The History of One Tough Motherf***er

When I am feeling opposed, under attack, violated, threatened, unsure, angry and lost I always turn to the guys who inspire me. Strong, uniquely creative types who saw the world as it is and had the guts to point fingers. Hunter S. Thompson, George Carlin.
This morning I was looking for some inspiration, something to grab onto, something to help me change the view, something to fuel my determination. Something to give me the strength to change, to fight, something to give me the strength to have strength.
Went to Bukowski. He was a poet. My kind of poet. This one slammed me because it exposes the unimaginable horror of this life as we all experience it and celebrates the guts it takes to never give up.
It's called:

The History of One Tough Motherf***er

he came to the door one night wet thin beaten and
terrorized
a white cross-eyed tailless cat
I took him in and fed him and he stayed
grew to trust me until a friend drove up the driveway
and ran him over
I took what was left to a vet who said "not much
chance.........give him these pills.......his backbone
is crushed, but it was crushed before and somehow
mended, if he lives he'll never walk, look at
these x-rays, he's been shot, look here the pellets
are still there...............also he once had a tail, somebody
cut it off...."
I took the cat back, it was a hot summer, one of the
hottest in decades, I put him on the bathroom
floor, gave him water and pills, he wouldn't eat, he
wouldn't touch the water, I dipped my finger into it
and wet his mouth and I talked to him, I didn't go any-
where, I put in a lot of bathroom time and talked to
him and gently touched him, and he looked back at
me with those pale blue crossed eyes and as the days went
by he made his first move
dragging himself forward by his front legs
(the rear ones wouldn't work)
he made it to the litter box
crawled over and in,
it was like the trumpet of possible victory
blowing in that bathroom and into the city, I
related to that cat -  I'd had it bad, not that
bad, but bad enough
one morning he got up, stood up, fell back down and
just looked at me.
"you can make it" I said to him.
he kept trying, getting up, falling down,finally
he walked a few steps, he was like a drunk, the
rear legs just didn't want to do it and he fell again, rested,
then got up.
you know the rest: now he's better than ever, cross eyed,
almost toothless, but the grace is back, and that look in
his eyes never left...
and now sometimes I'm interviewed, they want to hear about
life and literature and I get drunk and hold up my cross-eyed,
shot, run over, de-tailed cat and I say "look, look
at this"
but they don't understand they say something like,"you
say you've been influenced by Celine?"
"no" I hold the cat up "by what happens, by
things like this, by this, by this"
I shake the cat, hold him up in
the smoky and drunken light, he's relaxed, he knows...
it's then that the interviews end
although I am proud sometimes when I see the pictures
and there I am and there is the cat and we are photo-
graphed together.
he too knows it's bullshit but that somehow it all helps.

It occurs to me as I go through this incredibly silly and ultimately meaningless process of chasing jobs and enduring surreal interviews, manipulation and corporate condescension, that reading HST, Bukowski, watching a little Carlin, will give me exactly what I need to get through it. They have all always been a huge part of my life but right now it feels as if they are becoming part of me. Offering themselves to me as weapons.
There is inspiration in their words to get me where I need to be as a human being. As a man.
And if things get really stupid in any of these interviews, I will have quite a few great lines at my disposal to dumbfound The Clowns.