One thing a beatnik cannot abide is a square. The bearded, sandaled beat likes to be with his own kind, to riffle through his quarterlies, write craggy poetry, paint crusty pictures, and pursue his never-ending quest for the ultimate in sex and protest. When deterred from such pleasures by the goggle-eyed from Squaresville, the beatnik packs his pot (marijuana), shorts and bongo drums, grabs his black-hosed, pony-tailed beatchick and cuts out. Lately, beatniks in increasing numbers have been cutting out of the incipient squareness of San Francisco and swinging in the shabby little Los Angeles beach community of Venice. There...
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