There are certain films we just can't stop talking about

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Bizarre as this may sound, there was once a fad for what was called "petticoat punishment" – humiliating unruly boys, and teaching them refinement, by dressing them in girl's clothing until they mended their ways.  This seems to have occurred principally in England and Europe during the nineteenth century, but was never widely practiced in the U.S. Eddie gave friends a dramatic account: "My mother was punishing me.  She didn't know what the hell she was doing to me." Young Eddie's desire to dress as a woman went far deeper than masturbatory fantasy.  Like many men and women in what is currently known as the transgendered community, young Eddie had a strong need to dress as, and be accepted as, a member of the opposite sex.  (Many artists and performers have shared similar impulses – among them the macho Ernest Hemingway with his predilection for donning frilly garments and then playing the passive role in bed.) In Eddie, this impulse was so strong that by the time he turned twelve, he was already sneaking into his mother's room, "borrowing" her clothes (particularly her underwear) and trying them on. Having discovered proof at an early age that he would have made a beautiful girl, Eddie began to fantasize about what his life would have been like if he had actually had the good luck to be born female.  As with others in the same situation, young Eddie's need to let his (or her) female self out was so overwhelming, s/he began to look for opportunities to publicly dress as a girl safely and without anyone suspecting his/her actual motives.  First, s/he started joking about it with the neighborhood kids.  If a girl took off her shoes or a sweater, Eddie might swipe them and put them on.  The stratagem appears to have worked.  Most friends of the time recalled young Eddie's clowning around as "strictly for laughs," "a lark," "tongue-in-cheek," and "camp."  Almost no one, at least during his/her childhood and teen years, seems to have suspected anything more.

‘Do you take drugs? Why is your hair so long and dirty?’

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Roger Eagle was an apostle and a missionary for the R&B music that was revolutionising Britain and changing young people’s mindsets forever. Within six months, soul-crazy kids were travelling from all corners of the Isle to hear him play. They dressed smart, dropped pills, chewed hard and danced like dreams. Black music was their religion. It articulated their thoughts and it swayed their groins. 

‘In Manchester, we played the Twisted Wheel. Some bastard lent our black Mariah van for an hour and came back with a load of fucking leather coats in the back – done a job. Me and Ronnie and Kenney all got leather coats out of it. Done a job like when we were playing. I think it was Terry who suggested that these people use our van, said he wouldn’t be gone long, probably got paid a bit of whack. We finished the set and the van wasn’t back and we were out there waiting for it when it screeches around the corner and someone yells, “Get in, get in!” So we piled in the back and it’s up to here in leather coats. We screamed around to some bird’s house and they were getting the coats out and bundling them up. They said. “Take a coat, anything you want.” It was a great coat, had a belt and buttons.’

"That's what young people call being Mod. You have to learn to like it."

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The empty beer cans on the side table testified to the degree of thirst and the mound of butts in the ash tray, the pleasure of cigarettes. Right now he was feeling the swift reactions of the little round cylinders and was being wafted away on the magic carpet of hallucination. He was certain that the girl he was watching had removed her blouse and was doing a topless frug, and the figure in the corner was doing something to his mind which he couldn't control. Blouses suddenly became too warm, stretch pants too tight and youthful Levis too hampering. Those who were overcome by the mounting desires found the journey into pleasure aided by the stimulation of narcotic and alcohol.

Krishna Krishna Hare Hare Hare Rama Hare Rama Rama Rama Hare

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Viv is a wild-eyed character with greasy bleached-blond hair to his shoulders. He has a drink in one hand and a large spliff in the other - the king of his domain and oblivious to the illegalities of such behavior. Viv is in a band, The Bunch of Fives, a really psychedelic group of nuts and also has a gig as manager of Knuckles, a small basement club beneath an Italian restaurant in Soho.  The poorly lit basement has a stone floor and plain brick walls. There is no stage, so the band is set up at one end of the room, cramped together in front of Moe's drums. We conclude the song and Viv steps up and addresses the room as if it's a packed showcase gig. 'The Misunderstood from California! Let's fuckin' hear it for 'em! Yeah! The Misunderstood!' Viv leaves the stage area and music comes up over the PA system ... 'Eight Miles High' by Barbie Beatles copycats and Dylan wannabees, The Byrds. I wander after Viv while the rest of the band continues to pack away the gear.
'Good set, man! You can play here anytime, man, we get a pretty good crowd in.' Jeez, I'm looking around the room, which has emptied out even further in the last few minutes. 'Well, on a weekend, like! Thursday's always a bit of a slow night.'
Dave nudges Mick. 'Viv, today's Saturday. It is the fuckin' weekend, mate!'
Viv takes another big hit on the spliff. He appears to be making some complicated mental calculations. Finally he exhales loudly, sending a huge cloud of smoke across the table. 'Nah! Thursday, mate. Definitely.'
Dave tells me, 'Viv hasn't slept since Wednesday night; so by his calculations that means it must still be Thursday.'

a newlywed's inexplicable attraction to angora and gorillas

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ED WOOD , JR. (1924-1978): Having no training, but boundless energy and enthusiasm, Wood wrote, directed, and acted in some of the most hilariously inept movies ever made. Born in Poughkeepsie, he was a World War II Marine veteran who had worn women's lingerie under his uniform. Wood arrived in Hollywood in 1948, and began his career in film aided by the "Wood Stock Company," which consisted of drinking buddies and cronies. He sadly drifted into the world of pornography, and died watching a football game on TV, shortly before the renewal of interest in his films. The popularity of Ed Wood's work today is due to the availability of obscure movies on video, "Bad Film " festivals, disclosure of his transvestite habits, and awards lauding him as the "worst director of all time."

forget all this 'Pizza Connection' nonsense, all this 'Godfather' shit.

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His was a darker and more terrifying tale. The Vatican scandal, the Mafia executions, the multi million dollar wheelings and dealings, the strange deaths and disappearances - these were only the whitecaps, the stormy surface of his tale. Revelations of greater evil lay beneath - revelations of international terrorism, political blackmail, money laundering schemes beyond the grasp of any government agency, vendettas on the grandest, deadliest scale, and even secret nuclear technology deals that have invested the most dangerous and unlikely hands with the power to destroy the world.

I dint put paper on the sit and now I haf the syphil-lous

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Why write about the sordid, they said. What they meant was why not write about them as they imagine themselves. Well, I shall try to remember Juniperhill for a book and then they will say what an imagination you have, my dear. Don’t you know that modern mental hospitals aren’t at all like your trumped-up Juniperhill? Why, the patients are all so happy and, my dear, they do the darnedest things. Of course it’s pathetic in a way but it really is a scream, what they say and do, thinking themselves Napoleon and all. They have a good roof over their heads and they don’t have to worry about where the next meal is coming from or who’s going to pay the gas bill. I’d say it is an ideal existence and here you’ve gone and made it sound perfectly icky. Why, I’ve always said if anything ever happened to one of my family (it is interesting that they always have it happening to one of the family or to a friend, never to themselves) I would put him into an institution right off the bat. Everyone knows we don’t treat our insane like cattle. They are so much happier with their own kind and they just play around like happy little children all day long.

"It’s raw, mind you. Fucking raw, if you ask me, but it’s different."

 

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In every picture we’ve seen of these guys they’ve looked great. On the cover of this, their debut album, they just look plain ridiculous. They look like they’re commiserating backstage after placing ninth to thirteenth in America’s Hottest Transsexual Contest. They don’t look chic or edgy or like the look is natural to them, which is how they’ve looked in every shot we’ve ever seen of them before. Here, in black and white, beneath a stupid high-school lipstick graphic, they look like some art department’s idea of what the Dolls should look like. They’ve been around for five minutes and they’ve already caught the down escalator and descended into parody. The singer, who has until now made a living out of looking like Jagger’s mutant kid brother, now looks like Jagger’s elderly auntie from Palm Springs looking down the back of the sofa for a gambling chip. He’s got a perm. A perm, for Christ’s sake. They should have just lined up in an alley in the Bowery, handed a Kodak Instamatic to a wino, and said, “Here’s ten bucks, take some shots, buddy.”

They were really raw at that time, too fast and too loud.

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There was a new energy going back then. I went to parties, like someone's basement, and they'd charge you two bucks and there'd be this electric band playing and they'd be passing out acid, just little things in garages, the back of a church, wherever. The Flamin' Groovies played incredible gigs in gymnasiums, garages and the middle of fields, it was real makeshift but everybody wanted to make music and it was real exciting at that time. I still have a lot of live tapes of that era that are really funny because you can really see what the group was like back then. We wore sunglasses and had jackets, drank a lot and screamed. A lot of groups weren't in the same direction as that then, our crowd was always a lot rowdier.

In New York, no one knew diddly fuck about Sun Records

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Oh, yessuh, good people, this is ol’ Daddy-O-Dewey comin’ atcha for the next three hours with the hottest cotton-picking records in town—(aside: Ain’t that right, Diz? “That’s right, pahd’ner.”). Yessir, we got the hottest show in the whole country—Red, Hot and Blue coming atcha from W H Bar B Q right here in Memphis, Tennessee, located in the Chisca Hotel, right on the magazine floor—I mean mezzanine floor (aside to himself: Aw’ Phillips, there you go again, you’re always messin’ up!).

only a drunkard would swallow alcohol at nine in the morning!

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Alfred Sauveur, ironmonger, owner of a house at 57, Rue des Carmes, had asked the Court for the eviction of his tenant, Lucienne Girard, as well as a substantial sum for damages and rights, for having used the rooms she occupied for illegal purposes, in this case, unauthorized prostitution.
That time, too, Lhomond had cleared his voice before putting the question:
'Do you admit the facts of which you are accused?'
She replied simply: 'No, Your Honour.'
'The plaintiff states that with the complicity of ...'
This last name he had entirely forgotten. It was that of a young girl who was actually twenty-one, but did not look more than seventeen, she was so frail, and, probably, anaemic. She did not appear. He had an opportunity of seeing her later.
'She is my employee. Your Honour. I keep a glove shop, on the premises which I have rented from this gentleman and for which I regularly pay the rent ... '
She had no lawyer and refused to engage one. On the other hand she had brought in her handbag testimonials from the local police inspector and from two other policemen.
Armemieux was shrugging his shoulders in his scarlet gown. He considered it was a waste of time to try to understand these people. Who was it who said, summing up in one word a good third, if not more, of the world's population: 'Scum!'

the teenage round of parties, cigarettes, booze and casual sex.

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In February 1966, they made their debut at The Marquee Club in London’s Wardour Street at an event which came to be known as The Spontaneous Underground. The invitations read: “Who will be there? Poets, pop singers, hoods, Americans, homosexuals, 20 clowns, jazz musicians, one murderer, sculptors, politicians and some girls who defy description, are among those invited.” The audience organised its own entertainment. A girl in white tights played a Bach Prelude and Fugue while The Ginger Johnson African Drummers pounded out furious rhythms all around her. The loudest and most outrageous of all were Pink Floyd who played lengthy, muffled versions of ‘Roadrunner’ and Chuck Berry songs, or simply built up layer upon layer of feedback by turning everything up to full volume.

what the culture needs is men and women who clearly don’t give a shit

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Blonde Bombshell was indeed made at the end of a period in Hollywood history which gave the Jews who ran the studios a chance to show what splendid work they could do before the Catholics started bullying them. The year after Bombshell, the sexually inadequate Catholic Legion of Decency, which could more accurately be called the Legion of Jealousy, put the heat on Hollywood and by threats of boycotts managed to establish a more spiteful attitude toward sex. No more Louise Beavers getting rough fucks on their days off; there followed the era of sweet nuns in artificial eyelashes and sweet priests like Bing Crosby (who off-screen was a mean, effeminate old drunk). Apart from the Legion of Decency’s fundamental flaw — it assumes that sex is wrong but never explains why — the Legion was intolerable in that it sought to impose a specifically Catholic sexual cruelty upon the general population of non-Catholics. This is simply against the law, but the Legion was tolerated for more than 30 years. The Times puts statements from the Pope on page one, even though they are the mad ravings of a sexual psychopath. The sexual inadequacies of people like the Pope would be none of my business if the afflicted would suffer in silence. But they try to punish the sexually healthy.

I had a big booty and a cute face, but I guess that wasn’t enough.

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Solomon loved to be called Daddy. He had dozens of women and hundreds of children. He liked to call me into the bathroom when he was sitting in the tub, naked as a beached whale and nearly as big.

“Bettye,” he said, “I still haven’t gotten you in my church.”

Solomon was a preacher with a mail-order divinity degree. In church, he sat on a throne and wore a crown on his head.
“And you won’t be getting me in that church anytime soon,” I said.
“You don’t think it’s good to praise and worship God?”
“If this God of yours is so perfect, I’m wondering why he needs all this praise and worship. Is he that insecure?”
“He’s not insecure. We are. We need the security we get when we tell him he’s worthy.”
“So that’s the deal—kiss God’s ass and God makes you feel okay.”
“You twisting it around.”
“You’re the one who’s twisting to make sense out of something that’s plain nonsense.”
“How can you live without faith?”
“You need faith, I agree. But faith in what? Faith in the fairy tales you read about in the Bible? I don’t think so, Solomon. Faith in other people, faith in yourself. Oh, Lord, save me from this preacher man!”
Solomon laughed and got out of the tub. I liked our conversation, not because I was about to convert to whatever form of Christianity he was peddling, but because he was a genuinely nice guy.
“How you make love to someone that big?” my cousin Margaret asked me.
“Simple,” I said. “You sit on him.”

"Wotcher waiting for? Buggar off! The nerve of some o' these geezers!"

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Ginsberg and Kagaranias had a ringside view of the fight. They experienced no sense of danger, although a cut-throat razor, thrown loose in the struggle, came flying over and landed on Kaggy's lap. The fight was no general scrimmage, but an intimate, exclusive affair between specialists. Although some customers drew back and stood by the wall, and a few left the cafe, Kaggy merely looked on with disapproval and Ginsberg almost without interest. He had seen so many of these fights in the West End. They were like specimens from a sociological case-book. The management had swiftly telephoned the police. There was no point in attempting themselves to cope with the situation. The toughs knew they had only a few minutes in which to damage each other. One man already lay unconscious beneath a table, his head surrounded by smashed tea-pots, plates, and cups. It was Joey who had indeed taken his life into his hands by going bust in the all-night cafe. But then, he had been drunk and had always been known as Crazy Joe.