By David Bailey One lovely late summer afternoon, I sat happily drinking a scotch on Henry May’s back deck in Kensington, just north of Berkeley. Nearby was the house where J. Robert Oppenheimer had attended parties hosted by Haaken Chevalier, and where Oppenheimer may or may not have listened to discussions of communism.  Next door was the house where Timothy Leary had lived in the 50s and where the sausage king of the East Bay now called home.  Deer regularly wandered by, to the delight of my young daughters. The house stood perched on the side of a steep hill, Read more