Drunken renaissance man

Many of you already know that Charles Bukowski was a pretty decent short story writer and poet. But were you also aware that he was an artist of little renown? It's true! Writing. Painting. Drinking. Fighting with women. Working menial jobs. That guy stretched himself pretty thin throughout his long life. In my column on collecting rare books in the February issue of the Undie Press, I reveal more of my fucked-up past and somehow manage to tie it all into some paintings by Bukowski that I own.

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Over this past weekend, Mrs. Wife and I finally saw The Social Network. For some unexplainable reason, it left me feeling smugly satisfied that I don't have a Facebook account. As though my neglect was a dangerous act of rebellion. My rational for ignoring Facebook has always been that maintaining a blog is egomaniacal enough. (Also, I don't need Facebook to constantly remind me of how few "friends" I have.)

For the record, my last act of rebellion prior to ignoring Facebook was waiting as long as I did to get married and have children.