Ending the day with author-worship

A reader (I assume from Iowa) was surprised that I was surprised that Iowans are literate (see post on Charles Bukowski, February 5). Actually, I want to correct that: I did not intend to favor Iowans in this regard. Credit for lack of interest in esoteric indie-market poetry (I think they call it small-journal poetry but I’m not sure) should be extended way beyond Iowa’s rural borders. Most anybody would rather flip on a CD/DVD/TV than read about withered leaves, revenge-driven cats, and dying men. Except for the woman in the white car cruisin’ along University Ave this morning with that bumper sticker. Her man is the 73 year-old writer who drank away the first half of his life, and wrote, they say, some 60 books in the second. Amazing, on all counts.