November 7 Ali

TRAIPSING THROUGH GOLDEN GATE PARK I feel a little like Mick Jagger, all the pigeons going, "Hoo, hoooo. Hoo, hoooo." Walk like a cock. Pocket full of rock. Rock 'n' roll, rock 'n' fucking roll, rock 'n' fucking sucking roll: these are the three species of inebriant contained in pop. My antidote has all of those, including a whole hell full of harassment and interdiction, search and destroy.

Almost want to take a vial and pour it in a bin of refuse, over one of those discarded weiner buns, sit back and watch the fireworks while a whole bevy of birds go haywire. Problem is with all the deadbeats burrowing around it would most likely get soaked up by a trash-picking bum. "Drifter turns Maniac! Unknown Drug? Another Murder Cult?" The last thing I need before the big day is headlines of the troubled stuff and an unknowing narc picking up my trail. What am I going to tell him: "But I'm on your side, this stuff's going to REALLY open people's eyes. . . ." Who can count how many times the cops have heard that?

Ignoramuses like Leary have already tried that jive. It's getting to be that better living through chemistry has become a black sheep crying wolf: don't just ignore it, shoot whenever you hear it bleat. Outrageous as it is I've gotten this far with the Brotherhood, I'm beginning to take for granted that holding out this last month will be a piece of cake. It's like they're assuring their own demise. Almost as if they know they're destined to die. Have to admit, I pity them a little. Every day is like a blessing waking up and remembering the enemy, even if they did find me out, wouldn't hurt a fly. But it's better not to get too sloppy. Just because there's no danger in this mission doesn't mean the stakes aren't high.

There's a protest in the park and I make out an old contact from the company milling about at the periphery in a poor approximation of hippie. Used to know the fellow well. Wish I could go over and say hello, but doing so could blow my cover and his. Even though most folks are so stoned and sunstruck they don't even think to suspect a fox in the chicken coop. And then a hipster parked in a convertible taps the brim of his hat. Who's that? "Sympathy for the Devil" blares shrilly from his radio. A friend? Paranoia takes no holiday, always ready to burst my bubble. Is it the asshole who blew my cover at the last rock restive-all? Better keep on trucking, walking the thin line between hippie and heavy.

Generational salvation: a lonely business. Hope you don't guess my name.

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