John Lithgow: Painter James Ellroy - FORTH Magazine

Issue 05 • September-October 2009 SUBJExIVE JOURNALISM
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forty people—all upstanding citizens of The
System. I squeeze into one of the front seats
next to Richard Schave, who runs the tour
(esotouric.com) with his wife, Kim. The
couple debuted their tour in May 2007 and
offer journeys into all things strange (mad
scientists of Pasadena), violent (the Black
Dahlia murder), and literary (Raymond
Chandler, John Fante, et al). Today, we’ll
retrace the ragged steps of a Dirty Old Man.
First stop on the list is the Terminal Annex
Post Office, where Bukowski worked for over
a decade before gaining serious acclaim as a
writer. It was here that he gained inspiration
for his landmark novel Post Office, which was
the result of Black Sparrow Press publisher
John Martin. Martin, having caught wind
of Bukowski’s early poetry, offered to pay
Bukowski $100 a month for the rest of his
life if he would quit his position as a letter
filing clerk and dedicate himself entirely to
his writing. The year was 1969 and Bukowski
was forty-nine years-old, effectively smashing
modern ageism in the face with a hammer.
Since then, the building has become the
largest Internet hub on the west coast and
is guarded by trigger-happy sentinels waiting
for a terrorist attack.
The L.A. Grand Central Library is
where Bukowski whet his voracious literary
appetite, and where he discovered his personal
messiah, John Fante (Ask the Dust). In the
late 70’s, when Bukowski was in his prime,
he had Black Sparrow Press reissue the longforgotten
novel, which reignited interest in
Fante’s legacy from a new generation. In his
preface to the reissued novel, Bukowski wrote
about his discovery: It was like finding “gold
in the city dump.” He went on to say that,
“Fante was my god and I knew that the gods
should be left alone, one didn’t bang on their
door.” However, anyone who has read the
two authors knows full-well that Bukowski
didn’t just bang on Fante’s door, he kicked it
open and made himself at home.
Clifton’s Cafeteria is where Bukowski
(and thousands of others) ate many a free
meal during the First Great Depression.
Clifford Clinton was a saint during this
tough time, and he opened his restaurant to
anyone who was hungry. Clifton’s remains
one of the oldest and most charitable
restaurants in L.A. history, and you owe it
to yourself to check it out. The first floor
is a weird recreation of the rustic Redwood
forest, complete with murals, waterfalls and
Gold Rush Era décor; the second floor is like
walking through a time warp, just as it was
decades ago. Old men resembling Two Buck
Chuck himself sit hunched over their food
trays, eating in quiet solitude.
Next on the tour is 512 De Longpre
Ave., where Bukowski lived from 196 to
1972. In this humble abode, he refined his
writing and found his voice. It is here he
wrote his acclaimed novel Women, among
many other poems and short-stories. In
a poem dedicated to his publisher John
Martin, Bukowski wrote of his home:
And thank you / for locating me
there at / 512 De Longpre Avenue
/ somewhere between / alcoholism
and / madness. / Together we / laid
down the gauntlet / and there are
takers / even at this late date / still
to be / found / as the fire sings /
through the / trees.
The story behind the conservation of
the property is worthy of its own article,
but the Cliff’s Notes version will have to
suffice: Richard and Kim Schave initiated a
grass-roots campaign to have the residence
preserved once and for all as an official
Historic-Cultural Monument. During the
legal proceedings, the landlord—who would
have stood a greater profit had he been able
to sell off the property—declared Bukowski
a Nazi, according to Internet rumors, and
therefore should not be deemed historically
significant. Fortunately for our culture, these
unfounded ravings were ignored. As of 200 ,
512 De Longpre ain’t going anywhere.
Thanks, Richard and Kim.
As I stand outside in the baking July
heat, I peer into the kitchen window of the
bungalow-style house, where Bukowski did
a majority of his writing. I can almost hear
the Mozart or Beethoven playing and I try to
imagine him sitting there, grooving on a solid
buzz and letting the words flow through him
while the Vietnam War rages far away. The
Mexican family who now lives there regards
the tour with an amused indifference. They
hang around the front porch, the men
shirtless, and study us as much as we study
their home. It is a relatively safe bet they
have no idea what this place means, or what
literary brilliance was created within their
walls. To some strange folk operating on the
periphery of this society, it would be like
living in a holy museum. To most others, it’s
just another pile of bills and problems.
Only a few Bukowski-era structures
stand – lone survivors of an endless
(and somehow forgotten) war.
Pink Elephant Liquor on N. Western
Ave. is where Bukowski used to get his booze
when he lived in East Hollywood. To my
mind, it is the only pink liquor store in L.A.,
although I could be wrong. Here the tour
takes a “beer break,” and a long line wraps
around the store as we all get something to
keep us going. This writer chooses a 0 oz.
of Heineken. Gulping it under the burning
L.A. sun in a dirty parking lot feels like
redemption, ice-cold and smooth as sin.
Then, in a moment that dances by like a
butterfly, a title comes to me: “Stare Into the
Sun (Until it Makes Sense).” I don’t know
what it means or what to use it for, but it
comes to me and stays with me. Stare Into the
Sun (Until it Makes Sense).
The Royal Palms, on South Westlake
Avenue, is where Bukowski lived briefly
with one of his main muses, Jane Cooney
Baker. Their tumultuous and passionate
relationship was depicted in the 19 7 film
Barfly. As with any other place he stayed,
Bukowski wrote, drank, fought and fucked
here until being evicted for the millionth
time. Since his eviction—and not without
a heavy dose of irony—the Royal Palms has
become a rehabilitation clinic for alcoholics
and drugs addicts. Upon entering the lobby,
we’re overcome with strange looks from men
who have all owned real-estate on Rock-
Bottom at some point in their lives. Among
them, possibly, our next brilliant poet?
Four hours after we departed, the tour
drops us back off at Philippe’s. This is a terrible
way to simplify the tour, filled with so much
wit and insight into not only Bukowski, but
lost parts of Los Angeles. I come to learn on
a visceral level just how superficial the cityplanners
are. A good 90% of Bukowski’s L.A.
has been demolished and turned into parking
lots or bee-hive apartment buildings. With no
regard for its own history, L.A. has managed