I spent my summers in LA in the mid-sixties, so let me dispel at least one myth about some recent history: All the time I was there, I never once saw a hippie or even anyone posing as one. Likewise, I’ve read with interest the stories recently about the world’s rice famine and how people living in poverty in "third world" countries can no longer afford rice. That has brought back memories of living in the Philippines in the early sixties: Our home there was only 50 feet away from a street of one-room, handmade Nipa huts. Their male residents went to work at daybreak and came home about the time the bats starting flying, earning for that day’s efforts barely enough rice to feed their families.