“They’re just a bunch of squares up there. No one goes out, the scene is dead. My friends stay home and watch tv” the old newspaper man says, spilling his disappointment after returning from a road trip north to Marin County. “Used to be a bunch of wonderful towns. Now I wouldn’t live in any one of them.” Dick can fix your script for you, make it nice for when you get the meeting at the studio. But most of his life he’d been an ink stained wretch,  chirped about music and the arts in broadsheets like the San Francisco Chronicle. When Charles Bukowski was shacked up in San Francisco, the two met.

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