Of course, being a brand isn’t all peaches and credit. I was at Uncle Bill’s 70th birthday party in February 1984 at the New York Limelight nightclub where he was photographed with the “up and coming” young Madonna. The reality of the situation was that Burroughs was positioned by his minders at a table and a line formed of people who wanted to have their picture taken with him. The movement was brisk and Bill looked tired, kind of shell-shocked, and glad of the joint. I was even pressured by some friends to take part in the process myself. I found it all profoundly embarrassing and never did know what happened to the picture.
Click here for Burroughs on Ginsberg
I only remember where I was and what I was doing when three people died: Elvis, Groucho and Old Uncle Bill. I was high in the mountains, surrounded by dope and guns, when Burroughs died. News of his death reached me by way of a trusty old Grundig. I have never really given a shit about Burrough's place in history or pop culture. I am just happy the man could write terrifically well and I got to read his books. I liked "The Western Lands" best.
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