& \ ^ ' r / -c? PAUL KRASSNER BYKENKESEY Holy cow! By the end of this month? I ’d forgotten all about it. And this is the twenty-ninth? Not much time for anything clever, probing, sardonic, insightful, humorous, thoughtful . . . I fear I am reduced to being truthful. Paul Krassner is a small guy, about five-five. He has a headful of curly brown hair that dangles Jewish-loose—Michael Jackson copied Krassner’s coiffure—and a faceful of oddly new-looking skin. It resembles a baby’s skin after a difficult delivery. And when he grins, which is most of the time, his size, hair, and the half-skinned complexion all combine to make him look quite childlike, if not infantile. Like a tickled kid. He is fifty-something, about five years my senior, but I swear I ’ve seen him carded for age verification trying to follow me into a bar. The bouncer was probably right to be suspicious. Krassner doesn’t imbibe. Not in alcohol, caffeine, or nicotine, anyway. Nor have I ever known him to pop an aspirin, drop a downer, or plop-plop an Alka-Seltzer. When people hear his age and remark in amazement on his youthfully tickled appearance, he always offers the same explanation: “I never take any legal drugs. ” But it’s more than tha t I ’ve seen pictures of him at fifteen, and he looks just as young and tickled, and these photos were taken before he had the chance at any chemical substances of any classification. Thus I think Paul must have been bom with that inner tickle, discovered it early, and has never been able to keep his hands off it since. The tickle is contagious, too, like a yawn. Spend half a day with him, and ybu find your mind chortling in a quagmire of puns, quips, wisecracks, snappy comebacks, and ironies. Krassner loves ironies. Especially stinging ironies that nettle public figures. Krassner would rather savor a piquant irony about a public figure than eat a bowl of fresh strawberries and ice cream. Spend a whole day with him and you find yourself beginning to forgo strawberries for stinging nettles, too. He has a pretty blonde girlfriend and a pretty brunette daughter. I think the daughter is the older of the two. He doesn’t drive, which is just as well for the rest of the traffic world. Like a lot of people raised around New York City, he never developed any sense of mechanics and inertia—it’s all full throttle or full brake, sometimes both at once. Also, he’s none too coordinated. An enthralled girl, watching him fumble, stumble, and fidget his way through a tangled tale, once observed: “H e’s qs physically clumsy as he is nimble mentally. ” He never has anything good in his refrigerator. He likes cats, and cats like him. In fact big cats, watching him trip around the alleys of Venice like a tipsy rodent, would like him for supper. He does a very funny stand-up show whenever a promoter has sense enough to book him. SUBSCRIBE to the Clinton St. Rece ive FREE BestofTheRealist Edited by Paul Krassner With a 2 year subscription Quarterly "...the stuff of legend."--Village Voice From 1958-1974 The Realist led and chronicled American counterculture and became the forerunner of the underground press which flourished in the 1960s. More than 1 million loyal readers eagerly sought the contributions of Norman Mailer, Woody Allen, Dick Gregory, Lenny Bruce, and Kurt Vonnegut, Jr., among the luminaries whose work filled the pages of The Realist. SUBSCRIBE SUBSCRIPTION FORM SUBSCRIBE SEND $16 per subscription N am e :____________________________________________________________ Address: ____________________________________,_____1_______________ C i t y : S t a t e : Z ip:___________ □ VISA □ Mastercharge C CHECK Credit C a rd # _________________ Exp. D a t e _________________ . SEND TO: C lin ton S tre e t Q u a r te r ly Box 3588, Portland, OR 97208 BULK RATE U.S. POSTAGE PAID PORTLAND, OR Permit No. 2211
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