South of No North: Stories of the Buried Life

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Darkwave band formed in November 1983 in Athens, Greece, by Andreas Grigoriadis (vocals), MIchalis Kralis (guitar), Yorgos Koulouris (bass) and Phevos Perigialiotis (drums). Japan was an early influence for the band, and their name was taken from the Charles Bukowski book of the same name. It's not pretty and it's left eye is swollen shut. It got some good jabs in, but that big mother on the other side of the ring is fighting on steak and potatoes. This one is trudging through the ring with a gut full of beer ten-cent hot dogs. South of No North was followed nearly a decade later by Bukowski's last collection solely devoted to short stories, Hot Water Music, but by then his power as a short story writer was waning. [ citation needed] He later admitted that "the short story had deserted me", though he was able to occasionally generate a gem like No Wing High (collected in the 1990 poetry and short story collection Septuagenarian Stew) in his later years. I believe that without love, sex is nothing. Things can only be meaningful when some feeling exists between the participants.

Endicott, Endicott sitting there saying, "Well, Hemingway's gone, dos Passes is gone, Patchen is gone. Well, these swaps…I think it might be good for some…maybe good for many. I guess it wouldn’t work for me. I’m too much of a prude.

Notes

Following the second album a pair of keyboard players was added to the line-up and two more full-length albums followed on Wipe Out, Greece's largest indie label of the day. The band maintained a steady following, mostly in Athens itself, but never broke out internationally despite their local popularity as a live act and a number of demo tapes sent abroad. Songs from the band's first two albums, particularly "10.000 Eyes" and their musical rendition of Poe's "Annabel Lee," continued to feature on local club playlists for the next two decades, and their influence was a given for most bands that developed within the scene in the late 1980s and 1990s. This was usually done on a summer day and our parents never complained when we arrived home too late for dinner. Nor did they care about the high glistening blisters on the bottoms of our feet. It was when they saw how we had worn out our heels and the soles of our shoes that we began to hear it. We were sent to the five and dime store where heels and soles and glue were at the ready and at a reasonable price. An intellectual is a man who says a simple thing in a difficult way; an artist is a man who says a difficult thing in a simple way"―Charles Bukowski, Notes of a Dirty Old Man (1969)

She left him rolling on the rug and ran down the stairway. The air was clean outside. She heard people talking, she heard their T.V. sets. It wasn’t a long walk to her apartment. She felt the need of another bath, got out of her blue knit dress and scrubbed herself. Then she got out of the tub, toweled herself dry and set her hair in pink curlers. She decided not to see him again. BOP BOP AGAINST THAT CURTAIN Charles Bukowski (1920-1994) had a gift for creating evocative titles. The title of this book, "South of No North: Stories of the Buried Life" (1975) captures hauntingly the sense of loneliness, alienation, and aloneness that underlies the 27 short stories in this volume. Le copertine di Guanda dei libri di Bukowski son brutte. E’ per questo che ho messo l’edizione TEA sebbene abbia letto la Guanda. years.""Were you baptized a Catho-lic?""Yes.""Then you're still a Catholic. You're just a bum Catholic." Just likeSundays were our day, our quiet, easy day. We went to the Burbank. There was always a bad movie first. A very old movie, and you looked and waited. You were thinking of the girls. The three or four guys in the orchestra pit, they played loud, maybe they didn’t play too good but they played loud, and those strippers finally came out and grabbed the curtain, the edge of the curtain, and they grabbed that curtain like it was a man and shook their bodies and went bop bop bop against that curtain. Then they swung out and started to strip. If you had enough money there was even a bag of popcorn; if you didn’t to hell with it. He tried to kiss her again and succeeded. It was horrible. Edna brought her knee up. She got him good. He grabbed and fell to the rug. She thought of him coming home, finding the gas and phone bills in the mailbox, undressing, taking a bath, the T.V. on. Then the evening paper. Then into the kitchen to cook. Standing there in his shorts, staring down at the frying pan. Taking his food and walking to a table, eating it. Drinking his coffee. Then more T.V. And maybe a lonely can of beer before bed. There were millions of men like that all over America.