Sliding off a bar stool and pissing in your pants?
May 17th, 2011 § Leave a Comment
Being an artist doesn’t take much, just everything you got. Which means, of course, that as the process is giving your life, it is also bringing you closer to death. But it’s no big deal. – Hubert Selby, Jr.
I have been consuming documentaries about writers…
Born Into This is a collection of interviews about and mixed with seven years worth of footage of Charles Bukowski. Prolific he may have been, but oh-so-drunk and angry. Towards the end of the film we get to watch him physically and verbally abuse his beloved. What an ass. So I checked some of his books out of the library because, even if the bastard is dead, I will not give him my money. I win! (Known for writing Love is a Dog From Hell.)
Next I watched William S. Burroughs: A Man Within. I don’t know… is it bad that I want to like a person in order to really love their work? I appreciate pieces of his work… queer, out, but again angry as all fuck. I could never get over the fact that he clumsily shot his own wife in the head and then fled the country to avoid the consequences. And the whole dead beat dad behavior that these “tortured” writers display. WTF? We are all tortured in some way, feed your kids. (Best known for writing Naked Lunch.)
Which brings me to Hubert Selby, Jr: I/ll Be Better Tomorrow. After the first two films, I did not expect to enjoy this one. But I did. Greatly. A warm man, yet raw and brutally self-destructive. It opens with him reading in front of an audience, “Where were you dad? Sliding off a bar stool and pissing in your pants?” His nickname was Cubby because he was the cub, carrying his father’s name. And he continued to use the name, feeling like the kids on the streets of Brooklyn would beat him up for being named “Hubert.” He ran away at 16 and joined the merchant marines. Sailed the world. Fucked things. Contracted TB and was never the same. In their efforts to save his life they cut out his ribs and chunks of his lungs. He asked to keep the removed ribs so he could make letter openers for his friends. (Geezz…. how I miss real mail. So much better than email.) Despite his bestselling books, he live most of his life in poverty due to his drug addiction. In the end of the film they say, “His life was a living example for anyone who thought they were gonna get rich writing. Though he did live a rich life.” Ain’t that the truth. (Best known for writing Last Exit to Brooklyn.)