This is the land of knee-tremblers and wee bastards

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“Where’s that fucking Kerouac? He can’t write. That shit isn’t writing."

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We would have parties in Mill Valley where everybody took all their clothes off and danced. It was really innocent, in a way, compared with the hardcore pornography stuff that goes around now, and he would just sit there and leave his clothes on and watch. Jack told me, “They won’t publish my stuff because I won’t change the names.” He had six or seven novels at that time that were unpublished, and then he finally backed off his position and said what he was going to do—said that he was going to change all the names, which he did slightly. I thought he was writing a novel. I didn’t see the people that he based those things on anything like he did. If I wrote a book covering the same period you wouldn’t recognize them, including me. He definitely saw things the way he saw them, so I figured that it was fiction. He didn’t have any problem with it. He made it all up. Which we all do. He isn’t any different than anybody else.

nude-ins at the beaches, public fornications, body painting

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Shriek! Shriek! The Goon Squads are loose! We are motherfucking tired of the brickout of books, movies, theatre groups, dope freaks, Times Square gobble scenes, poetry readings, night club acts, etc. in New York. The Department of Licenses, the freaks in the various prosecutors’ offices, the nazis, the fascists, et al., have joined psychoses for a Goon Stomp. Poets have been bricked out of their readings—Lenny Bruce puked from MacDougal street—Theatres raided—Actors freaked—Grove Press zapped by creeps! Coffee houses harassed—film makers censored—dreamy eyed loiterers & hustlers seized & humiliated—& even the Times Square dance hall scenes have been stomped! Their motives, particularly those of the prosecutors and the lawyers of the Dept of Licenses, seem to be a) self-aggrandizement, focusing the yes of the press on themselves in order to groove up politically, b) the whenever-I-hear-the-word-culture-I-want-to-reach-for-my-gun syndrome, & c) the low budget, low payoff scene. We don’t give a frozen rat dick how brilliant Police Commissioner Murphy is or how effective the Supreme Court is, or even how liberal Mayor Wagner is, when all over N.Y. we are getting slimed off the set! If a city or state official lacks a very liberal sensitivity toward sex, cocksucking, dope & welfare, then the fuckhate should be zapped off the set. It’s hard not to be bitter against these . . . “vice crusaders farhting through silk” waving their penny whistle censor’s flags. The lowliest shoe shine hustler creep mishugana on times square is worth more to a society than all the Calvinist lawyers in Department of Licenses, all state film censors, all the gelded or armored-over fugitives from the vanishing asshole of the void! 

"Hip chicks, exotic sounds, G-men, B-girls, stag parties, stogies ..."

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What the hell was Dr. Kinsey really doing, hanging around Times Square, asking men to tell him about their sex lives, getting them to drop their drawers and measure their cocks for science? He told Herbert, "I'll tell you what, Mr. Huncke. You can help me greatly if you'd introduce me to some of your friends, so l can interview them as well. In fact, I'll give you two dollars for every subject you can bring me."

Herbert jumped at the chance. "I think I can help you, Dr. Kinsey. Why don't you come back to the Square some evening and I'll introduce you to some  good people I know."

Burroughs and Kinsey - and on occasion, Allen Ginsberg, Jack Kerouac and his wife, Edie Parker, Burroughs' wife Joan Adams, among others – would get together at one of several popular buckets-of-blood around the Square. Such dives as Gilroy's and The Angler. The good doctor Kinsey would remind his new friends of his study, and the Beats, having put on a glow, allowed that they were happy to "compile data."

It's interesting to speculate whether Kinsey's "facts," are weighted by the contacts Herbert Huncke provided him, the street hustlers, the excitable weekend queens confessing their transgressions.

AC-DC, cigarettes, ROCK ’N’ ROLL RECORDS, Whips, MONEY

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Magic was afoot at the Chelsea, people said. For about ten dollars a week, you could rent a room next to Edie Sedgwick or hang out on the roof with Allen Ginsberg. You and your neighbors could share ideas, music, money, clothes, hot-plate meals, and maybe beds, if you were lucky, under the protection of a manager not much older than you. The more outside mainstream society you were, the more inside you would be here, drinking beer at El Quijote with Bobby Neuwirth, exchanging nods on the stairs with Betsey Johnson and her new lover John Cale, and squeezing to the back of the elevator with the German anarchists and artists’ widows to make space for the tourists, music producers, miniskirted models, and globetrotters in from Goa who also wished to join the scene.

"Hipsters are the parasites on the body of jazz"

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He wanted his own world, one in which the problem of mixing with the squares would be non-existent. 'To be called a square in those days was to be square in music only; which, in a strange sense, was much worse than being generally square.' Of course it was. Often he didn't even bother to use the word 'square'; a shrug of the shoulders, and a weary 'oh, man ', would be sufficient to dismiss the opposition. The hipster language was laconic at best, and one step removed from inarticulacy at worst: 'There were no neutral words in this vocabulary; it was put up or shut up, a purely polemical language in which every word had a job of evaluation as well as designation. These evaluations were absolute; the hipster banished all comparatives, qualifiers, and other syntactical uncertainties. Everything was dichotomously solid, gone, out of this world, or nowhere, sad, beat, a drag'.

where Charley and I had danced the mambo naked with Mary

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So there we were at the Red Drum, a tableful of beers and all the gangs cutting in and out, paying a dollar quarter at the door, the little hip-pretending weazel there taking tickets, Paddy Cordavan floating in as prophesied, all sitting together, interesting groups at various tables, Julien, Roxanne, and up on the stand Bird Parker with solemn eyes who’d been busted fairly recently and had now returned to a kind of bop dead Frisco but had just discovered or been told about the Red Drum, the great new generation gang wailing and gathering there, so here he was on the stand, examining them with his eyes as he blew his now-settled-down-into-regulated-design “crazy” notes — the booming drums, the high ceiling  —Adam for my sake dutifully cutting out at about 11 o’clock so he could go to bed and get to work in the morning, now Mardou cut out with me, glee eyed, between sets, for quick beers, but at her insistence at the Mask instead where they were fifteen cents, but she had a few pennies herself and we went there and began earnestly talking and getting hightingled on the beer and now it was the beginning — returning to the Red Drum for sets, to hear Bird, whom I saw distinctly digging Mardou several times also myself directly into my eye looking to search if really I was that great writer I thought myself to be as if he knew my thoughts and ambitions or remembered me from other night clubs and other coasts, other Chicagos — not a challenging look but the king and founder of the bop generation at least the sound of it in digging his audience digging the eyes, the secret eyes him-watching, as he just pursed his lips and let great lungs and immortal fingers work, his eyes separate and interested and humane, the kindest jazz musician there could be

the rebellious, the hungry, the weird, and the mad

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"Do you know what a beatnik is? Usually some guy who says, "I hate my father. I hate my mother. " So they leave home in Indiana and they come to New York. They write a line of poetry, type it up in a great big expensive five dollar binding book, put it under their arm, put on sandals, grow a little goatee, walk down the street and say they're poets. It's just kind of a fad. It was invented by the press. Listen, I'm a railroad brakeman, merchant marine deckhand in war time. Beatniks don't do those things. They don't work. They don't get jobs."

excerpts from various interviews, gets a bit confused/confusing at times with all the catholic/buddhist damage, but some interesting stuff. 

shoved nickels in the jukebox and played Wynonie Blues Harris

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Out we jumped in the warm mad night hearing a wild tenorman bawling horn across the way going “EE-YAH! EE-YAH! EE-YAH!” and hands clapping to the beat and folks yelling “Go, go, go!” Far from escorting the girls into the place Neal was already racing across the street with his thumb in the air yelling “Blow, man, blow!” A bunch of colored men in Saturday night suits were whooping it up in front. It was a sawdust saloon, all wood, with a small bandstand near the john on which the fellows huddled with their hats on blowing over people’s heads, a crazy place. The behatted tenorman was blowing at the peak of a wonderfully satisfactory free idea, a rising and falling riff that went from “EE-yah!” to a crazier “EE-de-lee-yah!” and blasted along to the rolling crash of butt-scarred drums hammered by a big brutal Negro with a bullneck who didn’t give a damn about anything but punishing his tubs, crash, rattle-ti-boom crash. Uproars of music and the tenorman had it and everybody knew he had it. Neal was clutching his head in the crowd and it was a mad crowd. They were all urging that tenorman to hold it and keep it with cries and wild eyes; and he was raising himself from a crouch and going down again with his horn, looping it up in a clear cry above the furor. A six foot skinny Negro woman was rolling her bones at the man’s hornbell, and he just jabbed it at her, “Ee! ee! ee!” He had a foghorn tone; his horn was taped; he was a shipyard worker and he didn’t care. Everybody was rocking and roaring. Helen and Julie with beer in their hands were standing on their chairs shaking and jumping. Groups of colored guys stumbled in from the street falling over each other to get there. “Stay with it man!” roared a man with a foghorn voice, and let out a big groan that must have been heard clear out in Sacramento, ah-haa!