1973 was the year Nixon declared “I am not a crook,” but SCREW #219 for the week of May 14, 1973, knew better. While Tricky Dick was busy bugging phones and invading Cambodia, we were meditating on crotch health, blowing raspberries at Warhol, and publishing centerfolds that made Playboy look like the Sears catalog.
Edited by Jim Buckley, the calm pervert to Al Goldstein’s exploding hemorrhoid, this issue is a time capsule of what SCREW did best: mix gonzo journalism with semen-stained satire. The cover art by Little Moon (who was less “artist” and more acid-soaked visionary with a permanent hard-on) was a neon slap to the libido, hinting at the chaos inside.
Al kicked things off with “Screw You,” the column that never kissed ass and always smelled like one. By this point, Al had sharpened his hate like a prison shiv and jabbed it into the underbelly of American puritanism. In this issue, he turned his firehose of rage on hypocrites, politicians, and anyone who thought yoga was for virgins.
Which leads us to Shankdino’s deeply thrusting exposé:
“A Better Lay the Yogi Way: How Yoga Can Save Your Sex Life.”
This was no suburban mommy blog. Shankdino didn’t give a shit about chakras or goat yoga. This was pelvic enlightenment by way of tantric thrusts and butt-clenching breathwork. The message was simple: bend over backwards and maybe, just maybe, you’ll stop faking orgasms.
Then Bruce David gave us “Sex Scene,” a roundup of skin flicks and backroom gossip that read like Variety if it was printed on a cum rag. Jim Buckley took a personal flamethrower to enemies of freedom in his “Shit List,” a regular feature that blended political fury with juvenile glee. Every month, some poor schmuck got the honor of being called out by name and metaphorically (or literally) told to go fuck themselves.
Mala Droit followed with “Raunchy Rejects,” a graveyard of failed smut, busted taboos, and the kind of cultural detritus SCREW readers devoured like popcorn chicken at an orgy. Then came Michael Perkins with a literary, over-the-pants fingerbang in “Fuckbooks: Sensuous Sarcophagus,” offering a deep-dick critique of Théophile Gautier’s book The Romance of a Mummy and Egypt.
And if you were in the mood for laughs between your boners, John Caldwell’s comic strip did the trick. Caldwell, like a horny Charles Addams, drew Americans as the grotesque, sexually repressed monsters they were—only with bigger dicks and sadder lives.
Paul Krassner chimed in with “Rumpleforeskin,” his usual cocktail of LSD gossip and sharp-toothed satire, this time poking around Hollywood’s dirty laundry like a coked-up raccoon. Somewhere between Liberace’s toupee and Debbie Reynolds’ vibrator, Krassner found his groove.
And just when you thought it couldn’t get more unhinged, Al Goldstein doubled back with “Dirty Diversions: Andy Warhol Strikes Again,” a no-lube takedown of the art world’s platinum-blond con man. Al didn’t hate Warhol because he was weird—he hated him because he was boring. And SCREW never forgave boring.
But the sticky cherry on top was the centerfold, a photographic fever dream titled:
“It Actually Happened in Brooklyn as a Matter of Fact,”
by Peter Bramley, a genius who made Brooklyn look like Bangkok with better bagels. The photo essay was about the making of SCREW’s 1973 film It Happened in Hollywood produced by SCREW founders Jim Buckley and Al Goldstein which despite “happening” in Hollywood was actually filmed in Brooklyn. Bramley — the original art director for National Lampoon —served as the film’s art director. It starred Harry Reems (Deep Throat) and was directed by Peter Locke (The Hills Have Eyes) and Wes Craven (Nightmare on Elm Street, Scream). Depending on who you asked, it was a flop.
Finally, Anthony Gambino wrapped it all up with “Naked City,” SCREW’s answer to the police blotter if it were written by drunks, flashers, and one-eyed drag queens. It reminded readers that while politicians were screwing the country, regular folks were screwing each other in alleys, bookstores, and occasionally in confessionals.
Issue #219 wasn’t just porn—it was protest wrapped in pubic hair. It screamed at America to drop the bullshit and embrace the filthy truth: that sex, satire, and dissent go hand in sticky hand. And it’s a reminder that before OnlyFans and Twitter porn, SCREW was the only place daring enough to publish a yoga-sex manifesto next to a Warhol hit piece.
—P.
