December 8

Dear Dad and the rest of youse guys,

You’re still in luck. The prodigal son isn’t ready to return home yet, though let me tell you—if every place out west here was like L.A. I’d be home before Auntsy could say “get up.” That place is really something else. I spent a week there in all, part of it staying with some hippie friends I met in New Mexico, and who knew some other friends who were staying in this house in L.A. (Out here nobody seems to buy or rent anything—they just use it. I guess it’s cheaper that way.)

Anyway, the house was in Topanga Canyon—maybe you remember the canyon, Dad, from your old Navy days in L.A., although it’s probably changed a good deal since those ancient times (joke). Now it’s mostly all hippies. And drugs. I got out of the house early each day so I could see something of the city and not have to keep explaining to all and sundry that I’m a simple farm boy from the Midwest and prefer to start the day with breakfast instead of speed or acid. The others in the house were generally so strung out I think they’ll all die of malnutrition before 25. And it’s too bad too, because they’re good people generally. Some will rob you blind—if you had anything to rob, which of course I don’t—but otherwise they’re peaceful enough, in fact one heck of a lot peacefuler (you can see I don’t need college) than the kids at Banner High. But then I guess lying around on floor mattresses stoned all day isn’t exactly peacefulness, is it? It’s just pathetic. And I think one of the reasons for it is simply that place—L.A. It is like one great feedlot 50 miles long by 50 miles wide, only with people jammed cheek-by-jowl instead of cattle. The freeways are more violent than Vietnam. Back home you read about all the riots and the killings, like the Manson thing, and you don’t understand. But here you do—at least I did, in L.A. The people are simply crazy. They’ve been driven mad by the way they live, and they don’t know it. Time and again people picked me up (the mad hitchhiker strikes again!) and these people acted and talked like they were actually, clinically, crazy. In Banner Hill, Chief Janson would have locked them up. Here, they run things.

I say here, but actually I’m not there anymore. I’m in Santa Barbara, which is ninety miles north and about a hundred million miles more liveable. I’m not saying this is another Banner Hill (Isla Vista being so close and all) but you do get the feeling here that you might be able to live through to the end of the week without being asphixiated (sp?) by smog or slaughtered on a freeway or being offered up as human sacrifice at Sunday morning services (Church of the Latter Day Warlocks).

Also I’ve got a friend here, or at least I have had for the last few days—don’t guess we’ll be pen pals after I push on tomorrow. His name is—would you believe Isaac Newton Huston? No? Then would you believe he’s shortened it to Icarus? Well, he has. It’s a kind of professional name I guess. Says he’s a photographer by trade, though I’ve yet to see him take any pictures for money. Anyway he’s a nice guy, about 21, picked me up in Ventura, and is letting me crash here with him a few days. There’s a lot to see—oceans, mountains, museums, historical buildings. And girls! Some of them almost as fantastically, breathtakingly stunning as my little sister—which, as we all know, is saying one heckuva lot. Right, Jen? (Just kidding, sis—about the conceit, I mean, not the looks. Forgiven?)

The greatest thing about staying here with Isaac (I can’t very well call him—or anybody else for that matter—Icarus, can I?—I mean with a straight face) is his bathroom. It’s got a john that works and a real honest-to-Gawd bathtub, in which I’ve been soaking at least four hours a day. I won’t say I was dirty, but the tub now has a ring that would pass for racing stripes on any track in the world.

(Got to go now. Will finish tomorrow morning.)

As you can see, I am a man of my word. Because it is morning now—and I am finishing this Epistle to the Illini at a table in a cheap restaurant right off Route 101 downtown—waiting for my ham and eggs—one of the few times I’ve parted with real cash these last few weeks. But I just couldn’t cut another Chez Icarus breakfast of Seven-Up and Hostess Twinkies. I’ll be on the road—thumb crook’d, teeth bared, eyes bright—in a very few minutes. So I thought I’d better have some real food for a change.

I plan to hit Monterey, Big Sur et al, and then on up to San Francisco to see if there is indeed a bridge there. Thereupon, I will cash my last travelers check and wing home to the frozen wastes of Macoupin County. I realize that will come as a blow to you, Bob, mon frere, since you won’t have the chores all to yourself anymore. But them’s the breaks, kid.

Seriously, I can hardly wait to see you all again, and see the farm and feel some real weather for a change. But I figure I’m here now, and I just might not pass this way again.

I miss you all. Much love.

Chris