Bukowski and Dick In Bangkok
As I dusted myself off and went to find a quiet street to force pad thai into my alcohol-shrunken stomach, I wondered about whether Charles Bukowski and Philip K. Dick had ever crossed paths. I imagined them at some cafe in Hollywood, Bukowski morose, hungover, withdrawn, Dick talking ten to the dozen about some ethereal mind-warp, whizzing on speed and passing pills over the coffee. Bukowski wouldn’t have liked it; he once compared the meetings of writers to too many flies on a turd. Dick might have laughed back, saying about sci-fi writers that “our knowledge is limited, our fiction is terrible.”
George F. on Charles Bukowski, Philip K. Dick and Bangkok.