EVEN ON A CHILLYAUTUMN DAY the pavement in Berkeley preserves some warmth that reminds meof vestiges of summer, when theblacktop's so hot there's nowhere--not even in the shade--to get away. Some leaves never make it down from the trees in the half-assed CentralCalifornia autumn, but others blow around my stride and cooled my heels. I still don't have a job, but neither does half of South Berkeley. I'mall right if I can just keep alive.
There's a thousand ways they want to kill me, with their dope and theirwar and their shouting in the streets. But the Lord Whitey made it all,and I don't have anything to do with his problems. Except for his women.
Haight-Ashbury is a madhouse of ignorance andmistaken identity. Some people still think it's '67 but that crap hasgotten tired and so have the people. They don't even notice that somereal sleazes went and grew their hair to do ill with what all theyintended for virtue: peace becomes robbery, communes turn into cathouses, free love ends up rape.
