Books

21 Cup

Precise exposition of the rules for a variant of beer pong.

Some games have virtually no stakes and are played for the mere joy of playing. Some games are high stakes and require very precise definitions of acceptable play.

Beer pong falls squarely into the former category, but when it becomes a cherished ritual among a set of bright, intense young people overflowing with energy, you end up with a book like 21 Cup. With cheer and humor, it gives a self consciously thorough and serious enumeration of the rules of the game.

One of my favorite parts of reading is modeling the mental state of the author at the time of writing. Between its dry, legalistic lines, 21 Cup tells a tacit story of a tribe of young men, flush with the power, joy, and optimism of their early twenties, bonding over the love of a simple game, which really just serves as a vessel for their mutual respect, fondness, and admiration.

Recommended for anyone whose life includes a warmly remembered beer pong chapter.

Women

Bukowski kisses and tells.

I read this as a palette cleanser between the Bible and the Quran. I remember loving Bukowski’ prose, perspective, and subject matter in my early twenties. 

But this was a serious letdown. The writing was raw and direct, but not as potent as I recalled. The whole thing just came off as misogynistic and mildly pornographic. The only grasps at a higher literary tier were the occasional references to poetry readings, the broader misanthropy, and the revealed self loathing. 

I want to make it clear that I am not a prude. I understand desire. I feel desire strongly. I like writing that authentically conveys desire. But Bukowski’s thoughts and behaviors as recorded here seem more like deliberately hostile consumption than the aching, yearning, worshipping experience of desire that makes sense and feels right to me.

I recommended avoiding this. If you want to read a filthy old man’s writings about sex, read Memories of my Melancholy Whores instead.

I read women as my first bukowski book and thought the same. His style was interesting in the beginning but it got old quick. This is my second bukowski book and it’s much better. It’s like journal entries minus the misogyny (mostly)

experiments, stories, and haikus for people curious enough to read: paragraph.xyz/@oversky

I used to enthusiastically recommend Ham on Rye, Factotum, and Post Office. I’d have to reread them to know whether I still would, though, and I’m not sure I’m gonna read any more Bukowski. 

Have you seen Crumb? It’s a documentary about Robert Crumb. It’s incredible

I had same reaction. The biggest sin for Bukowski is lacking humor. This is pretty humorless.

There’s another great one in this genre (sex and degeneracy) from Cuba but I’m lacking the name.