White, 35, has been with Wilson longer than any of the mayor's advisors, and has made it a personal policy not to get within writing distance of reporters. He ducked back into his office, then suddenly reappeared. "Listen," White said to the reporter, "I hear you've been calling a lot of people around town about me. They're all calling me up. Look, I'm not the candidate, and I'm not very interesting." The door shut. (Written with Paul Krueger, July 14, 1977)
Rev. Paul Veenstra is wrestling with his umbrella. The wind has the umbrella and the umbrella has Veenstra and he is being pulled upward. Rain is whipping around him. He is standing on the back platform of the official red, white, and blue Harbor Drive-In Worship truck, which is parked between an empty movie screen and 50 cars. (July 28, 1977)
Overflowing with ten thousand Red Carpet real estate salesmen and women, Amway home-products distributors, lawyers, scores of would-be millionaires. Arena was a great caldron of brimming with clean-cut, close-shaved positive thinkers. (Feb. 16, 1978)
Reverend Douglas Sobel leans toward me and tries to figure out what I am thinking. I lean backward and try to keep him from reading my mind. Reverend Sobel, a psychic, is Assistant Pastor of San Diego’s First Spiritualist Church. He has organized “Exploring the New Dawn.” a convention of eighty-five “New Age” groups at the El Cortez this week-end in November. (Dec. 8, 1977)
Just as the people who live along the ocean shore are affected by the tides and the pull of the moon, the children of the street in 5- inner territories like Shell Town and Logan Heights must be charged with energy when the heat, smog, fumes, and noise drive them into the cool night, seeking rifamo—a ghetto communion. (Aug. 5, 1976)
Timothy Leary, whose name was once synonymous with the Beatles, LSD, psychedelia, and the generational turn inward, now wants to depart this planet. (Oct. 14, 1976)
On this day, over half a century ago, Chester Hanson threw his bandolier into a camp stove and ran from the exploding bullets, while Ettore Bronte was singing in the streets of Paris, celebrating the end of the last war on earth. In San Diego, young American soldiers, wearing white masks, heard the news as they came streaming out of a quarantined Camp Kearny for the first time in weeks. (Nov. 11, 1976)
Hubbard hates the fact that Wilson is enthroned upstairs, and he is down here in this cavern, this dungeon, badly outnumbered by Wilsonites. And he hates that useless open space between the offices. Sometimes he gets out there with his golf clubs and putts around on the carpet. (Feb. 17, 1977)
Richard Louv wrote feature stories for the Reader in the 1970s before becoming a regular writer for the San Diego Union.