So I’m sitting here in Zucchini Park, or whatever it’s called, watching the fetching topless lassies and trying to keep my nose pointed upwind from their stinky companions, and, man, am I digging it. Probably not since my father, the sainted “Che” Kahane, and my Uncle Joe were getting their heads bashed in during the Days of Rage in Chicago has a Kahane been so close to the front lines of the Revolution. And let me tell you, the reality is ever so much more bracing than the theory.
I mean, it’s one thing for me to preach social justice while sitting with Ginger in the hot tub at my palatial pad in Echo Park. It’s another to confront it up close and personal — outdoor latrines, food scraps, B.O., posters of BO2, and all — especially when your cause graphically illustrates, shall we say, the internal contradictions of capitalism.
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