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.

they pleaded for tolerance, Boyd flipped a finger at everything

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Catholicism has the appeal it has for all who lack sexual gifts: it assures them that the thing they're not good at, sex, is wrong anyway. Soft cocked, hard hearted; broad-hipped, narrow-minded; cold assed, hot tempered ... The middle class are endlessly vulgar, with no redeeming obscenity. They represent themselves as above sex, but they are beneath it - too cold, too frightened, too ambitious, too conventional, too unattractive for sex. To this day they love lovely things. They are themselves lovely things, robots like the "straights," performing as programmed; they are the true undesirables, the undesiring …

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 Bucket-of-Blood, the Upholstered Sewer, that's where you heard jazz

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Some guy came in for some innocent diversion, only he had about a grand on him. We had about six gals there, all sizes and all types. They worked on a percentage, so many drinks - phonies - drunk a night, so much earned. Well, this unlucky guy comes in. I strike up a tune and the big parade starts. First one gal sidles up to this fall guy; he doesn't give her a tumble. Then another, and still another. By this time he's downed several and is more amiable. Soon he latches on to one he likes. You know these girls could promise strange worlds with their eyes - it didn't pay to gaze too deeply. Well, he invites one of the gals to drink with him, and soon she's warming him up, and he buys me one - and then she invites one of her "girl friends" to join her - and pretty soon it's one big happy family, with our friend for the afternoon buying drinks for the house, about ten of us, and the drinks comin' so fast that nobody got a chance to really drink except, of course, our indiscreet friend. And somehow he passed out and had to be assisted upstairs. Just before my shift was up, he awoke - refreshed, but very short of dough. Very short. He was very outspoken about it, but no one knew where it had strayed, except - "Remember, you were buyin' everybody drinks - remember?" And so he started drinking again, and fell off one of the stools. This time the dishwasher helped him up, but somehow his hand got caught in this man's pocket. But the man with the grand (minus) wasn't that drunk. He put up a squawk. So there was nothing for Old Man McGovern to do but fire the dishwasher. So he got his hat and coat on and with his head hanging low, walked out - out, past the front window to the side door that also led back of the bar (partitioned off) to the kitchen, where I later saw him back at work, washing dishes.

the "inside dope" of outsiders was a one-way ticket to stupidity.

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When Ulysses S. Grant lay dying in 1885 in upstate New York, he was treated with injections of good brandy and morphine as well as cocaine. Down in New York City, his treatment was other people's pleasure. Opium to be smoked. Absinthe and laudanum to be drunk. Morphine to be drunk or shot. Cocaine to be shot, snorted, or drunk from bottles of infused Bordeaux or the vials of liquid cocaine extract that Parke-Davis manufactured. And, except for those Chinese opium dens, it was legal, all of it. Some indulged, many didn't. They called it freedom, and they called the bars dives. Now everything's illegal, and they call it freedom.

listened to Jimmie Witherspoon grind out 'See-See Rider' on the jukebox

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The Duke broke in: 'I've got some good stuff for you colored rock 'n' roll singers. Colored rock 'n' roll singers. That's a laugh. Sure you boys ain't trying to go white on me? Anyway, I've got quality stuff. A five- or ten-dollar bag?'
The Duke was a fine host. Calmly, he offered Little Jimmie a brimming Malacca pipe of pot. I already had my hand out for the fat rolled joint. I lit up, inhaled deeply and thought: Happy days. Little Jimmie and I will be rock 'n' roll sensations.
The Duke elbowed me. 'Are you feeling it?' he grinned. 
'I am getting together,' I replied. Boiling with inspiration, I added: 'We could start off with a rock 'n' roll love song. Then let the sax and piano pick it up and, baby, we have at least two minutes. A record. A hit on our hands. But the time we make our first personal appearance on a TV show, we'll think of something freakish. You've gotta have something freakish about your personality or else the kids won't dig you. We gotta provide fantasy for their wet dreams.'

when he sang about oral sex, cops stopped the show

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“My mother told me that they thought he might have schizophrenia. He might sit with us, but he looked dead-eyed, non-communicative. One evening all of us were watching television. Out of nowhere, Lou began laughing maniacally. We all sat frozen in place. My parents did nothing, said nothing, and ignored it, as if it was not taking place.”
ECT was given as a treatment: twenty-four shocks over several weeks. He was strapped to a gurney. Muscle-relaxant drugs and anaesthetic were administered. A gag was placed in his mouth to stop him biting his tongue. Electrodes were then attached to the sides of his head, and an alternating current passed through his brain. The body went into seizure. Fists clenching, legs trying to kick, his whole body trembling briefly before going limp.
“I watched as my parents assisted him coming home afterwards, unable to walk. It damaged his short-term memory and throughout his life he struggled with memory retention. My father, controlling and rigid, was attempting to solve a situation that was beyond him. My mother was terrified and certain of her own guilt since they had told her this was due to poor mothering. My parents were caught in a bewildering web of guilt, fear and poor psychiatric care. They regretted it every day until the day they died.”

Parents bothering you, kid? Blow out their ears with Chuck Berry

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I mean I have seen unusual performers, but this kid Iggy Stooge, this former high school valedictorian and most-likely-to-succeed was like nothing else. He bent over backwards and nearly touched his head to the floor. He massaged the mike stand. A photographer standing there remarked that Iggy was incredible because everything he touched turned into a cock! He was on his back writhing on the stage singing about not having any fun. No fun! Autoerotic rock and roll! Iggy scratched his chest and belly with a drum stick and then with his fingernails, and he was singing about fucking you, and doing this to you, and he was pointing at a girl a few feet from the stage. A kid behind her, with short hair and a college jacket, gives Iggy the finger! Iggy stops singing, crouches. Then he springs into the audience, and lands on all fours in front of the kid, who now is wondering why he is here. Iggy is staring at the kid, and slowly begins to walk on all fours. The kid begins to sweat and look around for friends. There is shouting and much pushing and all 2,500 people are standing, straining to see. The crowd is aflame, for reasons they do not know. Iggy is challenging everything they have come to accept about concert relationships, and about male sexuality. The males with the short hair and the Corvettes feel it and they don't know what to do with the feeling. Some of them are throwing containers of orange drink at him. Rock and roll! What is going on? There is more screaming and pushing. Everyone is trying to see, jumping to see. You can't see. Iggy crawls back out of the audience onto the stage, finishes the song and the group walks off. They have been onstage only about fifteen minutes.

I pulled his pants down and began to suck him. He had a small- to medium-sized one. I have never seen a British musician who had a decent-sized cock. I guess it's all that tea they drink and the smog. He got hard right off and I asked him if he wanted to come. He said, later, and I sucked him for a while longer and then he pulled me up and took off my clothes. He was good, sort of. While we were fucking I kept hearing his song. I didn't come but he did, and grunted, just like at the end of the song. He said he was sorry I didn't come and he ate me until I did. He was good at that. I have never seen a British musician who wasn't. They must build up muscles in their tongues, having to talk like that all the time.

“I am for art that does something other than sit on its ass in a museum.”

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Conversation became less lucid as the partygoers surrendered to the beat of the loud music coming from the stereo. They danced the latest steps—the Twist, the Monkey, the Mashed Potato—and ones they made up on the spot. Things got a little out of hand when Patty twirled into an antique spool cabinet and sent an Ed Kienholz sculpture crashing to the floor. Taylor knew it was a good party when the guests had gotten so high they started crawling on the wooden floor, oblivious to the splinters, spilled drinks, and puddles of melted cheese spilling from the platters. Cecil Beaton heard through the grapevine that the evening turned into “a fantastic orgy with people making love on the revolving horses and being photographed for an advanced movie,” but that may have been a bit of an exaggeration. At some point, however, the police did come because the party had become too noisy for even the rowdy crowd at the Santa Monica Pier. In California, in the cool night air, you even felt healthy when you puked.

Vince Taylor was black leather and chains, the final rocker.

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From the start, Pepsi has been based on a single age-old precept: it's fun to be a freak. And it is, of course. It's fun to get stoned and float on giant cushions, to stay up past your bedtime. And it's fun to visit Hair, to go up on stage and dance with the kids, belonging, and believe that you've had access to secret knowledge, revelations that the straight world doesn't even suspect. It is even fun to be misunderstood, to feel yourself martyred, a rebel and outsider. What isn't much fun, though, is to be punched in the face and thrown into jail. Not at all, it isn't and, therefore, the political and philosophical basis of the movement has been more or less forgotten. In the heart of the Pepsi Rock fan, there lurks a secret shame at the blatancy and vulgarity of the music's past, Elvis in his gold lame suit, Little Richard jumping on the piano and Jerry Lee Lewis so greasy, all those wild and orgiastic exhibitions. Just like the jazz fans of 1960, who preferred Dave Brubeck to John Coltrane, they want it both ways: they want to be hip, to be in the game and yet, in the end, they don't want to get their feet wet.

I lost my mind. It was so fucking nasty and sexy. Dirty music.

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“I was sitting there and watching the Cramps, they were out of tune and falling all over the place. It was a trainwreck, so when they finished their audition, Hilly told them that they had failed and they were practically crying. I told them they could play at Max's, as long as they showed up with a tuning machine. They came down a couple of days later and Jayne will tell you, people were looking at me with that expression of what the hell was I thinking? I said, "Just wait, you will see." Suicide played on the same bill as the Cramps and it was a perfect match up. You have the hillbilly version and the New York City Times Square version.” Lux Interior: "We opened for Suicide a lot. We couldn't believe it. Marty was great at what he did, but Alan ... if somebody got up to go to the bathroom, he'd leap up and take the mic stand and block their path with it. He'd do stuff like that all the time intimidating the audience. It could get really scary sometimes."

mass sex-action brought out the riot squad of the Police Department

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The class war between Villagers and the owners of the eating-place was waged at Life Cafeteria. Unfortunately the owners of the huge self-service restaurant and the Villagers differed materially on the meaning of the word "cafeteria." According to the proprietors of "Life" the cafeteria was a business venture and not a philanthropic experiment. They had established a restaurant, not a public meeting place for Villagers to weave endless carpets of conversation, embroidered with strange designs for living taken from Sappho, Buddha, Plato, Oscar Wilde, T. S. Eliot, Tolstoy, the Marquis de Sade and Spengler. They were serving not manna from heaven, but food that must be paid for with cash. The rest rooms were built for certain biological functions, and not for romantic assignations between members of the third or intermediate sex. Villagers argued that the owners of "Life" had made a grievous semantic mistake. A cafeteria was primarily a refuge for talkers, not eaters, and if the talk ended on an erotic note, the rest rooms were the proper places to celebrate the rites of Venus or Priapus.