This is the land of knee-tremblers and wee bastards

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

teenage motherhood: It’s like being grounded for eighteen years!

 

epub or mobi, with thanks to the original sharer

I had no idea what any of these songs were referencing. What they really meant. How subversive they really were. I used the radio to disappear. To escape from my family. Enter another dimension. Melt inside a psychedelic sound stage which cascaded out through the airwaves filling my already fractured psyche with throbbing, slinky, funkified soul music, where soaring rhythms and strangled guitars took me out of myself and gave me goose bumps. “I break out … in a cold sweat” stimulated me in ways I could only express by shaking my ass, flapping my arms, and stomping my feet. Everybody was glued to the tube on Sunday nights. The Rolling Stones, The Animals, George Carlin — all penetrated my unformed psyche, courtesy of Mr. Sullivan. Music is the connective tissue between protest, rebellion, violence, sexual awareness, and community. The inner-city ghetto which I called home was brimming with hard-working people with attitude and conviction whose lust for life couldn’t be beaten out of them by piss-poor housing conditions, lousy pay, the police, or politicians. They taught me to keep the faith, and, when hoping for a better tomorrow isn’t enough, turn up the goddamn music and dance the blues away. I refused to allow them to strangle me by the ankles because even if I had to “Beg, Borrow, and Steal,” this “Lightning’s Girl” was going to be sure she was “Making Every Minute Count.” Just like the radio taught me.

needed help with her homework assignment in plaster casting

pdf, (100 pages / 86MB)

It's strange in rock 'n roll, that there's been an abandonment of humour, when it's the bedrock of the music.

The problem is, now, if you're idiosyncratic, you're considered to be kitsch. There's also this kind of awful Mojo reverence for the past. You see nineteen-year-old kids churning out music that sounds like the worst Byrds album. I just don't understand why they'd want to do that. What rock 'n roll represents is pathetic conformity ... which should be burned down! Style isn't about shoes ... To me, a group like the Jesus and Mary Chain is boring. They just took a look at the Velvet Underground. It's like reconstructing the Last Supper, they've just placed themselves around the table!

Kookie Byrnes or Cousin Brucie or Mad Daddy or Murray the K

epub or mobi, with thanks to the original sharer 

Bobby Cuddahy was a Ducky Boy. And like most Ducky Boys he was Irish, under five-foot-six, and crazy. Webster Avenue was Ducky Boy country. They roamed their turf like midget dinosaurs, brainless and fearless. They respected only nuns and priests. They would fight anyone and everyone and they'd never lose. They'd never lose because there were hundreds of them. Hundreds of stunted Irish madmen with crucifixes tattooed on their arms and chests, lunatics with that terrifying slightly cross-eyed stare of the one-dimensional, semi-human urban punk killing machine. And they were nasty - used tire chains, car aerials, and the "Webster Avenue walking stick," baseball bat studded with razors. Their ladies' auxiliary was even meaner. They would attack single guys and sometimes groups of guys. They used car aerials and in a single singing flash could pare a cheek so skin would be hanging down to the neck.

They ignored injuries. They'd sit there and bleed. Or they'd amble to confession covered with blood. They'd confess things like using the Lord's name in vain or farting in public. And Father O'Brian would also ignore the blood, listen to their droning, and give them a few Hail Marys to do. If he was in a particularly good or bad mood, he would march the confessor to the tiny concrete courtyard in back and administer ten lashes with a car aerial. No one complained. They could barely communicate verbally. Conversation was unknown. The only thing they did along with the rest of the human race was go to church. They'd go six, seven, sometimes ten times a week. They loved "Faddah O'Brian," an ex-Fordham University football star, who unlike most poverty area priests didn't give a shit what the youth did as long as they came to church. He didn't believe in baseball leagues or social work. He believed in confession and physical punishment.

This is a superbly written book about coming of age in a section of the Bronx. Yet the book is not about teen-age gangs, but about survival and the groping for answers to unformulated questions."The Wanderers" is an outstanding work of art because Mr. Price never imposes himself on the reader. His dialogue is musically true and emotionally correct. He respects his art and his subject, and illuminates our daily world with insights that allow us - at times force us - to feel closer to other human beings whether we like and approve of them or not. - Hubert Selby Jr.

it was criticized viciously as "sex-loaded" and "in bad taste"

pdf scan (204 pages / 150MB)

Realism only comes to the screen when the film jams in the projector and the image begins to bubble. An instinctual fear of the dark manifests when the projection light fails ... heightened by the little, furry things with long tails that scamper beneath the seats. The electrical nature of sex becomes apparent as the hair on your neck bristles when that pervert to your left makes knee contact. In these moments of truth, cinema reveals her face of realism. But, she is a twofaced creature, the other countenance being a rainbow palette of dyed coiffures, pancake make-up and pancake bloated guts crammed into costumes designed by cock -eyed midgets. Superstars who beat their children with wire coat hangers and then peddle soft drinks potent enough to rot their dentures. Aging women taking endless enemas so as not to wind up in horror films. Virile he-men doomed to an excruciating regimen of exercises to keep their sodomized posteriors picture-perfect. EST trained actresses showing the world what it is like to be liberated and free of cellulite. Alcoholic celebrities who barf up their past in book form so that all can marvel at the hideous mess that has been cleaned up by a Christian re-birth. Harpies with herpes who rip apart, in print, plump fornicators whose every performance they slander with typeset Ju-Ju curses. Innocent children who sing and dance down the yellow brick road to drug addiction and toxic box office poisoning. This is the other face of cinema …