This journal's last entry, dated August 4, was written from inside a Brooklyn apartment, to the clamor of the Hasidic Jews working in a warehouse across the street, after a day in Manhattan digging up muck for the journalist Wayne Barrett.
Wayne's no longer at the Village Voice, and I'm no longer in New York. He got the ax for earning more than what his alt-weekly overlords could afford, and I left the state because it was more than what my freelance gigs could afford.
After a brief stop back home, I landed on the opposite coast for another internship, this one at Mother Jones in San Francisco. Public transit into the city from my Oakland coop house isn't cheap—$6.60 a day, round-trip—but, thanks to a grant-funded stipend and my first roommate since freshman year of college, I've got the money to scrape by.