But when fame's momentum starts flying off the handle, when the surname of the artist can weigh enough to publish just about anything he or she has done, it is high time to assess where on the shelf Bukowski's books are placed. Are they alongside volumes of criticism/laudation and reprints with academic forewords and afterwords? Or will we grant his wish stated in his journal entry: "I'm just a block unto myself. I want to stay within that block, unmolested." It seems our inclination is to include him in the literary canon, but it is evident that Bukowski wishes otherwise, ironically so in these posthumously published journals. Consider: "When [the writer] is swayed by the critics, the editors, the publishers, the readers, then he's finished. And, of course, when he's swayed with his fame and his fortune, you can float him down the river with the turds." Where in this turd metaphor is us, his audience, who appears to be swayed by all of the above?

I was hoping to gain some new insights into the writer/man that was Bukowski by reading this collection of journal writings. To be honest, not much new ground was covered. I did find out out about a failed TV deal I'd never heard of, and some other trivial points, but nothing much deeper. The R. Crumb drawings are worth the price of the book, and well, hell it's Bukowski so I enjoyed it. This is, however, one of the few Buk books I haven't read more than twice, which is as close to a "bad" review as I can get.

I await new Bukowski books--and there seems to be no end of material from the John Martin vaults--with a special fervor, probably because he's just about ruined all other writers for me (only a few by Celine stand up). This one did not disappoint my high expectations, and is a special treat for its format: the only diary-style work Buk wrote. Humorous moments abound, but it does lack some of the edge of his best writing. At its worst, it almost goes into a kind of cranky Andy Rooney thing, but he rights the ship every time. Like his treatment of his later material success & international fame, Buk toys with the irony that he's doing something so precious & self-important as writing diary entries & is quick with the "they made me do it" excuse. Clearly, though, he has fun with the style &, really, it's quite suited to his work, which focuses on the mundane so much anyway (Buk never fails to mention whenever he takes a doo or pukes throughout his writing). The Crumb illustrations are perfect. What a match between writer & illustrator. Overall, it's not my first recommendation for a Bukowski neophyte (I'd choose "Factotum," "Ham on Rye," or "Play the Piano Drunk..."), but then again I recommend his entire output much more so than any one book.

I had an indirect contact with Bukowski in the 1970s when I was working at a Long Beach college newspaper and our Arts editor had just gotten back from seeing him at one of his poetry readings. I was asked to write the headline for the rave review on it we were publishing, and as a young poet I was more than happy to do so.

In the headline I called him "Buk the bard" and they gave it the go ahead for printing. But the editor had met his friends and they'd mentioned that Buk no longer lived in Hollywood and had moved to the notorious San Pedro area.

We all got very concerned for him and told Buk's friends that he shouldn't live there, and that L.A., Belmont Shore, Long Beach - almost anywhere else, in fact - would be preferable. As I recall, at that time there was a stabbing in Pedro almost every weekend.

Soonafter we got word in the newsroom of what Buk thought of the suggestion by us little upscale college smartasses - he said it was a rather dumb one, and that he actually regarded it as an insult, as if we'd just ridiculed his new jacket.

Since his writing didn't float much on the waters of pretense, he enjoyed being where the action was, even if it was now within a very dangerous environment for a guy getting on in years. He planned to stay put anyway and he indeed did exactly that.

I was surprised to hear years later that he'd lasted until 1994, because I'd always bet that, even escaping any physical injury, and with his seeming million gallon booze capacity, he still wouldn't last past 1980.

But don't worry, the old warhorse will still be running new words at the literary track for quite some time. The godsend that was John Martin's Black Sparrow press still has more of Hank's unpublished stuff in their files, so the Captain journal won't be the last you hear of our favorite pulp fiction barfly.

Hopefully lots of them will also have more of those groovy drawings by underground komix king Robert Crumb, too. Now that would be a good day at the races.

If Bukowski has been meaningful to you, then this book is a fitting cap to the earlier pomes and novels. I find it gratifying to see the old man living and reflecting, and perhaps suffering a bit less.

As usual, Crumb's illustrations are the perfect complement. Nobody can visualize Buk like Crumb can.

Highly recommended after you've read already gotten to know Bukowski. I thoroughly enjoyed it.

Okay, Buk's been gone what, four years? Five? This has got to be at least his fourth new book since he shuffled off this mortal coil. Kinda spooky, eh? To top it off, this book is great! It works, in many ways, as a bookend to Notes of a Dirty Old Man. Buk's old now and, though he doesn't quite know it, is not so far from death. The book is made up of journal entries of his daily travails. He spends a lot of time at the track and a lot of time thinking about the writing life. The prose sparkles in that wonderful Bukowski way. If you thought you'd never see any good new Bukowski stuff, think again. The old man delivers the goods from Heaven.

Here, the old dragon has lost alot of his fire, but he still writes very pleasingly. I'm 45, and I can relate to the diminished feeling of these stories. I always read Bukowski for the black humor, and there's some funny stuff here. There's one bit about a guy at the racetrack who Bukowski calls "The Screamer", that's a real howler. And the R. Crumb illustration accompanying this anecdote complements it perfectly. All the illustrations are good. This a good, worthwhile book for Bukowsi fans.

my favorite passage from this book ' i wonder what the next step will be after the computer? you'll probably just press your fingers to your temples and out will come this mass of perfect wordage. Of course, you'll have to fill up before you start but there will always be some lucky ones who can do that. Let's hope.'
good stuff and a smooth read--my reason mainly for reading bukowski