The light shows and sounds indicated the influence of dope
on audience and musicians alike. They could no longer be called dances for they
resembled Be-Ins more than the foxtrot shuffles that still predominate in
middle-aged memories. Clubs, like U.F.O. and Middle Earth in London's West End,
used to have all-night sessions, where one could listen, dance, blow bubbles,
eat, sleep, trip, make love or just wander around digging the people. As might
be expected, rip-off club managers began their own enterprises, charging high
prices for music, food and hard liquor. For a time nobody cared, because the
head clubs were community run and one could hear the best in progressive rock
and grin stoned grins at performers who would later be ranked as superstars. A
mixture of police harassment and capitalist economics eventually closed them
down. The political nature of rock music is manifested at a number of levels. Many
groups take explicitly political stands, whilst others make obvious references
in their songs and interviews. The nature of the music industry, however,
sometimes induces an ambivalent stance for, despite the free concerts and the
heavy rhetoric, the record companies are 'only in it for the money'. The M.C.5,
as long as they stayed in Detroit with John Sinclair, were a screaming,
revolutionary band. As soon as they left, they became a teeny bop group with a
mean reputation but without any balls.
Showing posts with label Feminism. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Feminism. Show all posts
There's always something going on at Gertrude's.
the voices bellowing in her head, the voices
that knew Sylvia for a bitch and demon and a slut, the little cunt that would
not learn, the pug-nosed brat who must be shoved along until broken into that
white rag stretched on a mattress, its putrid skin mocking the clean, damn it,
brand clean outfit they gave her. And this fool thinks it's a young lady he
saw. She knows better, she's seen that little runt snivel and beg, cry and
scream and wet and shit and live down there with the dogs, begging, yes
begging, and what relish to hear her plead, damn right, plead, just for soda
crackers and water. Tears all over her face but she'd do it. The board if she
didn't. No more of that fighting back. She'd learn. And crawl. Make her crawl
all over the basement floor. For hours. Get tired and tell Ricky to watch her.
Keep her moving. On all fours like the dog. No better than them two dogs. Worse
really, would you see a dog shove a Coke bottle up its you know what, would you
see that ever? Young lady? Poor fool sure don't know nothing about life.
Some physicians questioned the propriety of vulvular massage
The
vibrator and its predecessor technologies - particularly manual and hydriatic
massage - made it easy for physicians to provide the relief that was not
otherwise accessible to many women. The vibrator was convenient, portable, and
fast and thus enjoyed a considerable popularity as a medical instrument before
its discovery by consumers and by the makers of erotic films. The ultimate
difficulty of the vibrator, from the point of view of the medical profession,
was that it was so convenient and easy to use that it rendered unnecessary any
medical intervention in the process of producing female orgasm. Hydriatic
equipment and expensive office vibrators like the Chattanooga at least kept
massage innovation in the hands of medical professionals; once the vibrator
became a lightweight and inexpensive device that could be operated by water or
electricity in the home, it became a "personal care appliance" and
not a medical instrument. In the second half of this century the vibrator has
become an overtly sexual device. Interestingly, when such devices appear in
erotic films, it is rarely the true vibrator that is portrayed; what is seen is
the reassuringly phallus-shaped vibrating dildo, with its suggestion that the
machine is really only a substitute for a penis. For most women, however, these
underpowered battery-operated toys are more visually than physiologically
stimulating; it is the AC-powered vibrator with at least one working surface at
a right angle to the handle that is best designed for application to the
clitoral area.
dirty cellars, drink and people who had no respect for themselves
epub or mobi
Gladstone was often found wandering
around the darker environs of the West End. With almost reckless abandon he
searched for young women to 'rescue', often asking them back to his house. It was estimated that Gladstone spent a minimum of £2,000 a year
helping prostitutes and providing shelters for them. A fellow parliamentarian noted that Gladstone seemed to prefer the
young and pretty prostitutes and wryly noted that he 'manages to combine his missionary
meddling with a keen appreciation of a pretty face. He has never been known to
rescue any of our East End whores, nor for that matter is it easy to
contemplate his rescuing any ugly woman and I am quite sure his convention of
the Magdalen is of incomparable example of pulchritude with a superb figure and
carriage.'
The Beatles can do a much better job than the Archbishop of Canterbury
epub or mobi
Permission is 'Fanny
Hill' available only in an expensive edition. Permission is the deportation of Lenny Bruce, the Home Office file on
Stokely Carmichael. Permission is still - Please
sir, may I leave the room, sir? Permission implies the
wisdom of an officially appointed elder brother. Permission satisfies only the powerful (who don't need it) and the timid (who ask
little else from life). The permissive
society is only a stage in the real, long, bloody struggle for freedom. It's easy
to forget that every piece of liberty
we own has been won in the struggle between the people and the ruling classes.
Even the right to be cremated had to be fought for, at length, in the
nineteenth century ... People are still refused
admission to hotels, restaurants and so on because they wear the wrong kind of
hair or clothes. For the same offences you can still be beaten up in the car
park behind a pub, which is one of the reasons that the hippies prefer their
own clubs. Very few of the
boutique owners are anything to do with the Underground. They are part of the
ancient commercial scene.
They belong to the nation of boutique owners which Napoleon jeered at. The
American Diggers, whose shops are crammed with free gifts and have nothing for
sale, are playing a different and liberty loving game.
“Orgasms,” she declared, “are the most political subject there is.”
The movement had changed. Radicals now used
LSD, mescaline, hash, and speed as well as grass. They listened to music by
Frank Zappa and the Fugs, which hurt my ears. They bragged about orgies. They
wore T-shirts in psychedelic colors, and the men had hair below their
shoulders. The Diggers, hippies, Yippies, and underground press editors treated
electoral politics as a bad joke. They didn’t want McCarthy for President.
Their candidate was a fat pink pig. Their platform was “Fuck the System.” Their
irreverence made me laugh. In my straight job, straight clothes, straight
apartment, I felt far away from them.
I’m taking you up an alley. An alley’s the next best thing to the Casbah
But
before your marriage can soar away on wild, creative flights of fancy, you must
first master the fundamentals, and that’s precisely what we’re going to learn
here today – basic fucking. Marlene, would you go out in the hall and tell the
boys they can come in now? Thank you. All right, Boys, I hope you all brought
your mats and cundrums, as I requested. Fine. Now get your partners, and,
please, no talking when fucking begins. Allll right, Everybody, watch Teacher.
Position A. (Getting into position A.) One, two. One, two. You see how it’s
done? Allll right, begin. (Clapping her hands.) One, two. One, two. One …
Marlene! No, no, no, Marlene; you’re
oneing when you should be twoing. Now let’s try again. One, two. One, two.
Th-a-a-a-t’s right. One, two … (Almost at the end of her patience.) Marlene,
would you please confine yourself to fucking. The Marriage and Family Institute
doesn’t exist to turn out prostitutes, just simple, basic, serviceable wives.
Now, back to fucking. Watch me, now. One, two. One …
a desperate, frantic attempt to groove in an ungroovy world
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