Red House Books  : Galleries  : Dispatches from the Haight, 1966-67
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August 1967
Published anonymously

Pretty little 16-year-old middle-class chick comes to the Haight to see what it's all about and gets picked up by a 17-year-old street dealer who spends all day shooting her full of speed again and again, then feeds her 3000 mikes and raffles her temporarily unemployed body for the biggest Haight Street gang bang since the night before last.

The politics and ethics of ecstasy.

Rape is as common as bullshit on Haight Street.

The Love Generation never sleeps.

The Oracle continues to recruit for this summer's Human Shit-In, but the psychedelic plastic flower and god's eye merchants, shocked by the discovery that increased population doesn't necessarily guarantee increased profits at all, have invented the Council for a Summer of Love to keep us all from interfering with commerce.

Kids are starving on The Street. Minds and bodies are being maimed as we watch, a scale model of Vietnam. There are people -- our people -- dying hideous long deaths among us and the Council is planning alternative activities. Haight Street is ugly shitdeath and Alan Watts suggests more elegant attire.

The Oracle, I admit, has done something to ease life on Haight Street; it's hired street kids to peddle the paper. Having with brilliant graphics and sophomoric prose urged millions of kids to Drop Out of school and jobs, it now offers its dropouts menial jobs. That's hypocritical and shitty, but it's something. It means that a few dozen kids who can meet the Oracle's requirements can avert starvation whenever the Oracle comes out.


And why hasn't the man who really did it to us done something about the problem he has created? Why doesn't Doctor Timothy Leary help the Diggers? He's now at work on yet another Psychedelic Circus at $3.50 a head, presumably to raise enough cash to keep himself out of jail, and there isn't even a rumor that he's contributed any of the fortune he made with the last circus toward alleviating the misery of the psychedelphia he created.

Tune in, turn on, drop dead? One wonders. Are Leary and Alpert and the Oracle all in the same greedy place? Does acid still have to be sold as hard as Madison Avenue still sells sex? What do these nice people mean by "Love"?

Are you aware that Haight Street is just as bad as the squares say it is? Have you heard of the killings we've had on Haight Street? Have you seen dozens of hippies watching passively while some burly square beats another hippy to a psychedelic red pulp? Have you walked down Haight Street at dawn and seen and talked with the survivors?

The trouble is probably that the hip shopkeepers have believed their own bullshit lies. They believe that acid is the answer and neither know nor care what the question is. They think that dope is the easy road to God.

"Have you been raped?" they say. "Take acid and everything will be groovy."

"Are you ill? Take acid and find inner health."

"Are you cold, sleeping in doorways at night? Take acid and discover your own inner warmth. Are you hungry? Take acid and transcend these mundane needs."

"You can't afford acid? Pardon me. I think I hear somebody calling me."

I don't know what they'd say to the little girl that got gang-banged. They might not even believe it, since it's part of their religious creed that acid makes everybody automatically BEAUTIFUL, and therefore nobody would do that to a little girl. They might (as The Examiner certainly would) say that since the little girl had the clap before she was gang-banged at all, but went through the whole ghastly business willingly, as if that made a real difference.

They would never believe that they were guilty of monstrous crimes against humanity. They won't believe it this summer, when the Street reeks of human agony, despair and death death death.

Browse this gallery:    A Prophecy of a Declaration of Independence
Trip Without a Ticket
Sheep? Baa.
Dig!.... Rejoice!
Affadavit of Non-Violation of Privacy
The Death of Hippie

Visit another gallery:    One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest
Please Plant This Book
Free Poems from Richard Brautigan
Dispatches from the Haight-Ashbury
The White Cookie of Marrakesh
Marijuana, Assassin of Youth

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