"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.

The doctor said, "Big Bill, I think I’ll have to give you monkey glands."

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These comical personifications of preacherly hypocrisy, having endured from the nineteenth century to the dawn of rock 'n' roll, were exiled from Elvis Presley's 1954 recording of "Good Rockin' Tonight." As with the line, "You may get religion, baby," that was expurgated from Presley's 1955 version of Arthur Gunter's 1954 R&B record "Baby Let's Play House," any hint of irreverence toward religion was deemed too controversial for the great mediocrator of rock 'n' roll, Presley, the mediocrator who made of the fine crude bread of real rock 'n' roll a sterile and insipid Wonder Bread for the masses. That was the tradition, more so than the rock 'n' roll tradition, of which Presley truly was born.

Goat-gland transplants were 'blasphemous, pornographic and obscene'

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There was music in the cafés at night and revolution in the air well into the 1950s, especially when the doc’s old seat at the microphone passed to Bob Smith of Brooklyn, New York. The great Señor Wolfman found XERA (now XERF) pretty much the same old playpen. “All you had to do was file one form sheet,” he said, “run the National Hour every Sunday night, and pay your taxes, and the Mexicans would let you do whatever the hell you wanted.” For a while on the air as a sort of homage to Brinkley he peddled jars of pellets called Florex. (“You know, maybe the marriage is getting a little stale in the naughty department. Well, one of these pills in mama’s orange juice…”) More important, he was Brinkley’s spiritual disciple, giving the world an earful of the unexpected: “We gonna rock your soul with a steady roll and pay our dues with the BLUES!” It started with “the Chess sound” out of Chicago—records by Muddy Waters, Howlin’ Wolf, Little Walter—and exploded from there. Across the continent Wolfman Jack, Fat Daddy Washington, Magnificent Montague, and other border-blaster DJs of the new generation spread the music that mainstream American radio tried to wish away: hard-core blues and R & B, Clyde McPhatter, Hank Ballard, Joe Turner, the Platters, the Clovers…