the Stones’ favourite inhabitants of the underworld applied pressure

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More disturbing, though, was the incident at a family party when a young mother asked him to keep an eye on her child who was sitting on a potty, while she left the room to take a telephone call. As soon as she’d gone Litvinoff took the potty to the lavatory, where he sat on it himself and released a huge bowel movement before nipping back to seat the child in place again. When the mother returned to find what her toddler had apparently produced she was beside herself. In later years he would complain to friends of a lack of support from his family but if some relatives began to keep their distance, one can understand why.

fucking jackass bastards are everywhere. The world is full of pigs!

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I carry my two books to the counter, wondering what bookbuyers around me would do if they knew I’m the author of fourteen published novels — a great artist. They’d probably mob me, beg for my autograph, touch my magic coat, and the pretty young girls among them would try to stick their tongues up my ass. But I can’t say anything — it’d only stamp me as a braggart and a hack. Besides, intellectuals have contempt for books like mine. They don’t realize that the great archetypal hallucinations of our times are contained within so-called trashy books, while literary establishment authors like Updike, Barth, Roth — that ilk — are effete dilettantes who should be teaching lit courses in colleges, and in fact many of them are, the scumbags.

This is the land of knee-tremblers and wee bastards

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"I want you to get on your knees, eat my pussy like a rat eat cheese."

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Eddie was committed to partying and "acting crazy" as a way of life. Attempts to get him to "clean up his place" (translation: "get rid of the niggers") were greeted by him with total contempt. He antagonized police, other club owners, and anyone else he considered "square," and reveled in his own defiant stance. After two in the morning, when bars are supposed to be clear of patrons, he would lock the door, draw the curtains, and party with the players, laughing, loud-talking, snorting cocaine, and serving drinks after hours. "Ready Eddie," as he was known, presided over what he proudly dubbed "the Toilet of the Street." He had no intention of running a square or respectable joint and was furious at the predictable official attempts to force him into compliance. "They just want to get my friends out of here," he would bellow, "they don't want no niggers on their street. Well, fuck them punks in the asshole!" This attitude was well appreciated and respected.

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?”

I was just doing what felt good, if that was a sin, then sin on!

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I loved to watch Don Wilkerson attack Fathead on the stand. It brought out the best in both cats. When someone tries to stomp on you, naturally you’re going to respond. And together—blowing out in front of the band—they’d be burning up the place. I like to think I’m a half-ass composer. I ain’t no Duke Ellington. I heard what West Coast cats were doing, and it was good music. But my heart was really with the East Coast dudes. They were harder cats and had a grittier sound. There was more blues in their playing, the approach was tougher. I still hear something different about the way the cats play back East. They’re pushier, more aggressive. They got a certain stink that the guys in L.A. lack. I miss the filth—the East Coast filth—that you hear on the streets and in the recording studios of New York City. When I do a song, I must be able to make it stink in my own way; I want to foul it up so it reeks of my manure and no one else’s.

the result of a meeting of forensic scientists and law enforcement officers

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APPLES Fellow addicts 

BENDING AND BOWING Under the influence 

BIG BLOKE Cocaine 

CAUGHT IN A SNOWSTORM Drugged with Cocaine 

CHICKEN POWDER Amphetamine powder 

CHOCOLATE CHIPS LSD 

FRESH AND SWEET Out of jail 

FUZZY TAIL Police 

GO IN SEWER Inject into vein 

MR. WHISKERS Federal Agents 

SHIT Drugs in general 

STRAWBERRY FIELD LSD 

WORK THE LEATHER leave a place

Churchill personally pressured Jamaica to destroy the ganja trade

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Without Marguerita Mahfood, it might have stayed hidden in the ghetto. Marguerita was an international rumba dancer, them call belly dancers in Jamaica. She is a Syrian you know, born in Jamaica. I hear her family come from Honduras. Now Marguerita danced at Vere Johns’s talent show. She used to come to us because she liked the drums. The African riddim had her doing a different thing. So Marguerita had two shows, one at Ward Theater and one at Carib. It was at that time that Norman Manley had said, “Anywhere you see Rastaman, you have to lock them up.” The show was being conducted by Vere Johns Jr. She told him that she wants to dance to Count Ossie. So we all went to the Ward Theater, the best house in Jamaica, and let me tell you! It was like the whole place crashed! People got crazy about the new sound. OK, so we supposed to leave from there now and go to Carib to do the other leg of the show. And when we get there, Vere Johns says no, it won’t work. “Oh, you are going on with a whole heap of Rastaman? You are prepared to disgrace us!” She says, “Mr. Johns if these people not going to play, I not going to dance.” And he says, alright then, we’re going to play, but he is not going to put the light on the stage where we are. He put us in the corner, in the back. When the drums started to play, everybody in the crowd: “Wha? Who dat? We want to see the musicians!” One man hollered out, “Is Count dat, you know!” People were howling, so then the man ’pon the light put the spotlight on our corner, and the whole thing went up. Maggie caused quite a stir, because, man—she could dance. And Count say to himself, “What is dark must come to light!”