It's been a long time since I read any Bukowski, but it's good that this book mentions him by name early on, because the style is clearly an homage to his alcohol-soaked tales. This kind of writing has a different appeal to me in middle age than it did as a teenager - it's easier now to absorb cynicism than to romanticize fighting and boozing. It still serves to highlight the toughness and paradox inherent in life, and illustrate the strange contrasts between desire and self-abuse, or a bottle of perfume and a rough, stinky life. That life, set in a decaying Yugoslavia, is also interesting as a historical portrayal.
Finally! A book that doesn't glamorize alcoholism. What a spin. Crass. Nasty. Erotic. Philosophical. Ends with the narrator looking out at the blue sky from the bottom of a dumpster. Not an upper, but much less of a downer than you'd imagine from my comments.
