COLUMN 110, OCTOBER 1, 2004
(Copyright © 2004 The Blacklisted Journalist)
WARNING! FOR ADULTS ONLY! PERSONS NOT YET 18 YEARS OF AGE ARE NOT ALLOWED TO READ THIS STORY.
[Tsaurah Litzky is a poet and writer of fiction, non fiction and erotica. We call her America's queen of erotic literature. Susie Bright, editor of the yearly Best American Erotica books, calls her "Miss Dirty Stories." Tsaurah's work has appeared in Best American Erotica 95, 97, 99, 2001, 2002 and 2003. She has also been published in Penthouse, LONGSHOT, The Unbearables, Crimes of the Beats, Appearances, Downtown Poets, The Outlaw Bible of American Poetry, Pink Pages, Beet and many other books and periodicals. Her poetry books include Kamikaze Lover (Appearances 1999), Good Bye Beautiful Mother (Low Tech Press 2001) and Baby on the Water (Longshot, 2003). Formerly a columnist for the now defunct New York arts weekly Downtown, she now teaches erotic writing and literature at the New School University.
The dark, ribbon of a canal
flows on one side of the street, on the other, in buildings centuries old, in a
string of windows glittering with colored lights, a garden of earthly delights
A knot of men stand in
front of a window watching a foxy older woman, dressed like a gypsy, a flowered
scarf wound round her head. She has pulled the front of her full skirt up with
one hand to reveal tattered black fishnet stockings held up by red garters that
cut into her swarthy legs. With the other hand she plunges a wine bottle in and
out between her fleshy thighs. She leers, grimaces sticks out her tongue, rolls
her head round and round on her neck. The men whistle and clap. I don't want
to join in so I move on.
In the next window, a woman
in a gray rubber cat suit stands with her back to the street. At her waist a
big, upside-down heart had been cut out of the seat of the pants exposing her
voluminous, pink ass. Her hands are behind her, her fingers spreading her butt
cheeks, the swollen crimson bud of her anus pulled open. She flexes her hips
rhythmically, making her gaping asshole open and close.
"Do you think we can both fit in there, mate?? the man
beside me asks his friend.
"Nah," says friend.
"My Churchill is so big, I'd crowd your limp dick out."
"You wish," his buddy
The last time I was in
Amsterdam was in 2001, three months before September 11, then I naively believed
I lived in a country that was a respected world power and the prosperity we
enjoyed at home would continue to grow. Now everything is so different. I know
my country is hated allover the world and our economy bankrupt by an unjust war.
Still, here in Amsterdam, Voorbugstraadt seems unchanged, an enduring testament
to fair market exchange and the eternal need of skin for skin.
My first time here, I?d
head for this street every evening, walk up and down, fascinated and turned on
by the costumes, the artifice, the blatant aura of sex.
Then I met Jan and we were
together every night until I left. Often, after dinner we would stroll here. He
sensed my excitement, my curiosity; maybe he smelled the liquid ache between my
"Which one do you
fancy?? he would say, "Let's go see her together."
I couldn't summon the
nerve. I would laugh, make a joke of it.
"I don't want a
riijtafel, a smorgasbord," I would say, "Just give me your big, fat
Jan was an overweight
accountant I met in a bar. Sometimes his hands were grimy, his fingernails
stained with black ink, but his chubby, uncut cock was steady and robust. He
liked to make me come again and again, then he'd pull out, rip off the condom
and shoot between my breasts. He liked to rub his creamy come all over my torso.
It was working like a magic potion, erasing, the memories of my ex-husband I
still carried deep inside my skin.
One time, Jan took me to a
dim courtyard guarded by a tarnished statue of Spinoza. The women in the windows
here were all freaks. One was a glistening albino, totally hairless, not a
blemish anywhere on her skin. She wore a cowboy hat on her bald head. Another
woman looked like Larry King. She even wore thick eyeglasses with a dark frame.
She had on men's trousers but was nude from the waist up, three pretty breasts
spreading across her wide chest.
Jan paused before a window
in which a serene, exotic beauty sat on a footstool. She was Indonesian perhaps,
her black hair falling to her waist. One of her arms had been amputated at the
elbow and the left sleeve of her gauzy shirt was pinned at the shoulder.
'this is Purple Tulip,?
he said, "Isn't she beautiful? Shall we visit her? She is an old friend of
mine, very nice person, very gentle."
I could see her pendulous
breasts through her top, her tiny nipples looked like licorice bits. I wanted to
gobble them up, but was too shy, too frightened. .
"No," I whispered.
"As you wish," he said,
"Let's go back to your hotel."
After I got back to the
states, Jan and I stayed in touch, birthday cards, the occasional phone call. A
few months ago, when I was invited to come to Amsterdam to read at a poetry
festival, I phoned Jan right up. He was delighted.
"Good? he said.
"I'd be happy to see you. My wife and three mistresses are away. Do you want
to stay here??
I didn't know how I would
feel when I saw him. It had been over three years. Best
keep my options open, I thought.
"Nah? I said, "your
harem could come back and surprise us."
He came right back with
'then we'll have an orgy."
But I was a match for him.
"Five of us would give
you a heart attack," I said. "Forget it, I'm staying in a hotel."
"Whatever," he said, "but when are you arriving, when we
will be able to get together??
I told him that the first
few days of my stay I'd be involved with the festival which was being held
outside the city, near Shiphol airport.
"I understand," he
said. "Let's meet for coffee the first day you are free."
On the afternoon the
festival finished with a luncheon, Jan and I had arranged to meet for coffee
early the following day. I looked forward to seeing him. During our affair, not
one harsh word passed between us. He was one of those rare people I felt I could
trust. He was fair-minded and never tried to get over on me in any way. He was
also so sensitive to me. If I shivered, he would take off his jacket and put it
around my shoulders before I could even say a word.
As we walk along, I wonder
if he's still friendly with Purple Tulip. I wonder if I could find the
courtyard of freaks without him. Deep in my thoughts I don't realize that I am
surrounded. Several young punks not much older than boys have gathered in a
circle around me. They have sahved heads and are wearing wife-beater T-shirts that say,
Bush Sucks. One has a pair of panty hose looped around his neck
like a tie. On his arm he has a tattoo of a pig and inscribed beneath it is a
single word: Mama.
"Looking for your
husband, good frau?? he asks me. "Do you think you will find him shopping
His crew starts to laugh.
"Come with us, good frau, he continues. " We will help you
He looms over me, smelling
of axle grease, pizza, and cigarettes. He reaches his arms out towards me and
the others follow suit. I am terrified. I fear that in an instant I will be
grabbed up and carried away. Just then, a phalanx of beefy men in green and
white rugby shirts, cuts into our little circle. This gives me the second of
space I needed to dart back out into the crowd.
"Good luck, good luck,?
pig boy calls after me as I run back up the street. I hear them cackling behind
me but at least they don't follow me. I keep going until I find the dark alley
that leads to Warmostraadt. A few doors down is my hotel.
Back inside my room, I put
my earplugs in with the vain hope of shutting out the constant flushing from the
common toilet next door. Each room has little shower stall but there is only one
toilet on every floor and it's right next door to my room. I get the hash pipe
and my stash of Lebanese Red out of the night table drawer. A few puffs calm me
enough for me to peel off my clothes and get into bed. I pull the covers over my
head, hoping for sweet dreams.
Jan is standing above me,
naked. His belly hangs in folds like the Buddha's. His long cock is twice the
size I remember, jutting out between his legs like another limb. He is spanking
me with it, little taps on my belly, my breasts. Each small smack sends a
current of electricity down into my pussy which is so wet, open and ready. I
want Jan to stop spanking me. I want him to plunge that fat, fleshy thing right
up into the center of my being, but he does not. He continues to tease and tap
until I am writhing about like a mad woman. Abruptly he stops and steps back as
Purple Tulip enters the room. Her face is lovely, radiant. All she wears is a
garland of purple flowers wound round the stump of her arm. She kneels by the
bed, extends her one delicate hand. Her fingers track though the dank forest of
my pubic hair, dip into the syrupy bottomless lake she finds within. There is
nothing I want more than to have her fuck me with her delicate fingers, to put
one, two, three inside. I spread my legs as wide as I can but she draws her hand
back. She kneels on the bed, she slides the stump of her other arm up to the top
of my thigh to where my leg, joins my body, closer, closer?I can feel it warm
and solid inching into my cunt. All of a sudden the room fills with men,
shouting, clapping their hands and stamping their feet.
"Good Luck, good luck,
good luck? they yell, and their taunting grows louder and louder into a
thunderous roar. I wake up to the flushing toilet, pounding like a pile driver
in my head. I hear myself yelling, 'stop, stop, go away!"
The sheet is wet and
slippery under me. I reach for the hash pipe I left on the bed table and am
relieved to find it still there. I smoke until I black out.
When I open my eyes, the
room is filled with sunlight. The bells at the Alte Kirk, just down the street,
start to chime. I count to ten and jump out of bed. I was supposed to meet my
Jan at ten o?clock. He is probably already waiting. My head feels like it is
stuffed with dirty old socks, but I force myself up, dress, and run outside. I
run two blocks up Warmostraadt and enter the Damm Square.
Directly in front of me
stands the huge white stone obelisk called the Damm. It is at least three
stories high. It's still so early, few tourists are about, but the
demonstrators are already there. The placards are in English, Dutch, French,
German. Several of them show that infamous photo of Lynde Englund with the poor
man on a leash, no caption necessary. There is one of George Bush consoling
Nancy Regan, in front of a coffin that must contain her husband's remains. The
caption says, Le Prince du Mort et La Reine du Morte. I
cut through the demonstrators quickly, my head down, disgusted and ashamed.
A narrow street cuts into
the south end of the square. I enter; pass a shop window filled with all manner
of pipes and bongs as well as brass hookahs and hookahs set with shining gems.
Next to this store is Der Dronken Hund, Jan's favorite coffee house.
A love-struck couple is eating croissants at the first table. Seated behind them at the second table is Jan, but it is a much wider Jan. He has gained so much weight that his chair is pushed
Jan been eating
too many sweets
or is he hooked on cocaine?
back from the table to
accommodate his bulging stomach. He rises from the table, his big belly knocking
over the glass of water in front of him, drenching his shirt, but he is
impervious. He steps forward, grabs me and kisses me smack on the lips. I feel
like there's a giant, wet marshmallow between us, but his mouth is dry and his
lips as hot and eager as I remember.
"Come sit down, I'm so happy to see you. You look
beautiful, like movie star," he says and he pulls out a chair for me, I sit
and he takes my hand in his two. His palms are moist and there are beads of
sweat on his forehead. It occurs to me he might be doing a lot of blow. I have
seen friends gain weight when they develop a Jones for this tricky drug. I tell
myself Jan is too smart, too stable for that but I can't resist a little
"And there's more of
you," I say. "What happened? Did you buy a chocolate store or did you become
friends with a South American drug lord??
"Do you think I am
stupid," he says, "If you mean cocaine, that's a bad drug. I always avoid
it. I developed a thyroid problem, that's all. It runs in my family, anyhow,
now there is more of me to love. You want a chocolate, with whipped cream?? he
'sure," I say. He calls
over the waiter and places our order.
"How was the festival?
Did you get a big audience for your reading?? he asks.
I tell him about the
festival. His hands are clean and he even had a manicure. He listens intently,
almost reverentially, as if I was the Queen of Holland. He is wearing a fine
gray silk shirt and despite his bulk, looks quite distinguished, like a young
Orson Wells. Our chocolates arrive piled with thick whipped cream. I stop
talking long enough to spoon some up. It tastes so sweet. I think of Jan
shooting his rich jism all over my breasts. He moves his leg against mine under
"I hope you still find me
attractive. I hope this," he says, patting his belly, "doesn't discourage
"No," I say, "I?ll
still think you're cute even if you get big as an elephant."
"Good," he says,
grinning. "I will be for you the great god Ganesha, an elephant with a mighty
trunk and a stomach full of experience, maybe later I will even let you rub
Then I ask him the big
question that is on my mind.
"Do you still see Purple
Tulip? Are you still friends? Does she still do the same job??
"Yes to all three," Jan
answers. "You know our mothers were friends in high school. Maybe you are
ready to visit her??
"Maybe," I say in a
whisper. I don't like how vulnerable I suddenly feel, how embarrassed, as if I
had just admitted that I liked to suck the crotch of my panties when I took them
off at night, not that Jan would even care. I change the subject and start to
talk about the demonstrators in Damm Square. Jan's expression darkens as I
"What do you expect when
you elect a fascist for a President?? he interrupts. 'there are constant
demonstrations all over Europe. Your press doesn't have the balls to report
I'm startled by his
"Whoa, whoa," I reply,
"We didn't elect him. His millionaire family stole the election."
"Exactly," he cries,
his voice rising, "and you Americans sat around watching football games. Why
didn't you rise up, demonstrate, stop paying taxes??
I knew how very right he
was but I didn't want to get into a fight with him.
"Of course you are
correct, " I said, "but no one could have anticipated their dirty tricks. We
were in shock."
"Fools," he says, "a
country of liars."
He grabs the cup in front
of him and drinks his chocolate down in one big gulp, leaving specks of whipped
cream around his mouth. I try to placate him.
"I feel worse than you
do, believe me," I say. "Lets try to keep our spirits up. How about a
He doesn't answer, just
sits there, fuming for a few minutes. Finally, he looks up, gives me half a
"O.k." he says, "We
will change perspective."
He calls the waiter to
bring over the menu.
"Let's see," says
Jan, when it arrives, 'shall we choose hashish or marijuana??
We decide on Blue Mountain
Thai Stick from the Fertile Crescent. For fifteen euros, about twenty dollars
American, Jan buys us a well-packed envelope. I roll a perfect oval joint. I
pride myself on my rolling skill perfected during my hippie days when I
sometimes had to roll a thick one under a tree in a thunderstorm, or stoned out
of my brain in a van doing eighty miles an hour down a bumpy highway.
Jan moves his chair closer
to mine, lights the joint with the match from the pack on the table. He holds it
first to my lips then to his, back and forth it goes. After a while, he puts one
big hand on the inside of my thigh. Blue
smoke envelops us, and then we are walking on a blue beach besides a blue ocean.
Jan kneels in front of me, pulls my skirt up and my panties down. He cups my ass
in his hands, and pulls me closer. He parts my pubic hair with his tongue,
traces a path to the top of my slit, enters, finds my clit, which is already
hard as a pearl. He sucks and sucks; his big hands cradle my ass as gentle blue
waves wash about us. When I come I cry blue tears. We tumble into the sea and
roll over and over in the waves, holding each other.
I wipe the salty brine from
my eyes and then I am back with Jan at our table at Der Dronken Hund. Somehow my
hand is inside Jan's trousers, while his hand has found its way beneath my
skirt and up into my panties. The couple in front of us has gone, the waiter and
the man who tends the counter in the back are chatting quietly. A few tables
away two priests share a hash pipe. Jan leans over, kisses me on the forehead.
You want to come over to my
place tonight?? he asks. "Eight o?clock?
"Oh, yes," I say,
We stand kissing farewell
outside the caf". I wiggle my tongue inside his mouth like it is a wily snake.
Two Dutch matrons carrying shopping bags stuffed with groceries pass us.
One of them says to Jan,
"You are blocking the sidewalk. Go get a room, you cheapskate."
After Jan and I part, I
decide to return to my hotel and do yoga. I want to loosen up, be lithe and
limber for what I hope will be a long night of blissful acrobatic sex.
Back in my room, I take the
blanket off the bed, fashion it into a yoga mat which I place on the floor in
front of the window. The toilet flushes again and again accompanied by the
constant sound of footsteps in the hall. My
hotel is cheap and so close to the Red Light district. I strip to my underwear
and begin my workout with the salutation to the Sun. Then as I assume cat pose.
I hear a slurred male voice right outside my door
'she told me I was the
best fuck, she ever had, the best fuck in her whole life. She asked me, please,
come back again tonight."
I continue my Yoga practice
for a long time, until I feel tuned up and relaxed at the same time. I take a
long shower, and rest on my bed, imagining what Jan and I will be doing very
At seven o?clock, I dress, put on a short skirt so Jan can admire my legs, and a scoop neck
answers the door
blouse so he can see the
tops of my breasts. I walk up to Central Station and take the Number Eleven bus
to Jan's flat in Java Plein, a Turkish neighborhood, a half-hour ride from the
center of town.
I knock on Jan's door and
he keeps me waiting a few minutes before he opens it. He is completely naked
except for a big white sheet knotted around his waist. His belly has a belly and
that belly has a belly. He looks ready to tip over and roll around the floor
like a top. I tell myself to think positive. He is a nice man, you can trust
"Come, in, come in." he
says. "I got back from my office later then I expected. I was in the shower.
Forgive my informal attire." I follow him into his living room, a pleasant
oasis filled with plants and antiques.
'sit down," he says.
"I will bring you a drink."
Then he goes into the
I sit on the big maroon
sofa and put my bag on the coffee table in front of me.
When Jan returns, he is
carrying a tray containing a bottle of wine, two glasses and a dish piled high
with black olives. He puts the tray on the coffee table.
"I remembered you like a
Reisling," he says as he pours me a glass of wine. "Now for music, some
Brubeck?? he asks, but doesn't give me a chance to answer, just slips the
disk into the CD player and goes back down the hall to his bedroom.
He returns wearing a pair
of beige summer trousers and a white shirt big as a tent. He is holding a small
foil wrapped package in his hand.
"You look so lovely
sitting there, he says, "like a little flower, a daisy, blooming in my room.
You haven't touched your wine. Come, we will drink together. We will have a
I didn't like being
compared to a daisy, such a simple Pollyanna of a flower. I want to tell him
that I am here is because I thought that he sees me as the rare orchid I am, but
I keep silent, say nothing.
He sinks down beside me and
puts the foil packet on the coffee table. He fills his glass, and lifts it high.
'to a better world," he
I raise my glass too. We
"Now," he says,
'since we haven't seen each other in so long, a special celebration is in
order. I got for us some of our famous Amsterdam Space Cake."
I'd heard about this
exotic sweet, available in the classier pot shops. It is expensive but
guaranteed to produce a transcendent high. Just a few sugary bites and all your
earthly cares evaporate. Your soul soars out of your body to a joyful Nirvana.
You see wondrous visions rivaling those of William Blake on one of his better
Jan unwraps the space cake
from the foil.
"Here," he says,
breaking off a piece and holding it to my lips. "Have a taste."
It tastes like the honey
cake my grandmother used to bake on Rosh Hashanah, sweet and mealy. I like it.
"How about some more??
I say. "But first, let me give you some."
We feed the cake to each
other bit-by-bit, washing it down with the wine. Jan puts his roly-poly arm
along the back of the back of the couch, and I find myself nesting into his
The button of his shirt
pokes into my cheek so I unbutton it. A great big cloud, all white and puffy
falls out. It grows, caressing my face, my whole body, like a soft cushion. I
float within this billowing cloud, my clothes all gone. Jan is beside me, his
clothes gone too. We are suspended in air, floating together. I reach out to him
and my fingers fall on his swollen wand. It is emitting soothing rays of heat
that warm my body. It grows so big I can no longer hold it and I let go.
Jan drifts below me and I can feel the heat of it moving across my ass
but it is hotter now like a desert wind, a sirocco. Then I feel the pointy tip
of it jab into me. I pull away, my butt hole contacting, closing as I draw back
We had tried this once before, centuries ago, but my asshole was so tiny that
even though Jan had lubed me up carefully with half a stick of margarine, I
started to bleed copiously. We had to stop.
Now, Jan reaches up to my
face and breaks a capsule under my nose.
"Breathe in, breathe
deep," he says as his huge joint slides into me. I hear a tearing, ripping
sound, and feel a tingling sensation but no pain. As he moves deeper into my
belly, Jan keeps murmuring into my ear. I strain to hear him.
'take it in the ass,
America," he whispers, "You fuck like shit."
Even in my spacey state, I
can't believe what he is saying.
"What was that, what did
you say?? I ask him.
"Fuck like shit, America
fucks like shit," he rants, pumping harder and harder. I can feel him how,
hurting me. I try to pull my body away but I cannot move, I am skewered, burning
like a pig on a spit. His teeth are sharp on my neck and then he bites down,
piercing my skin. I scream as he shoots bolts of fire into me. There are flames
everywhere, every cell in my body is on fire. Then it is dark.
When I open my eyes, my
head is on Jan's leg. He is sleeping, snoring through his nose. It sounds like
he is playing the kazoo. My neck aches from where he bit me and my asshole
burns. I look down and see blood is running down my leg, I put my hand into my
ass and bring it out covered with blood.
Slowly, carefully, I peel
myself off him. I'm so woozy, I can barely stand. I remember what Jan said
and, briefly, wonder if I could have imagined it, but I know I did not. I just
want to get away from him. I manage
to totter to the bathroom. I shut the door and sit down on the toilet. The cool
seat feels comforting against my burning flesh. I want to find a washcloth, hold
it against the bleeding to make it stop. I open a drawer in the cabinet beneath
the sink and see some talcum powder and a bottle of mouthwash. I pull out the
drawer next to it and find a sandwich bag filled with little chunks of what look
like rock candy. I have seen this stuff before and I know it is crack cocaine.
Beside it are several bags of white powder. They could contain crystal meth,
heroin; take your pick. The drawer also holds a few glass pipes, a rectangular
mirror, a mat knife; everything you need to enter a fool's paradise.
I slam the drawer shut. So much for trust, in this not-so- brave new
world! I open the drawer below and find the washcloths I am looking
for. I pick one up, hoping I can
grab my clothes and get out while he is still sleeping. It is already too late.
Jan steps into the bathroom, grinning like a Cheshire cat.
'so? he asks,
"Do you like our Dutch space cake, but what are you doing sitting on
the toilet, meditating??
I nod my head, unable to
speak. I spread my legs and lift my body so he can see the blood coming from my
ass. Suddenly, he is all solicitous; he opens another drawer, gets out
'there," he says, after
staunching the bleeding, cleaning and dressing my cut.
"You are fine now," he
says as he pulls me to my feet. " I have something special for you, a surprise
I know you will like."
He starts pulling me down
the hall towards his bedroom, but I don't want to go anywhere with him.
"Wait," I say, "I
just remembered, I have to go back to my hotel, I have to call my father in
Maryland. He's expecting my call, he's??
Jan tightens his grip on my
"You can call him from
here," he says. He is stronger than and I am, an unstoppable force, and he
pulls me to the bedroom door.
"You will like this,
trust me, it will be fun," he says and flings the door open.
Purple Tulip is lying on
the paisley quilt that covers Jan's bed. She is naked except for the garland
of purple flowers around the stump of her arm. She is reading a Seventeen
magazine, which she puts down as we enter the room.
"Hello," she says and
smiles. She does not look beautiful at all. Her skin is pocked under heavy
makeup, and her eyes are blank and yellow. She is missing two front teeth and
her smile is rigid as if stitched on to her face.
Jan pushes me from the
"What are you afraid of?
" he says, "Go say hello."
I feel like I'm moving
quicker than the speed of light as I whirl, duck under his arm and rush back
down the hall. He is startled, hesitates a second before he turns and starts to
lumber after me. He catches his foot on the edge of the rug, trips and falls to
the floor, crashing in a big puddle of flesh.
I grab up my things as Jan
calls out, "Fascist cow! Coward! Crazy American!"
But nothing he can say has
the power to hurt me now. I fly out the door and down the stairs still nude. I
pause in the vestibule, pull on my clothes and shoes.
The night is clear and
warm. I'm still shaky but surprisingly calm. At least I managed to escape with
only a cut-up ass and didn't get sucked further into Jan's crazy, wavy gravy
world. Not another soul is out but the smell of ganja hangs in the air, mixed
with something else---the scent of an exotic spice, maybe cardamom. The strains
of Klezmer music drift out an open window. There are no stars out, but there is
plenty of light as I walk towards the bus stop under an Amsterdam full moon.
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"Quite simply, Al Aronowitz is a living legend"---JOHN FORTUNATO, THE AQUARIAN.
"Every student and fan of The Beat Generation, Bob Dylan, The Beatles and The Rolling Stones will want to read this book"---RON WHITEHEAD, POET
"Volume One Of The Blacklisted Journalist is the kinda tome what a fella can dip into at any given point and find oneself hooked within a couple paragraphs"---DUKE DE MONDO, BLOGCRITICS.ORG.
DYLAN AND THE BEATLES: Volume One Of The Best Of The Blacklisted Journalist is a
golden stash box of Al's You-Are-There history of two thirds of rock's Holy
Troika"---MICHAEL SIMMONS, LA WEEKLY.
IN THIS 615-PAGE PAPERBACK, AL ARONOWITZ, ACCLAIMED AS THE "GODFATHER OF ROCK JOURNALISM," TELLS YOU MORE ABOUT BOB DYLAN AND THE BEATLES THAN ANY OTHER WRITER CAN TELL YOU BECAUSE NO OTHER WRITER WAS THERE AT THE TIME. AS THE MAN WHO INTRODUCED ALLEN GINSBERG TO BOB DYLAN, BOB DYLAN TO THE BEATLES AND THE BEATLES TO MARIJUANA, ARONOWITZ BOASTS, "THE '60S WOULDN'T HAVE BEEN THE SAME WITHOUT ME."
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Blacklisted Journalist can be contacted at P.O.Box 964, Elizabeth, NJ 07208-0964
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THE BLACKLISTED JOURNALIST IS A SERVICE MARK OF AL ARONOWITZ