WE ARE NORMAL AND WE WANT OUR FREEDON

For your dining and dancing pleasure, some paranoid rantings. Today Mr. Twister, super sex-symbol of the surreal seventies, and The Kiddo, Renaissance angel look-alike and left-handed bass-player extraordinaire for Christopher Milk, were gonna visit the offices of a prominent local PR fatty who’s been trying real hard to get his puffy splotchy hands on mah bay-buh with tire-irons and (in the case of The Kiddo, who’s fond of baseball shirts) bats and we were gonna indulge in a spot of aggro on the order of whacking a few desks about and just generally making it real clear that we don’t fancy our lovers and pals being abused. And perhaps we might have commented in passing about these rumors that I have been informed are being passed from fatty to fatty about Mr. Twister and/or The Kiddo and myself being involved with one another more than professionally and as soul-brothers. See, I suspect that most any long-haired kid would perceive right off the bat that any intimations of inverted sexual preference that are made on-stage are really just kinda obligatory jive, but the large majority of the fatties, I think, are so intent on getting hold of stuff that they can maybe use against your devoted columnist that they’re really quite eager to suspect the worst. Which delights me no end, of course, it being my conviction that it's .shrewd' PR To .get. people wondering whefftef'W'iPiiif but it ceases to be in impeccable taste when this rubbish is used to try to embarass or humiliate our bay-buhs, who natch know better but still might be slightly put off by people going about saying that their man’s gay. Do you follow me?

By the time you read this I may have become a superstar on the basis of saying I am in Rolling Stone. If you wanna be a superstar as well just say so in print somewhere. Should you, by some accident of breeding or intellect, find yourself unable to do so in Rolling Stone or Creem or a similarly prestigious journal’s editorial section, I suggest that you at least aim for the letters-from-our-readers page. The following form might prove effective:

Sirs:

Please be informed that if that poof Mendelsohn is a super star, I sure the fuck am too. Peace,

. (Your name and address)

If I’m not mistaken, it is Andy Warhol’s contention (or suggestion) that at some time in the future everyone will get to be famous for fifteen minutes.

I think it’s very likely that it’s not just the army, but the whole world that’s run like Catch-22 — you drop bombs on your own base and they give you a medal ’ cos it would involve exertion to courtmartial you. Everyone everywhere should bear this *in mind. One can get away with an awful lot, if you follow me.

When in Mini-Apples, it’s the Sheraton-Ritz, I can assure you.

Richard Robinson maintains that all one needs to succeed in the record biz is a telephone, a mimeograph machine, and some stamps. This, of course, is patently absurd — . as' even the least perceptive must have surely perceived, one would also require a felt-tip pen and some envelopes.

At Kennedy Airport, at the bar guzzling scotch and coke so as to make it a bit easier to fly, I suavely struck up a conversation with a hot-panted honey who was awaiting the return from sunny California of her man, a fast-rising computer programmers’ employment agency. She herself was a computer executive’s secretary. They had met at a dating bar and intend to move to the upstate suburbs after getting married next month. She explained that she regarded The City as an unpropitious place to raise kiddies, that she felt it was very important that a child be able to feffve a horse, perhaps, and know the feeling of spring grass under his bare feet.

I’m in love, as you would be too.