Over the years, many a young hack without talent have aspired to be the next Chandler, Bukowski, or Exley. One can’t avoid them really. You often meet them at lame parties, where they talk of Kerouac and Thompson, and how one of these days they are just going to do it. They are going to write that book that has been festering inside of them, and how that book will be filled with pain, loss, and of course, alcohol.
To be fair though, I suppose the reason people feel that way is that, when done well, there is nothing better than a tale such as this well told. Not many can do it well. It isn’t easy to catch that feeling of boozing and good times that turn bad quickly and soon get worse.… Read the rest