Since Allen Ginsberg, always visible though generations come and go, has never been more of a public figure than he is now, itseems more than just good timing to focus in on a man who has been far more than just an Omorary Dylan entouragent. If you've never read his celebrated "Howl, "pick up a copy today. In the meantime, here is an intimate, off the cuff portrait of the man, written by someone who has known him for years and is not only himself an author of some repute — Speed, Kentucky Ham — but of course the son of another even more important elder statesman hipster and social diagnostician, William Seward Burroughs, who will be the subject of an in-depth CREEMInterview in an upcoming issue. — Ed.

When I was hovering around puberty at summer camp years ago, a misshapen monster of a kid with bulging eyes located a gentle salamander under a log, snipped off its tail and hooked it up to a dry cell battery. When this didn't kill it, he put it in a clear plastic toothbrush container half full of water and shook it like a bartender. Another lad carried a golf club with him through the woods, admiring nature and looking for toads to send flying through the air burst open. I don't know whatever became of these fellows but I'm reasonably certain they're making lots of money and are up to no good. For young monsters generally grow up to be old