SECTION FIVE

sm
COLUMN 110, OCTOBER 1, 2004
(Copyright 2004 The Blacklisted Journalist) 

PURPLE TULIP

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. ]

In Amsterdam, I walk down a narrow, dirty alley smelling of piss, turn right, and I am in the heart of desire " the red light district. I stand on the cobblestone street that is Voorburgstraadt on a busy Friday night and the crowd swallows me up. Here and there I see another woman, but mostly men of all sizes, shapes, colors surround me. Carried by a testosterone wave, I move along. 

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 unfolds.

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 replies. 

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 legs.

"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 herring."    

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.

Jan shrugged.

"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 here??

His crew starts to laugh.

 "Come with us, good frau, he continues. " We will help you find him."

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


Has 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 inquiry.

"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 asks.

'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 the table.

"I hope you still find me attractive. I hope this," he says, patting his belly, "doesn't discourage you."

"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 it."

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 speak.

"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 them."

I'm startled by his vehemence.

"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 smoke??

He doesn't answer, just sits there, fuming for a few minutes. Finally, he looks up, gives me half a smile.

"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, "Oh, yes."

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 say:

'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 soon. .

At seven o?clock, I dress, put on a short skirt so Jan can admire my legs, and a scoop neck


Jan is naked
when he
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 him.

"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 kitchen. 

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 toast?

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 says.

I raise my glass too. We drink. 

"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 days.

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 body.

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 Mercurochrome, band-aids.

'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 wrists.

"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 back.

"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.  ##  


FOR AS LONG AS PEOPLE KEEP LISTENING TO BOB DYLAN AND THE BEATLES, PEOPLE WILL WANT THIS BOOK

"A masterpiece!" --- SALLY GROSSMAN, widow of Bob Dylan's brilliant original manager, Albert Grossman.

"This book is a must-read for all rock 'n roll aficionados!"---EAR CANDY

"An essential reference for demystifying what the author refers to as: 'one of the most self-destructive binges of creativity in cultural history.'"---HAMMOND GUTHRIE, COUNTERPUNCH MAGAZINE

"Required Reading for anyone and everyone who considers themselves fans, followers, students, or those just plain curious of the Golden Age of Popular Music"---GARY PIG GOLD, FUFKIN.COM.

"I love the book. I love the way you can open it to any page and start reading and it keeps you reading. The book is just fun to read." --LEVON HELM, Drummer of THE BAND from Big Pink.

"Ellis Paul and I love your book."---RALPH JACCODINE, Ralph Jaccodine Management.

". . .perfect for our times."---WOODSTOCK TIMES

"Adam Duritz (he's the lead singer and writer for the famed Counting Crows). . .was at my studio and couldn't put the book down."---STEWART LERMAN, RIGHTEOUS SOUND INC.

". . .a must read for anyone who loves, music, loves life, loves rock and roll."---TSAURAH LITZKY, author of The Motion of the Ocean, Baby on the Water, and  Goodbye Beautiful Mother.  

"I recommend it."---DOUGLAS HOLDER, IBBETSON STREET PRESS.  

".  . .It is a fasinating, insightful read. You are such a wonderful writer."---STEPHANIE LEDGIN, Music Journalist.

"I could not put this book of yours down for a minute."---ED GALING, POET LAUREATE OF HATBORO, PA.

"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.

"BOB 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."


CLICK HERE TO GET TO INDEX OF COLUMN 110


CLICK HERE TO GET TO INDEX OF COLUMNS

The Blacklisted Journalist can be contacted at P.O.Box 964, Elizabeth, NJ 07208-0964
The Blacklisted Journalist's E-Mail Address:
info@blacklistedjournalist.com
 
 

THE BLACKLISTED JOURNALIST IS A SERVICE MARK OF AL ARONOWITZ