I see that today would have been Isaac Bonewits‘ sixty-fourth birthday. As he was a regular customer at Moe’s Books in Berkeley at the time I was working there, and there were intersections in our interests, we would talk on occasion. Isaac was a weedy guy, as I recall on the nervous side. Smart as whip. I liked him. He invited me to a party, which I attended for fifteen or twenty minutes, but he was the only person I... Read more