In June of 1964, San Francisco was a play between acts. The Summer of Love had yet to descend upon our fair city; Kerouac, Ginsberg and the beats had already departed. Something was in the air, an unease deepened by
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In June of 1964, San Francisco was a play between acts. The Summer of Love had yet to descend upon our fair city; Kerouac, Ginsberg and the beats had already departed. Something was in the air, an unease deepened by