Venice, California, November 1977

Leary’s long gone and the drop-out area he created:
the junkies, the crazies, the fanatics, the general
rush of idiots have long ago been taken care of by
the institutions, including the institution of death.
lsd is almost out, speed is standard, reds are rare,
roller skates and racquet-ball are in; less guitars,
less bongos, less blacks; the natives now huckster
baggage and small items from vans while their stereo
sets no longer play Bob Dylan; they have become minor
capitalists, nothing wearying, just a type; and the
ten-speed bike, they ride the ten-speed bike as if in
the dream; all the revolutions are over but there is
still an anarchist or two under the palms, tamping their
pipes and planning to blow up some damn thing for no
damned reason and the sea goes in and out, out and in,
and over in Santa Monica the musclemen, and the sea
goes in and out, and there’s no Vietnam to protest,
hardly anything to do, racquet-ball, rollerskates and
ten-speed, and fucking is almost a bore, it means
trouble, you know, and cheap wine is in, and you can
use a do-it-yourself car wash for twentyfive cents.