I was staying at the Adelaide Hostel in Isadora Duncan Lane, San Francisco. A fellow I met there said, ‘let’s have a drink down near the Tenderloin district’ , famous in the old days for its butcher ways. In a bar as dark as night, the owner said, ‘go down to Green Street to O’Reilly’s and say hello to Myles the owner. I’ll tell him your coming, go on Irish night’. It was on Green Street near Columbus Avenue and Kerouac paradise. I arrived early, and said to the barmaid, ‘ is Myles around?’. The place came alive as people crowded in. The barman was serving beers and playing the fiddle at the same time. The joint was jumping. Myles said,’ put your money in your pocket the beers are on the house’. People came up and said your that Australian poet . I met a fellow who knew Rambling Jack Elliott, and Gurdjieff’s great grandson. A girl quoted writing down the bones. The night rolled on like a carousel as I drank to Jack, Allen, Corso, Burroughs,Synder, and ever other fucker that dared write a word in anger. At the end the band played Waltzing Matilda, and I sang like a wounded bear as the night merged into morning. Yes Australians, head to O’Reilly’s, and tell Myles I sent you.