Junkie Gossip as History

Junkie Gossip as History

BOOKS

Tony Clover

LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, LENNY BRUCE!!

Albert Goldman & Lawrence Schiller (Random House)

In the years when Lenny was working the club circuit around the country, he was already an underground legend. Lots of fans (beatniks) who couldn't afford the cover charges at the gigs knew the numbers about the reporter interviewing him as he walked thru the town, Bruce popping cough drops as they talked — after half a box he absent-mindedly offered the reporter one, he takes it and immediately zones out for a good 18 hours ... or about the time he thought he could fly and went but a hotel window screaming "It's Super-Jew!" True or not, stories like these had as much to do with his popularity in certain circles as did his work.

The recent Bruce resurgence has concentrated mostly on his work (reprints of routines, showing his influences in current humor, etc.) and the main image has been that of a persecuted genius humanitarian driven to death by the Kafka-like legal tangles his mouth got him into. While some of that is true, there's a side which Jias been ignored — the fact that Bruce was a man, and entirely capable of being a stone asshole, just like you and me.

This book remedies that — in fact J maybe too well. It concentrates on the more sordid and sensational aspects of his life — fascinating reading — but by itself, an unbalanced perspective. Goldman, a writer for Life magazine (he was the one who kept writing those "Rock is dead" pieces whenever somebody OD'd), has patched together a kaleidoscopic view of Bruce, through research and interviews. Most of the interviews were done by Schiller (who was also responsible for an exploitation record, Who Killed Lenny Bruce?), so factual accuracy isn't a strong point here — names are misspelled, dates are incorrect, etc — but still a picture of a man emerges.

The book is episodic rather than ' purely chronological — it begins with a fictionalized day in the life of Lenny Bruce (junkie geniuscomic roaming NYC), skips to an interview with his bisexual and frequently unfaithful stripper wife Honey, from there to an interview with Lenny's father about his childhood, goes through Bruce's early career and influences and winds up with his health and legal hassles — and eventual OD death. There are large gaps, and the picture of Bruce is not a pretty one — self-centered, vicious (there are strong hints he may have set his wife up for a bust in vengeance for her whoring around), and a stone junkie for most of his career. Friends who knew Bruce say this is not entirely true — but don't friends always say things like that?

Balance this book with the other two and you may be able to get a glimpse of the man who was Lenny Bruce — no one biography can ever capture the essence of anyone — and this one doesn't either. But if you ever had more than a passing interest in the man behind the routines, you'll find this book damn interesting reading — and the first one full enough to justify its hefty price in a long time. If you like gossip and sordid details you'll love this — just remember it's only a piece of the reality.

NOTES OF A DIRTY OLD MAN

ERECTIONS, EJACULATIONS, EXHIBITIONS AND GENERAL TALES OF ORDINARY MADNESS Both by Charles Bukowski (City Lights)

This old fart is 55 and has one of the ugliest slag-slugged mugs I ever seen a(nd cares a hell of a lot more about playing the horses than playing rock "n" roll but he also happens to be one of the best writers in America, especially if you're into vicarious degeneracy and he is my favorite writer for what that's worth now that Burroughs has gotten boring plus which anybody who's deranged enough to be into this magazine deserves to have his mind riddled with Bukowski's peculiar brand of literary buboes.

01" Charles is renowned primarily as a poet, with such books to his credit as Longshot Poems For Broke Players, All the Assholes in the World and Mine, and The Days Run Away Like Wild Horses Over the Hills, the titles alone of which should be sufficient indication of their mood and merit. Genet and Sartre think he's the best poet in America, and since that's about all frogs are good for is poetry you'd better believe them, but what I principally admire Bukowski for is his prose. It's spare? to the point, dirty, abusive, violent and self-mocking. Also occasionally self-pitying, but what the fock. The typical Bukowski story runs thusly: he wakes up in bed with a strange woman he can't remember picking up, and empty wine and beer bottles scattered all over the both of them. He stumbles up in blind stupor and collides with the wall. Blood runs down into his eyes, so he staggers blindly into the street, where he immediately has viciously absurdist run-in with citizen normal or otherwise. He gets drunk again, falls down, bellows verbal garble at gaping wazoos, maybe ends up in jail or back in bed with more meat and another bottle. That's pretty much the extent, of the Bukowski system, except when he gets bullshit philosophical and begins to sound like a scatological parody of a daily-paper columnist, but it's amazing the variety of incredibly entertaining permutations he can work from his simple and corrosively appealing lifestyle. In other words you'll laugh your ass off, and a few examples from the Buk writ tell better than I ever could:

A letter from a female fan: dear bongo:\

this is the LAST LETTER, god damn you to hell, you are not the ONLY one who has abandoned me. I'll see all of you who have abandoned me — I'll SEE ALL OF YOU IN THE GRAVE FIRST!

meggy

my grandmother used to talk that way to me and she never gave me any pussy either.

Or:

"you're a whore, you're nothing but a god damned whore ...."

"sure I'm a whore or else I wouldn't be living with you." "hmmm, I never thought of it that way."

Or:

Names! I had been married to my first wife for two-and-one-half years. One night some people came in. I had told my wife: "This is Louie the half-ass and this is Marie, Queen of the Quick Suck ... "

Then I had turned to them and said, "This is my wife ... this is my wife ... this is ... " I finally had to look at her and ask: "WHAT THE HELL IS YOUR NAME ANYHOW?"

Yep, that's pure Bukowski, and if those choice clips aren't enough to get you after this trash the story titles alone should suffice: "Kid Stardust on the Porterhouse," "Life in a Texas Whorehouse," "Ten Jack-Offs," "Twelve Flying Monkeys Who Won't Copulate Properly," "The Copulating Mermaid of Venice, Calif.," "Politics Is Like Trying to Screw a Cat in the Ass," "My

Big-Assed Mother," "A .45 to Pay the A Rent," "Doing Time With Public Enemy 'fC No. 1," "Nut Ward Just East of Holly^ wood," and of course "Would You© Suggest Writing As a Career?" followed II closely by "Great Poets Die in Steahiing C Pots of Shit." Considering his prodigi^ ous survival of some of the most prolific alcoholism since Eugene O'Neill, this old buzzard will probably never die. As it is, he's the best American prosodist since Hubert Selby, Jr. and probably even better because he never threw in the towel like all those sniveling beatniks. Get to him via Dirty Old Man (which is close), and if your local bookvendor won't stock these scabrous bookvendor won't stock these scabrous tomes order "em direct at three and four bucks a shot from City Lights Books,

261 Columbus Ave., San Francisco, Calif. 94133.

Lester Bangs

THE BLACK AMERICAN TRAVEL GUIDE (Revised Edition) by Bob Hayes (Straight Arrow):: You don't have to be black to avoid this. Sample graf: "Whether poor, wealthy, or just plain average, the Black traveler receives full value for his dollar in San Francisco. Moreover, this is one of the few cities that can guarantee the Black traveler that he will be allowed to participate to the full extent of his desire to spend. This is Travel Security, an essential ingredient for successful Black Tourism." I dunno, maybe it's code. All italics ana capital letters straight from the book.

Ed Ward

BREAKFAST OF CHAMPIONS by Kurt Vonnegut (Delta):: I don't care how many weeks this book was on the best-seller list or who told you it was funny, I think this is one of the biggest pieces of shit ever published. There seems to be a segment of the population that gets off on screaming "Doom!" at everybody. To Vonnegut, everything is fucked, it can't be fixed, and even if it could be it wouldn't be worth it because people are innately evil, and they'd just fuck it up again. If he really believes all that, why doesn't he just kill himself and leave us alone? Ed Ward