"I have a job with the Berkeley Barb, an underground magazine that celebrated the spirit, art and politics of the 1960s. "Job" is probably too concrete a term – it is more that I am tolerated by the offices, the commune of radical thinkers who somehow get their shit together now and again to put out a paper. I'm not on staff. I'm a freelancer. And that's the way it should be. I don't want to be tied down, told what to do. I had that shit in Modesto for two decades. I am here now, free to see what others fail to see, to show the world what they need to see."
"I interview all kinds, shapes, sizes. Some of the tapes have been lost. Misplaced. One night I leave my satchel in the bar, one too many grasshoppers, one too many bumps of cocaine I scored from a guy by the urinals. I return the next day and the satchel is there, the recorder, but some tapes are missing. Or maybe I just had forgotten to bring tapes that night because I wasn't looking to work that night."
"I tell myself I'm working every night. When I call home to Mom or more likely Mom calls to me, I explain what I'm doing – classes by day, working by night. I'm not sure she believes me. Dad definitely does not; he's too Republican to say anything but grunt his disappointment."
"But I am working every night. I may get distracted by the drugs, the drinks, the music, the scene. But I am always watching. Always looking. On the hunt for a story. On the hunt for a new person to interview." — HATE & ASHBURY by Daniel Molloy
titsay
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