“Scientology, Give Us Our Money Back,” while below, roller-skaters and

“Scientology, Give Us Our Money Back,” while below, roller-skaters and skate-boarders mingle with cops riding bicycles and Hare Krishnas preparing for their annual parade featuring an elephant nourished entirely on trail mix. A lone Jesus freak walks along and yells at them— “Antichrist! Antichrist! Antichrist!” —trying to drown out their chant. “Repent, Krishna! People are starving in India every day because these foolish Krishnas refuse to eat the cow! Eat the cow and believe in Jesus Christ! Repent, Krishna!” You can buy all types of stuff along the boardwalk—rainbow sunglasses and fake Rolex watches and falafel-shaped yo-yo’ s. “But,” complains a flower vendor who pays $600 a month for a ten-by-two-foot Space, “rent will be going up to $800 and then to $1200 by summer. Venice will eventually be inhabited by a bunch of wealthy lot owners and a population of slaves who work for them.” However, the performers pay no rent, dependent on voluntary donations. There is a poet who speaks professional gibberish; an artist who draws on the ground with colored chalk; a fellow who juggles an electric chainsaw, a bowling ball, and an apple, for which strangers put money in HOUSE_OVERSIGHT_015183