 Since we're in the Bay Area, I thought a little bit of politics might be in order. I'm going to read a letter that I got from Ken early in the 1970s. Jim, a long overdue letter to say first, thanks, and next I'm not sure what. Let's see. I feel newly clear about the revolution, which is our true common ground anyway, so I'll ramble about that. I believe, as boroughs put it, and I think the soft machine, that the Third World War is now being fought in the space between ourselves. It is a battle over territory, turf, over who gets to shout Wookstra on the prime corner, over whether the rich loam riverside land down by Jasper Bridge is used to raise vegetables or whether the cantrails are forced by rising property taxes and seductive offers to sell to the trailer houses. Okay, for the sake of argument, let's say the trailer houses are the bad guys, or at least in the employ of the bad guys. These are the strip miners, the ghetto makers, the conspirators, dolts really, for they will be sold out by the conspiracy. As you read in the New Realist, you realize that even Nixon will be sold out by the conspiracy. So it seems to me that the trick is how to keep from selling out as the squeeze increases and the opportunities burgeon. Why couldn't McGovern stick by Eagleton? Or John Wayne by Goldwater, for that matter. What makes us sell out? My theory is that it isn't money or power or even glory. It's because we are still in high school and more than anything else in the world, we want to be considered a regular fellow. And we are coerced more than anything else by the fear of having it to sit all alone at the edged table in the cafeteria at noon hour and hear all the real regular fellows at another table, guffawing and sniggering and glancing in our direction as they whisper to each other. Oh, to be at that table. Socks securely in the bosom of brotherhood, be it black, bearded, buttoned down, or just a bunch of boys whooping it up. Oh, to be gazed upon with such worship by the table full of yell queens and voluminous letterman sweaters. Oh, to be in with the in-crowd. I know a lot of people who don't believe they've really experienced an orgasm without they read about it in the Rolling Stone. Oh, to swing with the swingers, to click with the click. It is our drama, our generation's hang-up, trying to unravel itself before we are strangled on moldy old crepe streamers leading all the way back to the junior prom. It's what carnal knowledge is about. And some are 42 and play it again, Sam. And mainly, bestly, the last picture show. Larry is trying to dig back and infuse that bomb. We all had a hand in wiring up back in high school. So that us regular fellows can communicate with the yell queens we married without the communication being filtered through roles in an awful coven. So the coven can be dispersed and the power over us debunked. So we can become men and women to each other and tell the makers of Right God and Pristine to stick it up their ass.