Huncke was so heinous cops on Times Square called him The Creep

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Paris itself was an exotic location in those days. It had bars that stayed open later than the 10 P.M. closing time then in force in England. French cigarettes were stronger and more fragrant, the Metro had first- and second-class seats. One listened in astonishment to descriptions of the hole-in-the-floor toilets, open-air pissoirs, and the ladies who ran the public lavatories. Visitors described student bistros and casual jazz clubs; London had only one jazz club—Ronnie Scott’s—and that was prohibitively expensive. They described the easygoing sex and the freely available drugs, and it sounded a good deal more interesting than life in Britain. Everyone said the Beat Hotel was the place to stay, but if it was full, or the owner did not like the look of you, there were plenty of other, equally inexpensive places within a few blocks.

Iggy laying on the floor asking Clive Davis to piss on him.

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Peter O’Toole came into the back room one time and was just sitting there drinking and the usual crowd was there. Ingrid Superstar was doing some number and there was a photographer in the room taking pictures and the flash would go off. Peter O’Toole was getting visibly crazier and crazier and started to appear very irritated. Mickey walked into the back room and Peter O’Toole called Mickey over to his table. “Excuse me, but could you tell those photographers enough is enough. I am here privately and do not wish to be harassed.” Mickey said, “You’re here privately, what does that mean?” He said, “Those photographers, they keep taking pictures of me.” Mickey said, “They aren’t taking pictures of you, they’re taking pictures of Ingrid.” He said, “But I’m Peter O’Toole.” To which Mickey replied, “Oh, are you a painter?”

the accounting was filled with as much fantasy as the novels themselves

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Editor, Daily News,

Well, now that the forces of decency have finally asserted themselves in the case of the movie, “Lorna,” I feel it’s my Christian duty to alert the citizenry to the same type of degenerate smut that exists in our public library: not in Greenwich Village or other places of sin and iniquity, but right here in good old Lebanon, PA. Well, here we are fortunate enough to have a newspaper which fights on the side of good and righteousness. The book to which I refer is “Candy,” by Terry Southern. Now, I haven’t personally read this book, but a friend told me that it is the worst sort of smut he has ever put his eyes upon, and is an abomination to every God-fearing individual. Innocent children, into whose hands this book might possibly fall, would be done great harm by reading it. They are always the ones who are hurt, our young people. To imagine that it is allowed in our public library is difficult to understand. The atheists, fellow travelers, communists, and communist dupes who write this sort of thing should not be allowed a place in our community. Christians, unite in this great season we are now enjoying and purge these atheistic elements from our midst.

The Holy Warrior

what it was like to crawl around in life’s dirty bowels for forty years?

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A lot of that information concerned her relationship with the late poet Allen Ginsberg. They had met around ’56 or ’57. They shared an apartment on Russian Hill and for some period of time maintained a life together, with Mom riding the hills of San Francisco on the back of Ginsberg’s motorcycle. Occasionally, they’d show up at the home of my mother’s sister, where Ginsberg enjoyed raiding the well-stocked liquor cabinet. It seemed she was crazy about him, and a letter that he wrote to Jack Kerouac indicated likewise: “I met a great girl who digs me, I dig—twenty-two, young, hip (ex-singer, big buddy of Brubeck, knows all the colored cats, ex-hipster girl) pretty in a real chic classy way—she has a wild mind, finer than any girl I met . . .—young life in her and real sharp. What a doll . . . Not a stupid square in any way, but not a flip. Instant digging each other—how wild and great.”

Sometime after the breakup, Mom, drunk and despondent, went to the apartment that Ginsberg was sharing with Peter Orlovsky and pelted the window with bottles and rocks, yelling, “You can fuck me in the ass, if that’s what it’s all about!”

their taboo-breaking sadomasochism drove audiences to frenzy

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While the Stones were working downstairs, the parade of characters continued in the spacious salons upstairs. William Burroughs and Terry Southern arrived to hustle a Stones sound track for a Naked Lunch movie. Corsicans arrived with half kilos of heroin, 6,000 pounds per, and were paid in cash. The Bauls, a tribal band from Bengal, came to Nellcote to tape some drums that eventually weren’t used. A gang of petty criminal “cowboys” from the St. Tropez underbelly was installed by Anita in the villa’s gatehouse, where they dealt drugs and stole everything they could. Half-naked Anita smoked opium with Marshall Chess. A chef was hired to prepare the gourmet luncheons served daily to one and all. Keith drove him crazy by ignoring the sumptuous buffet and demanding a cheeseburger. After lunch, Keith would sit on his verandah, shirtless and barefoot, strumming his guitar, thinking up the words to a new, autobiographical song called “Happy.” Anita hired the chef’s daughter as a nanny for Marlon and shot her up with heroin. The girl got sick and Anita made her swear not to tell her father. Everyone knew that eventually there would be hell to pay.

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."

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.

The place was jumping—funky wailing blues and high wild laughter.

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The filming of The Girl Hunters represents the first time, of course, that a protagonist has been portrayed by its author on the silver screen. If Spillane’s undertaking is a successful one, and it appears quite possible, will it not definitely signal a new trend in creative fiction? Many writers are, in fact, already regarding this as a unique and long-awaited opportunity for having their way not merely with the run-of-the-mill starlets but with their ideal woman, the girl of their dreams, the marvelous heroine of their own creation. Does it not follow that our literary chaps, with their voraciously inquiring minds, their insatiate quest to get to the bottom of things, will start writing in outlandishly heroic sex scenes, with an eye to ultimate personal realization? It must also be remembered that your writer is notoriously more virile, more sexually interesting, and unscrupulous than is your effete or coldly professional actor. Also generally better-looking. This is known fact. I say we may anticipate some almost incredible developments on the shooting set. An irate and astonished director shouting, “Cut! Cut!” is apt to have precious little effect on chaps like Mailer and Kerouac once they are swinging.