Venice was ideal for Jim. The small artistic community was attracting more and more long-hairs, runaways, and artists every day. Bodies covered the beach; tambourines clanged merrily to the dozens of transistor radios; dogs chased Frisbees; cross-legged blue-jeaned circles smoked pot; LSD was sold over the counter at the local headshop. San Francisco had Haight, and Los Angeles had Venice. The time of the hippies was just beginning.
— No One Here Gets Out Alive. Jerry Hopkins and Danny Sugarman.
