I recently reread a collection of Charles Bukowski short stories. I was surprised how well his work held up. I found some comments on lawns amusing.
In "Notes Of A Potential Suicide", he writes, "all the people in Los Angeles are doing it: running ass-wild after something that is not there. it is basically a fear of facing one's self, it is basically a fear of being alone. my fear is of the crowd, the ass-wild running crowd; the people who read Norman Mailer and go to baseball games and cut and water their lawns and bend over the garden with a trowel."
In "The Blanket", he writes, "Madness? Sure. What isn't madness? Isn't Life madness? We are all wound-up like toys . . . a few winds of the spring, it runs down, and that's it . . . and we walk around and presume things, make plans, elect governors, mow lawns . . . Madness, surely, what ISN'T madness?"
It appears that Bukowski perhaps regarded lawns as a waste of time. That stance isn't too shocking coming from the bard of L.A.'s skid row, but, given the current drought, California might have been wise to listen to him.
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