Honesty Will Never Break You Or, No. It OK. Don’t Be Cry.

About a month ago, Donald Glover (aka Childish Gambino/Troy from Community/NOT Danny Glover’s son/NOT Spiderman because people are assholes/The inspiration behind Toofer on 30 Rock) Instagrammed a collection of hand-written, deeply introspective notes.


And the internet lost its collective shit.

Because that’s what the internet does best. It’s basically a fainting couch. With kittens. And porn.

A lot of people expressed worry, some called it a craven publicity stunt of sorts and at least one comment I read wondered if dude was ghostwriting for Drake.

Personally, I just saw it as a guy having a pre-dawn moment of honesty and deciding to share it with the world. One of those rare, “You know what? Fuck it” moments where you pull the lever, hit send, buy the ticket or jump the stall.

Maybe that’s why people lost their shit. Because seriously – when was the last time you saw that kind of honesty online?

Internet and I are like me and Mrs. Jones, right? We got a love thing going on. I Facebook, I Tweet, I Tumble, I Instagram, I Yelp and I blog.

And all of these social media outlets are a generally accurate reflection of the person I am but they’re certainly not close to resembling the whole picture.

I write about the good stuff – high-end gin, how the bassline to Seven Nation Army is a jaguar stalking its prey, how Raylan Givens is the greatest character on television and seriously, are you fucking kidding me? You’re still not watching Justified? Dude. It comes back in January. You have plenty of time to catch up.

You know – the Holy Shit, I Love You stuff.

I don’t write (much) about my personal life, my fears and insecurities or how a Sherman Alexie quote had me tangled up in blue for a solid three days.

But maybe I should because it’s honest and as a writer, shouldn’t I constantly be fumbling towards honesty?

And hell, maybe I should just because it’s okay. It’s okay to be sad and it’s okay to write about it. It’s okay to not be okay sometimes.

One thing struck me about Glover’s epistolary – “You’re always allowed to be better.”

I like that. I like the promise that encircles those words. You strive towards the hope that you’re not the person you want to be yet…but you will be. It comes back to my boy Fitz because it always comes back to my boy Fitz – “Tomorrow, we will run faster, stretch out our arms farther and one fine day…”

I’m not as brave as Glover. I’m not quite willing to bare my soul…but I want to get there. I want to be more honest. I want to be brave. I want to be better.

So, in that spirit – the Sherman Alexie quote that got me all wound up?

He loved her, of course, but better than that, he chose her, day after day. Choice: that was the thing. ― The Toughest Indian In The World

I’m not brave enough to say why. Not yet. But I really hope one day, I will be.

Bukowski Girls and Neruda Girls Or, Every Last Little Light In New York City

There are two kinds of girls in this world – Neruda Girls and Bukowski Girls.

Neruda girls want to hear:

For those of you not fluent in Spanish (full disclosure: I am not. I can curse and order food), it translates to, “I want to do with you what spring does with the cherry trees.”

It’s a good great line, right? Passionate, evocative, poetic and brimming with romantic promise.

Neruda Girls eat this up – warm honey all sticky-sweet on their fingertips.

Then, you’ve got your Bukowski girls who want to hear:

Like all teenage girls in love with the idea of love, I was once a Neruda Girl.

But now, that kind of talk just makes me cut my eyes, cock my head and go, “What’s your game, friend? What do you want?”

It’s not that I don’t believe Neruda’s lines. I’m sure he does want a woman to bloom underneath him. To burst forth all blushing pink and sweet.

I just think that Bukowski – irascible, inebriated bastard that he was – is a lot more honest.

Neruda will love you madly. He’ll grab you by your hips and sweep you up in this overwhelming delirium – all wild kisses tearing at your lips and your heart. All shattered plates and screaming and storming out. All blood and sweat and salt.

And he’ll do it again and again and again. Maybe with you or maybe with someone else.

Bukowski is just sort of fucking amazed by your very presence and the fact that you’re willing to give him everything. The fact that he’s willing if not eager to offer up everything left of him. But this is hardly devoid of passion because your kisses leave your lips raw with love and let’s face it, Bukowski might just die if you ever take your love away.

I’m a Bukowski Girl.

I never craved madness or a love that would make my blood boil.

All I want to do is just be in the same sun-dappled bedroom. To listen to you breathe and be close enough to touch. Because that’s enough. The warmth of your body, our records, our books, our morning coffee, your smile and how you make me laugh. Again and again and again.




Raw With Love Or, Happy Valentine’s Day 2011

I will remember the kisses
our lips raw with love
and how you gave me
everything you had
and how I
offered you what was left of
and I will remember your small room
the feel of you
the light in the window
your records
your books
our morning coffee
our noons our nights
our bodies spilled together
the tiny flowing currents
immediate and forever
your leg my leg
your arm my arm
your smile and the warmth
of you
who made me laugh

Raw With Love
Charles Bukowski