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Charles Bukowski Spit In My Face
(Non-fiction) David Barker's notorious memoir about his run-in with legendary Los Angeles underground poet, Charles Bukowski, in the early 1970s. Originally published as a chapbook in 1982, this Kindle edition includes the prefaces to the second and third editions.
28 pages, Kindle Edition
First published January 1, 1982
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About the author
David Barker
19 books20 followersDavid Barker has published two collections of H. P. Lovecraft-inspired horror fiction written in collaboration with W. H. Pugmire: The Revenant of Rebecca Pascal (Dark Renaissance Books, 2014) and In the Gulfs of Dream & Other Lovecraftian Tales (Dark Renaissance Books, 2015). His Lovecraftian novel, Witches in Dreamland, (also written with W. H. Pugmire) will be published by Hippocampus Press in October 2018. David’s horror fiction and poetry has appeared in magazines and anthologies including Fungi, Cyäegha, Weird Fiction Review, The Audient Void, Nightmare’s Realm, Forbidden Knowledge, Spectral Realms, and The Art Mephitic. He has a long history in the horror field, having published widely in the small press during the 1980s and ‘90s when he also produced three different Lovecraft fanzines. He left the horror field in the late 1990s but returned in 2012 with the ebook trilogy Electro-Thrall Zombies (collected as Dead Guys in Packards).
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Displaying 1 - 5 of 5 reviews
May 13, 2022
One of twenty signed and hand-numbered copies.
An unusual piece of Bukowski ephemera.
An unusual piece of Bukowski ephemera.
July 14, 2014
If David Barker did not exist, Charles Bukowski would have to invent him. Bukowski is, of course, the German-born writer who became the adopted son of Los Angeles, after decades of being its red-headed stepchild. He was the original Angry Old Man and "Poet Laureate of Skid Row," an unfortunate term, and insulting to someone who rejected society as much it rejected him, but his life was crappy anyway, so what is one more jab in his bloodshot eye?
The time period of this short memoir is 1972, back when the Sixties were fizzling and the Liberal Left was still anti-government. Barker found himself drifting at the edge of Bukowski's crowd, which was a mix of phony poets, stoners, alks, students, freeloaders and sycophants. Barker examines the time period and its inhabitants with a critical eye, though that eye becomes a little less critical, and maybe a little blurry from drink, when assessing Bukowski as the "greatest poet in America," not even considering that a Bukowski living a decent life on an even keel would probably be a Bukowski with nothing to write. The action shifts between bars, parties and poetry readings as the narrative leads up to the notorious expectoration of the title.
It is more than a little ironic that Barker and his friends spend much of their time lingering at the fringe, except when they work up enough courage to actually approach their idol, outsiders to people who saw themselves as the ultimate outsiders and worked diligently to stay outside -- double ironic when you consider how much of an insider Bukowski is now, embraced to the bosom of literature and his bungalow now an official City of Los Angeles-certified shrine.
With Bukowski's work now LITERATURE, it is surely only a matter of time before the vivisectionists of the literati enbalm his work and he becomes known more for an ill-spent life than a body of work created as an expression of that life. And that is where memoirs like "Charles Bukowski Spit in My Face" come in, building the legend and lore of the dissipated, angry, demented genius in ways that his work alone could not. Even people who have never read a word of Poe know he was an alcoholic (he wasn't), that Lovecraft took drugs (he didn't), or that F Scott Fitzgerald was an abusive drunkard (well, that's true enough); similarly, people unfamiliar with Bukowski's work will know that he's the guy who spit on people he didn't like.
Is this memoir true, or is it a work of fiction, as some of Bukowski's most strident and abusive defenders claim? It has ring of truth to it, the tone of participatory journalism, the sort of self-effacing revelations common to true accounts, especially the depression and disillusionment that followed the incident. Besides, I've known Barker for more than 30 years, have read a lot of his work, and I accept this memoir as a truthful account, certainly more factual than stories "based on true events" and less fictional than stories where "the names have been changed to protect the innocent." Besides, I doubt Bukowski would deny it (assuming he even remembered it); in fact, now that he is part of the literary establishment he would probably treasure it, along with all the other anecdotal myths and legends about him. Yes, if David Barker did not exist, Charles Bukowski would have to invent him.
The time period of this short memoir is 1972, back when the Sixties were fizzling and the Liberal Left was still anti-government. Barker found himself drifting at the edge of Bukowski's crowd, which was a mix of phony poets, stoners, alks, students, freeloaders and sycophants. Barker examines the time period and its inhabitants with a critical eye, though that eye becomes a little less critical, and maybe a little blurry from drink, when assessing Bukowski as the "greatest poet in America," not even considering that a Bukowski living a decent life on an even keel would probably be a Bukowski with nothing to write. The action shifts between bars, parties and poetry readings as the narrative leads up to the notorious expectoration of the title.
It is more than a little ironic that Barker and his friends spend much of their time lingering at the fringe, except when they work up enough courage to actually approach their idol, outsiders to people who saw themselves as the ultimate outsiders and worked diligently to stay outside -- double ironic when you consider how much of an insider Bukowski is now, embraced to the bosom of literature and his bungalow now an official City of Los Angeles-certified shrine.
With Bukowski's work now LITERATURE, it is surely only a matter of time before the vivisectionists of the literati enbalm his work and he becomes known more for an ill-spent life than a body of work created as an expression of that life. And that is where memoirs like "Charles Bukowski Spit in My Face" come in, building the legend and lore of the dissipated, angry, demented genius in ways that his work alone could not. Even people who have never read a word of Poe know he was an alcoholic (he wasn't), that Lovecraft took drugs (he didn't), or that F Scott Fitzgerald was an abusive drunkard (well, that's true enough); similarly, people unfamiliar with Bukowski's work will know that he's the guy who spit on people he didn't like.
Is this memoir true, or is it a work of fiction, as some of Bukowski's most strident and abusive defenders claim? It has ring of truth to it, the tone of participatory journalism, the sort of self-effacing revelations common to true accounts, especially the depression and disillusionment that followed the incident. Besides, I've known Barker for more than 30 years, have read a lot of his work, and I accept this memoir as a truthful account, certainly more factual than stories "based on true events" and less fictional than stories where "the names have been changed to protect the innocent." Besides, I doubt Bukowski would deny it (assuming he even remembered it); in fact, now that he is part of the literary establishment he would probably treasure it, along with all the other anecdotal myths and legends about him. Yes, if David Barker did not exist, Charles Bukowski would have to invent him.
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December 8, 2012Here are two 5 star reviews from Amazon:
A surprising gem, April 22, 2012
By Jill C. Nelson
This review is from: Charles Bukowski Spit In My Face: A Memoir (Kindle Edition)
David Barker's memoir is a beautifully crafted and ballsy account of his encounters with one of the most inspiring and intimidating writers and poets of our time. Barker's reflection is authentic, rich and honest culminating not only in personal revelation, but also acceptance as a writer and as a human being. "Spit in My Face" is a must read for Bukowski devotees and for those who enjoy quality, uncluttered and absorbing story-telling.
Vivid and insightful memoir worth reading, July 25, 2012
By Rachael
This review is from: Charles Bukowski Spit In My Face: A Memoir (Kindle Edition
David Barker's "Charles Bukowski Spit In My Face" is a gritty, no-nonsense account that exposes the man behind the myth. Barker reminds us just how human our idols can be in a few well-written, hilarious pages that leave the reader with feelings of sympathy AND a strange sort of envy for his unique experience with the infamous Dirty Old Man. If you are fascinated with the Bukowski puzzle, be sure to collect this "missing" piece.
A surprising gem, April 22, 2012
By Jill C. Nelson
This review is from: Charles Bukowski Spit In My Face: A Memoir (Kindle Edition)
David Barker's memoir is a beautifully crafted and ballsy account of his encounters with one of the most inspiring and intimidating writers and poets of our time. Barker's reflection is authentic, rich and honest culminating not only in personal revelation, but also acceptance as a writer and as a human being. "Spit in My Face" is a must read for Bukowski devotees and for those who enjoy quality, uncluttered and absorbing story-telling.
Vivid and insightful memoir worth reading, July 25, 2012
By Rachael
This review is from: Charles Bukowski Spit In My Face: A Memoir (Kindle Edition
David Barker's "Charles Bukowski Spit In My Face" is a gritty, no-nonsense account that exposes the man behind the myth. Barker reminds us just how human our idols can be in a few well-written, hilarious pages that leave the reader with feelings of sympathy AND a strange sort of envy for his unique experience with the infamous Dirty Old Man. If you are fascinated with the Bukowski puzzle, be sure to collect this "missing" piece.
March 13, 2014
A fair read
It was a decent time killer. Though, I believe this man holds too much weight in this one singular moment. As if this were his one claim to fame, and by god he is gonna tell it.
It was a decent time killer. Though, I believe this man holds too much weight in this one singular moment. As if this were his one claim to fame, and by god he is gonna tell it.
May 11, 2013
A great piece of creative non-fiction reportage - really enjoyed this
Displaying 1 - 5 of 5 reviews