“…if you find us guilty we’re going to keep giving you the finger.”

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This was the world Al immersed himself in, a shadowy realm dealt with in the most mysterious and ominous fashion in movies like Midnight Cowboy, Taxi Driver, Hardcore and countless others. These films did much to shape the popular perception that these clubs and twenty-four-hour theaters were dens of degenerate filth, and that the people who ran them were murderous psychotics. It was an urban mythology that middle America bought into with great enthusiasm. Bullshit, one can almost hear Al say in his slightly lispy Brooklyn accent. Of course there were plenty of bad guys involved, that’s because the consumer had no power in this game and there was no regulation of the trade and no pride in delivering goods and services. These were things he was trying to change. This idea that the sex trade was by nature inherently morally evil was the biggest con in his book, a misconception nurtured by politicians and special interest groups on the right who sought to keep a hold over their constituents through the power of fear.

There was a time when pornography was dirty and exciting and illegal

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But by early '69, Screw was so successful on the newsstands, it made Myron Fass irrelevant, driving his whole dreck factory, and others like it, to the very bottom of the newsstand. The sexual revolution was exploding. We embraced a huge market no one knew existed. What was missing from Playboy centerfolds, sexploitation films, automobile and cigarette ads with sex was simple honesty. We soon had imitators on the stands. Screw was not an evolution of men's mags, but a counter-reaction to them, especially the "acceptable" sadomasochistic tabloids. No one was mutilated or beaten in Screw. Screw was part of the underground hippie counterculture emanating from the East Village, a few blocks below our office. Sally Eaton, from the cast of Hair, wrote in Screw, "I think fucking is the friendliest thing two people can do. . . . America is such a deodorized country that we have to surround something as simple as fucking with romance."

Characters up to no good from every slum within subway fare

 

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Times Square's most miserable, ghastly forms simmer in a witches' brew along Eighth Avenue from 39th to 43rd streets. Here are the official dregs of society, the scum of the earth, the lowlife's lowlives whom Mother Teresa wouldn't bother to save. A Puerto Rican pre-op transsexual stabs a trick in the eye with a sharp fingernail to grab his cabfare before he pays the driver. Brain-damaged evangelists rave aloud to themselves; 300-pound hookers flip out their hooters to stop traffic. Old shoeshine uncles give "spit shines" with more phlegmy bile than polish. Neardead human vegetation take root in their own excretion in condemned doorways — most of them have slit pockets from scavengers searching for their wine-bottle change. The drug-pitch skells would rather tear off with a wallet than transact an actual exchange, and they make the teenage chicken fags seem like the most discreet commodity on the street. Fifteen ghetto guerrillas wearing Pro-Keds (what transit cops call "felony sneakers") swoop down on a victim, then scatter back into subway oblivion.

don't worry about nothin', cause nothin's gonna be all right.

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Jack Ruby's Vegas Club and the Silver Spur were dives that employed black jazz musicians in Naughty Dallas of the '50s: "The thing I remember most about Jack Ruby," chuckles Newman, "were the stag parties in his clubs. Whenever the striptease dancers came out, he'd want the musicians to turn our backs. 'Cause these were white ladies. He'd say, 'Now, you guys turn your backs so you can't see this.' But the strippers would insist that the drummer watch them, so he could catch their bumps and grinds. So Jack says, 'Well, the drummer can look, but the rest of you guys, you turn your backs on the bandstand."'

Cornell Gunther of the Coasters was prancing gay, Jerry recalls, but also the toughest of the bunch. He once took out four guys in a parking lot, who made kissing sounds as the Coasters exited a building. "Get in the car honey, lock the doors," he said to Billy Guy, Carl Gardner, and William "Dub" Jones, the great bass voice you hear on "Charlie Brown." Then Gunther turned around, called the gang "faggots," and beat up all four. The moral: Never mess with a tough fag.

illegal slot machines, backroom gambling, whores, dope, booze

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I peered into a storefront called Honey Hut, the windows boarded with plywood. Orange paint advertised "Lovely Exotics" waiting behind the gates offering "Body Rubs for $10 Complete." "Try Us," pleaded the sorry-looking scrawled letters. I opened the plywood door.

"What the fuck you want?" spat a bitter, leotarded Black girl at the desk.

"Body rub?"

"I'll body rub yo' ass!" she said, reaching for a bat under the table. I meekly backpeddled out.

30 girls on each block stood at their designated posts. They beckoned to me, nodded out, ate pizza, scurried like minnows when the paddy wagon cruised by. Some were sloe-eyed, acned, welted, stoned and sick. Others had bright farm faces, not yet urbanized. Men trolled by in cars, as if it were an Arab trading post, haggling and bargaining. The prettiest white girls stood back in doorways, not having to exert salesmanship.

Seated behind the window at a Howard Johnson's was a bored pimp. He was treating four happy whores to banana splits - their reward for handing in over a thousand a week.

rhyming speedfreak who introduced every song as 'The Greasy Chicken'

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When looking at an album of music you know nothing about, song titles can help—for example: “She’s My Witch,” “I’m Gonna Murder My Baby,” “Mama Keep Your Big Mouth Shut,” and “Evil” are all good song titles, and they are all great songs ... Places with a higher murder or insanity rate usually produced a lot of good music, Memphis and Detroit being two fine examples. Same goes for places with a lot of drunks, like New Orleans and Texas. Eventually you may learn to recognize what gentlemen with beards call “regional styles.” For example, black guitar players from Memphis played too loud through broken speakers; this was good. Drummers from New Orleans were usually drunk and fucked up, so if they couldn’t find the beat they’d just play a march and call it “second line.” ... Pittsburgh’s WAMO boasted the legendary Porky Chadwick—“the daddio of the raddio, a head snapper and dapper rapper, a porkulatin’ platter pushin’ poppa.” He wasn’t “Cary Grant but can do what he can’t” and got his “PhD in insanity at the University of Spinner Sanctum” where he always had a grape in his ear “to make my head ferment.”