by Dr. Derek Lamar
I ran away from home when I had just turned 17 with the hopes and dreams of becoming a rock and roll star. I 
am sure you have heard that story before. Perhaps you tempted yourself with that fantasy a time or two yourself. Long story short, I began selling newspapers on Sunset Boulevard during the aprocryphal 1960's where everything you heard was probably true.
It was a short time before I left the confines of my luxurious rat infested dwelling in the basement of the Fifth Estate Coffee House and was soon living in another flop house of sorts (a commune called Rivendell) which ironically was a block away from an underground newspaper called Open City.
I wanted to write music but up to that point my musical skills were limited and poetry/lyrics were the best I could contribute. I was urged to meet the people at the newspaper down the street. Quickly I was hired... as a volunteer. I began proof-reading and making typo corrections on a rather primitive light table with exacto blade in one hand and scotch tape in the other. I wasn't stupid, but I was pretty ignorant.
(Above Right: recent Open City issue published in San Francisco with early logo)
(Above Left: Herald Examiner building: "He thought it would be fun to run a newspaper." ~ Citizen Kane)
I rapidly began soaking up everything around me and learned about the newspaper 
business from the sponge side up. They had a gay nudist typesetter upstairs who loved it when unsuspecting visitors walked in on him unannounced. He was more than happy to stand up and shake their hand. The gasps and giggles were always enough to make his day even though he would pretend it was just an annoyance. The editor, never far away, was a real newspaper man. He quit the Herald Examiner (Hearst paper and L.A. Times competition) in protest when they wanted a famous rennaissance painting of the Christ child to have airbrushed genitals... he refused.
(Right: Timothy Leary, all dressed up for one last trip)
Every day was exciting. The office was crowded with strange and amusing people. I met them all. They became part of the circus in my head as I tried to create a new life for myself. There were people there to put in classified ads in the personal section. There were record company execs there to get write-ups on their latest psychedelic bands (this was Hollywood in 1967 and the summer of love was soon to make history across the nation). Volunteers were scattered here and there. The editor's wife, nicknamed "SuperMother" was busy taunting the guests with stories about the rubber babies in the closet and how she also had whips and chains for the more adventurous.
The first surprise was a post card I found lying on the dining room bureau. It was from Allen Ginsberg. I soon learned my way around the house and through the library. I began reading. The first book I 
chose was The Psychedelic Experience: The Tibetan Book Of The Dead by Timothy Leary, who I wouldn't actually meet until 1986 in Bakersfield of all places. Among the furnishings I became acquainted with included Charles Bukowski who seemed to be there several times a week. I was quick to replace his beer whenever it was empty, especially at the weekly staff meetings.
Neal Cassady came and stayed with us for a week.
It was the week before he died. Neal was one of the famous "Band of Merry Pranksters" out of San Francisco, who, with Ken Kesey, Jack Kerouac and others, would amuse themselves and terrorize others as they drove about in their "magic bus". Neal was the character Jack wrote about in the book On The Road. I had no idea what that meant until much later.
understand the metaphysical implications of all of this and how it was writing a script of sorts within me which would aid me later in my own self discovery. Why was I here? Who were all of these people to me? Was I really on the outside or was all of this happening inside of me? Was there a destiny in life or was it all coincidence and fate, particles and waves, white wine or red?