Bukowski Specifically and Drunks in General

Saw the Bukowski documentary last night down in Hyde Park. It was a little scattered and incoherant, but, as my date so wisely pointed out, so was his life. Discussed afterwards how together his life was for someone who was constantly drunk (every scene in the movie, much as his writing might make you suspect, featured him holding a bottle, glass, or can). His friends, wife, and daughter all seemed to love him very much, and weren't particularly upset by his drinking. He worked, apparently paid his bills, wrote with incredible insight and ferocity, and lived to old age with no severe health problems related to his alcohol intake.

My main problem with this is that, Bukowski, being a genius, is the exception, rather than the rule. Too many drunks, specifically of the hipster variety, point to him (and Kerouac, and many others) as reasons why being a drunk is a perfectly valid lifestyle choice, rather than a destructive disease.

Reminds me much of J., who would drink whiskey straight from Coke cans while walking down the street to breakfast and wake up confused as to where those bruises came from, not remembering that he'd thrown himself into a brick wall the night before, just for the fun of it. He adored Buk., among many others, mentioned Burroughs whenever I tried to show him how awful drugs were, and ignored the example of the ruined individuals who regularly slumped on his dumpster-dived coach, unable to move, let alone work or think. I wonder whatever happened to that kid, who had a lot of strong literary instincts but could never get himself together enough to get anything published.

I have to wonder, for every Fitzgerald or Hemingway or similar success, how many talented, creative people just drown anything good they've got to say and wind up mumbling their brilliance to the other half-conscious idiots down at the corner bar. It depresses me to even consider how many good minds, good words, are wasting away like that.