I barely snuck in a show from May the 30th, 1971 and I'm listening to it while I type here in my garret in back of Miss Holly's place in Echo Park, just overlooking Chinatown which I claim to be appropriate because this show that's playing was recorded at Winterland thirty five years ago this very night, just a stone's throw from the bigger Chinatown in San Francisco. Wow, that almost seemed connected and I have to commend myself on a job well done for being clever in these difficult times when cunning does not appear on a job application and I can only compare meager assets in the conventional ways and not my big balls which I would like to enter into competition any day of the week but I promise that will probably be the last time I ever make mention of that. I've run out of inspiration but I know a stone to turn. Sweet glory, it comes now as the sirens start to sound along east Sunset Boulevard just at the bottom of the hill from here and now the week kicks into full gear and the helicopters are approaching from the west in the nightly ritual which I traded back for fear in the hills of serial murderers which I just couldn't afford any more. Don't cry for me, though, because I'll find my way back to the paths of the families of hillsides of stranglers in zodiac rivers. It's all a package deal.