"A blonde or two," Pat says. Bushman adds, "A cellar of good Scotch." "And books, lots of books," Jones-Very puts in. "No blondes, no Scotch, no books," you tell them, banging your mug on the table so hard their glasses jump. "Minimum needs ... minimum needs!" "How about plumbing?" Anna demands. "I won't go without plumbing." "We're facing the end of the world," says John, "and you worry about plumbing!" "I'm sorry, but if plumbing isn't going to survive, I'd just as soon not either," Anna says. "I just can't see myself squatting in the bushes." "What difference does it make?" Ian asks. "Everybody dies anyway. From the moment you're born, you start dying." "Yes, but--" "So why bother? Everybody dies. Why prolong it more than you have to? Everybody dies." "Worlds may or may not blow up," O'Malley says, "but it seems to me it's the little indignities of modern life that hurt the most. The constant repetition of the advertising slogans that insult your intelligence, and the women with the pearly teeth and perfect permanent waves, without body odor or souls." "I have body odor," Anna says. "But no soul," Ian says. "No soul at all." "You're just mad because I wouldn't sleep with you last night." "No soul," Ian says. The jukebox offers Tin Pan Alley's solution to the whole thing: OH BABY, OH MY BABY O MY BABY IS MY BABY O MY BABY IS MY BABY O MY BABY LOVES ME O SHE DOES, SHE DOES, SHE DOES O "Our trouble is too much history," John says. "A period without history is a happy one and we've had too much history." "No soul--too much history," Ian hiccups. "Not enough sex--everybody dies." "Everybody is going to die damn fast, unless something happens," you say. "No soul--so sad," Ian mumbles. "No soul and no sex ... everybody dies, nothing happens." "So what?" Anna demands. "What is life anyway? Why try to be like everyone else in this beautiful but messy Brave New World of 1970? Why run searching for a messiah when all the messiahs died a thousand years ago?" This starts you thinking about religion. You've never thought much about it before but a man can change, maybe even accept the old myths as real until they actually begin to seem real. Instead of dwelling on your body being burned to a cinder in an atomic holocaust you could think of your slightly singed soul being wafted to paradise on a mushroom cloud while U-235 atoms sing a heavenly chorus to speed you on your way. The others don't even notice when you get up and walk out to look for a church. * * * * * Churches aren't hard to find in Los Angeles on any day of the week or at any hour of the day. They're behind the blank fronts of painted-over store windows. They're located in big old nineteenth-century houses along Adams; they spring up under tents in vacant lots and in large expensive temples and bank-like buildings in the downtown area.