"Malestock: An Oral History of the Endemic Misogyny at the 1969 Music Festival."
Betty James: "All the men wanted to do was listen to the music and groove, and they expected us women to do everything else. Like, I'm sorry guys, I didn't make enough sandwiches for a hundred thousand people."
Frances Hill: "I remember thinking we were changing the World. Now I mostly remember the crabs."
Lorraine Whelton: "Women, we have an innate sense of decency and cleanliness: it was the men who turned the porta-potties into reeking, overflowing shit-holes. I mean: barefoot? Pigs! You better believe I kept my own roll of toilet paper in my purse."
Mary Jones: "One night some guy just walked around the grounds, going from woman to woman and asking if they would suck his cock. I said 'sure', and so I sucked his cock. That is how Free we were."
Nancy Payne: "The event was a disappointment for me. This was the perfect opportunity for men to listen to women and experience an expansion of consciousness, but they just tripped on LSD instead. The boys I was with, it was like they weren't even hearing what I was saying."
Alice Moyer: "It was the Pinnacle of Free Love, man! I mean, I was just an innocent white girl from a small Southern town, and then -- Pow! -- I had sex with a black brother who looked just like Jimi Hendrix while dozens of people cheered us on! The abortion afterwards was totally worth it!"
Linda Philips: "The fact that most of the musical acts were men didn't go unnoticed. I noticed. I noticed it alot."
Jane Lenz: "I admit it: I showed my tits. That doesn't mean I'm not a feminist, it just means that I wanted to show my tits. It was Freedom: you wouldn't understand, now. Stop trying to analyze me."
Doris Clemens: It's over forty years later and my vagina still doesn't feel clean. God, I wish I had never even gone."
I am Laslo.
Friday, July 31, 2015
Thursday, July 30, 2015
So it is the mid-nineties, I'm at that NYC establishment again, and -- sure enough -- Mia Farrow is at her seat at the bar, drinking and whispering to someone only she can see.
I sit beside her, order a drink.
"You're that one who wanted to know about Woody's asshole photographs, aren't you?"
"I think you were the one who brought that up," I say, ordering a drink for myself.
"Do you know what Sharon Stone's naked asshole looks like?" she asks, lighting a cigarette.
"LIke an asshole?" I reply.
"Like a fucking asshole," she says, poking out the eyes of imaginary people with her cigarette.
"Woody's people follow me, you know. I think you might even be one of them, you sick fuck."
"I've never met Woody Allen," I answer, sipping my drink.
"So you don't know about The Box, do you?"
"No: I have no idea what you are talking about."
"Do you know how old Mariel Hemingway was when they filmed 'Manhattan''?
"Eighteen? You really believe that shit?"
"It was just a guess."
"She was sixteen, motherfucker: six-fucking-teen."
"That was young..."
"And do you know where her panties from then are?"
"I have no idea..."
"They are in The Box, you ignorant fuck."
"After filming 'Manhattan' Woody told sixteen-year-old Mariel that all costumes used in filming needed to be returned to him."
"Panties, you dumb fuck! Panties! He made her give him every single pair of panties that sixteen-year-old girl wore during filming!"
And now they are in THE BOX. Dozens of pairs of Mariel's sixteen-year-old unwashed panties, in THE BOX."
"So what does Woody actually do with this box?"
"He fucking pulls them out and smells them, that's what the Fucker does!" she replies, lighting two cigarettes for herself simultaneously.
"He brags about how he doesn't do drugs but then he goes home and snorts Mariel's sixteen-year-old unwashed panties, one after the other."
"That's certainly wrong..."
"I never caught that Jew Cocksucker wearing them but I bet he did! I bet he wore those dirty panties and fucking danced across the room!"
"Mia, I think your limo is here..."
"It is a sick world..."
"Yes, Mia, it is..."
"Frank Sinatra wouldn't do that shit. Frank would return the panties -- every fucking pair...!"
I am Laslo.
Wednesday, July 29, 2015
I had returned to that NYC establishment a few days later, and there again was Mia, at the same seat in the bar. She was nodding and saying "Yes, yes," to a conversation only she could here.
I sat next to her, ordered my drink, then said "It's good to see you again, Mia."
"You. I remember you. You're that guy who kept asking me if Frank Sinatra ever fucked me in the ass."
"Well, sort of..."
"Did you know that Woody Allen took photographs of my naked asshole?"
"No, no I didn't..." I said, sipping my drink.
Mia lit a cigarette, then continued.
"Well he did. Woody would take photographs of my naked asshole in black-and-white, and he called it 'Art'."
"That doesn't seem right..."
"He had taken photographs of Dianne Keaton's naked asshole, too: he showed them to me."
"Fucking 'Art'. You know what they looked like?"
"They looked like naked assholes, that's what they looked like."
"You know his movie "Stardust Memories"?
"Can't say I remember that one."
"It was after he decided to stop being funny," she said, lighting another cigarette while the previous one was still going in the ashtray. "Anyway, he had Sharon Stone play a small role in it. You know why he had Sharon Stone play a small role in it?"
"He had Sharon Stone play a small role in it because he wanted to take photographs of Sharon Stone's naked asshole. And he did, too."
"It sounds like he has issues..."
"You know what Sharon Stone's naked asshole looks like?"
"It looks like an asshole, that's what it looks like."
"When I read about some actress trying out for a role in a Woody film I call them and warn them: he just wants to take pictures of your naked asshole."
"Do they believe you?"
"No. No they don't. And then they are just one more nude asshole picture in Woody's portfolio under the bed."
Thankfully, Mia's limousine arrives, and she stands, totters, then heads to the door.
"Frank Sinatra never did shit like that, I'll tell you that..." she said, muttering to herself as she left into the night...
I am Laslo.
I met Mia Farrow at a bar in NYC back in the mid-nineties.
She was sitting alone at the bar, a bit disheveled, drinking martinis and talking to herself incomprehensibly, punctuated by exclamations of "Those bastards!"
I sat by her and ordered a drink; she turned to me and said "I'm a UNICEF Goodwill Ambassador, motherfucker."
"That sounds noble," I replied.
"Damn right it's noble. I adopt kids, I help the dark people in Darfur, and all the cocksuckers want to know about is Woody Allen," she said, lighting a cigarette with shaky hands.
"Doesn't seem fair."
"Fuck right it ain't fair. I knew John Lennon. I was married to Frank-fucking-Sinatra." With this she stubbed out her just-lit cigarette on the bar a few inches from the overflowing ashtray, then lit another cigarette.
"Frank Sinatra is quite the man, it seems."
"And he was hung like a fucking horse," Mia replied. "Screwing him was like fucking a fire hose."
"Have you ever fucked a fire hose?"
"No. No I haven't."
"It's like fucking Frank Sinatra," she says, finishing her drink. "THAT is what it is like."
Ordering another drink, she continued.
"And Woody: all he wanted was anal sex. All the time: anal, anal, anal."
"That's certainly interesting."
"You know: Frank Sinatra never once fucked me in the ass. Not once."
"Frank sounds like a gentleman."
"It's because his dick was like a fire hose. He would've torn me apart."
I ordered another drink and contemplated leaving, but Mia kept on with the conversation.
"Roman Polanski once tried to fuck me in the ass."
"You've had quite the life."
"Yeah. Frank found out and threatened to break his little Polish ass in half." Mia guzzled her drink, ordered another, then said "Of course, after reading about Roman and the little girls maybe Frank SHOULD have beaten down the little fucker."
"I can see that..."
"Did you know Frank never had anal sex with me?"
"Uh, I think you mentioned that..."
"You know why?"
"Because it would be like fucking a fire hose?"
"It'd be like fucking a fire hose in you ASS: that's what it would be like..."
I nodded, and sipped my drink.
"I once almost cut off Woody's balls while he was sleeping."
"Yeah, the cocksucker. He was sleeping and I had a pair of scissors and I almost did it."
"It's probably for the best that you didn't follow through..."
"Fuck that. I shoulda done it. FRANK would've."
"Still, I think it's good that you didn't. No one would remember all your hard work, helping people."
"Damn straight. "I'm a UNICEF Goodwill Ambassador, motherfucker."
"That's my point."
"Did you know that Frank Sinatra never once tried to fuck me in the ass?"
And with that Mia's limousine arrived.
"Good night, Mia."
"Like a fucking fire hose, that man..."
I am Laslo.
Tuesday, July 28, 2015
In college I had a girlfriend who was a Psychology Major. Every conversation seemed to be subject to a Freudian filter: after awhile we would go out for dinner and I could only eat eggs.
Sometimes we would have sex and she would moan "Baby, Baby," only later to explain that this was due to being subjected to a Patriarchal Society in which women were brainwashed into equating sex with childbirth.
On other occasions, during sex she would mutter "Daddy, Daddy," to later explain that the Patriarchal Society forced women to model all male figures after the Father.
Then once, when having anal sex, she exclaimed "Uncle, Uncle!" because her Uncle Donald had performed anal sex with her when she was twelve.
Due to age, I think that was Jungian.
I am Laslo.