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Category Archive for 'Sex'

Second in a series of tributes to my friend, Marshall. In the last week, I’ve been pleasantly amused by Patell and Waterman’s History of New York account of Marshall’s intermittent computer woes (I knew them well); appreciated the range of appreciations Dissent has offered, illustrated by the priceless photo of Marshall with his doppelganger, a sculpture of himself […]

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Riot, quiet, and surfeit are the consequence of sexual madness. Ten boars can easily tread a hundred sows, but this knowledge inflames the mind instead of pacifying the flagitous imaginations of men. The criminal joys if human beings are unknown to birds. There is no counterpart of Tiberius or of lascivious Messalina in the feathered […]

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A fat blond beast of a desk sergeant throwing himself at the feet of a thin, crippled, red-haired lush worker: sparse red hair, the junky gray felt hat which leaves a line on his forehead when he takes it off– it is that tight. So thos cop comes down from the rostrum of his desk […]

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He left the dodoes to rot, he couldn’t endure to eat their flesh. Usually, he hunted alone. But often, after months of it, the isolation would begin to change him, change his very perceptions— the jagged mountains in full daylight flaring as he watched into freak saffrons, streaming indigos, the sky his glass house, all […]

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There is a general withdrawing from orifices after a while, drinking, doping and gabbing resume, and many begin to drift away to catch some sleep. Here and there a couple or threesome linger. A C-melody saxophone player has the bell of his instrument snuggled between the widespread thighs of a pretty matron  in sunglasses, yes […]

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Out at sea a single clarinet begins to play, a droll melody joined in on after a few bars by guitars and mandolins. Birds huddle bright-eyed on the beach. Katje’s heart lightens, a little, at the sound. Slothrop doesn’t yet have the European reflexes to clarinets, he still thinks of Benny Goodman and not of […]

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Frisco Gal I Don’t Know Why

Frisco Gal by Clarkson Crane is, if not the worst book, ever written, published, sorta semi-skimmed looking for even one half-worthwhile passage, it’s certainly in the running. If I was Naomi Martin, as Frisco Gal once was, I’d have changed my name too. I wish I could at least say Clarkson Crane was borrachón filling the page for money […]

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Well, let us move on to hear the music. It was being played by the Fugs, or rather— to be scrupulously phenomenological— Mailer heard the music first, then noticed the musicians and their costumes, then recognized two of them as Ed Sanders and Tuli Kupferberg and knew it was the Fugs. Great joy! The were […]

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Joe was reeling himself. He stuck his head in a bucket of water and cleaned up the cabin and threw the bottles overboard and started working on the claxon regularly. To hell with ‘em, he kept saying to himself, he wouldn’t be a plaster saint for anybody. He was feeling fine, he had something more […]

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Friday, April 25- 1913 My peaches sweet: Wednesday night I went to dine Laura Jean Libbey. She didn’t know me from Adam’s off ox and all the while (I went with a newspaper friend) called me Mr. Caeser, which I refused to correct or allow to be corrected. Short, stout, red headed (brick red), genial, […]

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