Somehow my strongest memories of San Francisco are of me in a terrific rented sedan roaring up hills or down hills, sliding on and off the cable-car tracks. It is shuddering around in front of my eyes as Hassler's hands opposition There's this old guy in there, says, 'Now, you ain't gonna cut them flags up for costumes, are you? The curtain pulls back and standing there is a wiry little guy who looks like a pirate. Then I started scribbling like mad, in shorthand, in the notebook. We are all of twenty-four inches apart, but there is a piece of plate glass as thick as a telephone directory between us.
And still the babies cry. A couple of visitors are already hunched over the things. They should go "beyond acid. He was a glorified beatnik up on two dope charges, and why make a hero out of him. One of the Flag People, a thin guy, tells me about Mexicans strung out on huaraches. He just goes off on the monologue, by himself if necessary, although anyone is welcome aboard. It's phony, goddamn it. North Beach was nothing but tit shows. I saw the same stuff when I got back as when I left. The Pranksters took me pretty much for granted. By the book; so they finally let me in to see Kesey during visiting hours. Thing was the major abstract word in Haight-Ashbury. This script was not very popular in Haight-Ashbury, however. There was no plumbing in the Warehouse, not even any cold water. But then it turned to I must say that California has smooth cops. It seemed like calisthenics we were going through. There had been a piece in the paper about his saying it was time for the psychedelic movement to go "beyond acid," so I asked him about that. Even Kesey, who was still on the run then, had brazened on in and mingled with the crowd for a while, and they were all one, even Kesey—and now all of a sudden here he is, in the hands of the FBI and other supercops, the biggest name in The Life, Kesey, announcing that it is time to "graduate from acid. They are all blond wood, fluorescent lights and filing-cabinettan metal, like the Civil Service exam room in a new Post Office building. There is no end of vibrations. We're going to jerk it out from under the world There was one passage written George Ade—fashion in the third person as a parody of what the straight world back there in the U. I never got into an abstract discussion with a total stranger so fast in my life. He is just like some very clean-cut blond college kid wearing a T-shirt and corduroy pants, smiling and outgoing, just a good West Coast golden boy except for a few random notes like the Lotus racing car he has outside, painted with orange Day-Glo so that it lights up at dusk, skidding around the corners of the California suburbs in fourwheel drifts.
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