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The last hippy poet of the woodstock generation
Excerpt-4: When I was 20, in 1970, I was working in the L.A. Garment Industry, driving a truck around downtown L.A. and the San Fernando Valley.
Work was always an adventure. Traveling between downtown and the valley every day, sometimes twice a day, was fun for me. The traffic in those days was minimal, so whether I traveled on the Hollywood freeway, or up and down Laurel Canyon, I usually managed to get to my destinations on time, with no problems. Sometimes I would pick up hitchhikers. Sometimes I would spend my lunch hour in the valley. I would generally be having a good time while I was working. I was alone in my truck, doing my job, and it suited me.
Sometimes I would be driving by the courthouse downtown, and I would see the Manson Family girls on the courthouse steps protesting. Their heads were shaved, and some of them had X’s tattooed on their foreheads in support of Manson.
Charles Manson and his girls were on trial for the murder of actress Sharon Tate and six other people. Every time I drove by those girls protesting, I remembered my own encounter with Manson’s family. It was a year earlier, in ‘69, when I was still staying with Mike at his place on Sunset Drive.
I was alone one afternoon, hitchin’ down Sunset to the Strip, when I was picked up by a bus full of hippies. As the driver pulled away, he asked me where I was going. I said, “To the Strip,” and he nodded, “We can drop you there.” I climbed into the back, where there were a couple of mattresses, and about eight people were lounging on them—smoking, talking, having an all around good time. I started talking to this cute hippy chick and she told me they were headed for a ranch up in the Topanga Canyon area, where they used to shoot movies. I said, “Cool!”
Right at the moment we arrived at the corner of Fairfax and Sunset, the bus was pulled over by the cops. It turned left on Fairfax, and then pulled over to the curb in front of the Thrifty Drug Store. I had a few joints in my cigarette box that I was saving for later. Exactly like the time Jessie and I had been pulled over on his motorcycle, I put the box down the front of my pants, hoping the cops would not find it there.
An officer approached the bus and told everyone to get out. He told us to line up along the wall, place our hands up on it, and spread our legs. We all did. The cop then proceeded to go down the line, frisking each person. When he approached me, I said, “I was just hitchhiking. I’m not with them.” The girl I had been talking with, who was next to me, confirmed that. “Yeah, we just picked him up.” The cop looked at me for a long moment and then said, “Get out of here!” I did exactly that. I walked briskly away, across Sunset to the northwest corner, where I turned around and watched the goings on. I decided I’d better not hang around, that I was lucky to get away, so I started walking west on Sunset towards the Strip.
So now it is the end of July, 1970, and I had recently seen the news on TV of the Manson Family Murders. After seeing them on the news, and seeing the girls at the courthouse, I realized they were the ones who had picked me up in their bus. I knew now that I could have ended up at Spahn Ranch with them—because I was into that hippy chick. Who knows what might have happened if we had not been pulled over? Every time I drive past the courthouse, I think about that experience and how lucky I was. I think about that red Marlboro box down my pants. I was lucky I wasn’t busted. The first time I was not so lucky.
I always smoked Marlboro Reds in the box. Most of my friends did too. It was our brand. Whenever I saw that 70-foot high Marlboro Man billboard on the Sunset Strip, with his cowboy hat and his horse, I always thought, Yep! That’s our guy!
Sometimes I would be driving by the courthouse downtown, and I would see the Manson Family girls on the courthouse steps protesting. Their heads were shaved, and some of them had X’s tattooed on their foreheads in support of Manson.
Charles Manson and his girls were on trial for the murder of actress Sharon Tate and six other people. Every time I drove by those girls protesting, I remembered my own encounter with Manson’s family. It was a year earlier, in ‘69, when I was still staying with Mike at his place on Sunset Drive.
I was alone one afternoon, hitchin’ down Sunset to the Strip, when I was picked up by a bus full of hippies. As the driver pulled away, he asked me where I was going. I said, “To the Strip,” and he nodded, “We can drop you there.” I climbed into the back, where there were a couple of mattresses, and about eight people were lounging on them—smoking, talking, having an all around good time. I started talking to this cute hippy chick and she told me they were headed for a ranch up in the Topanga Canyon area, where they used to shoot movies. I said, “Cool!”
Right at the moment we arrived at the corner of Fairfax and Sunset, the bus was pulled over by the cops. It turned left on Fairfax, and then pulled over to the curb in front of the Thrifty Drug Store. I had a few joints in my cigarette box that I was saving for later. Exactly like the time Jessie and I had been pulled over on his motorcycle, I put the box down the front of my pants, hoping the cops would not find it there.
An officer approached the bus and told everyone to get out. He told us to line up along the wall, place our hands up on it, and spread our legs. We all did. The cop then proceeded to go down the line, frisking each person. When he approached me, I said, “I was just hitchhiking. I’m not with them.” The girl I had been talking with, who was next to me, confirmed that. “Yeah, we just picked him up.” The cop looked at me for a long moment and then said, “Get out of here!” I did exactly that. I walked briskly away, across Sunset to the northwest corner, where I turned around and watched the goings on. I decided I’d better not hang around, that I was lucky to get away, so I started walking west on Sunset towards the Strip.
So now it is the end of July, 1970, and I had recently seen the news on TV of the Manson Family Murders. After seeing them on the news, and seeing the girls at the courthouse, I realized they were the ones who had picked me up in their bus. I knew now that I could have ended up at Spahn Ranch with them—because I was into that hippy chick. Who knows what might have happened if we had not been pulled over? Every time I drive past the courthouse, I think about that experience and how lucky I was. I think about that red Marlboro box down my pants. I was lucky I wasn’t busted. The first time I was not so lucky.
I always smoked Marlboro Reds in the box. Most of my friends did too. It was our brand. Whenever I saw that 70-foot high Marlboro Man billboard on the Sunset Strip, with his cowboy hat and his horse, I always thought, Yep! That’s our guy!
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