Buy "First Trip" from BarnesAndNoble.com
Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: addicts, drugs, Psychadelic, runaway, teenager, youth in revolt
Déjà vu
Every generation thinks they have a new drug problem and their youth feel as though their elders misunderstand them. These common beliefs cross international boundaries and the sentiment runs through pretty much every race. The drug problem of today is not new. Kids today face many of the same problems and choices to make that Dawn did in the 1970’s.
Opium has been around for thousands of years in Asia, the coca plant has been used at least that long in South America, hemp in the Middle East, and here in the United States, we have the priveldige of imbibing in drugs from all over the world. After the civil war many soldiers came home addicted to morphine. In the 30’s smoking pot was popular and there was are real problem with opium addiction. These drugs were legal then, but making these drugs illegal has not cured the problem. If anything, it has made it worse.
Drug addiction is not new. Sure, crack cocaine is a relatively new drug, but at one time so was meth and heroin. To an addictive personality, it doesn’t matter if it’s an old or new drug. They still get hooked. The meth addicts of the 1970’s are not really different from the crack addicts of today.
Mankind has been fighting drug addiction for thousands of years, and we are no closer to winning the war on drugs than we were 50 years ago. Why do we, as a society, keep fighting the war by shooting ourselves in the foot and expect to win? Drug addicts don’t need punishment. They are punishing themselves enough with their addiction. What they need is treatment for their addiction. If you don’t break the cycle, they will just go back to the drugs when released from prison or jail.
It was not until Dawn realized why she was using drugs that she could break out of her self-destructive behavior. No matter how much time she spent in juvenile hall or jail, it did not “cure” her of drug usage. It was not until she went to Napa Mental Hospital and had counseling that she could turn her life around. Many of the kids today don’t get the opportunity to learn why they are using drugs. They are just punished for drug usage and it does no good. It does not break the cycle of drug usage.
Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: Author, Authorhouse, books, indie publishing, Mom
After the death of my mother I was having trouble getting out of bed in the morning. My mom had been the center of my life for so long I was not sure what to do with my time. I was apathetic and floundering in a sea of self-pity. I needed something worthwhile to do with my time, so I began to write. And write I did, most days over a thousand words were added to my story.
I had started a short story a few years before and picked up where I left off. I had the main character, and a general idea where to go with her, but was not sure what exactly to do with the story. I began searching the Internet and researching options for book publishing.
The information I found was not very encouraging. The chance of getting noticed, in the vast sea of hundreds of thousands of books produced each year, was nil. I could print out the book and mail it off to the slush piles of major publishers, then sit and pray. That was not my style. After starting my own newspaper, I felt qualified to publish myself, so began looking into self-publishing options.
There were much cheaper self-publishing companies than Authorhouse, but I decided I wanted the perks they offered. It was important to me that Amazon would carry the book. Some of the other self-publishing companies could not guarantee that. I also wanted a book that was well made out of quality material. I wanted it my way, done exactly to my specifications. I designed the cover, did the artwork, and all the layout of the book. The only way I would have that freedom was to self-publish.
I talked to an AuthorHouse representative and I was sold. Now all I needed to do was finish my book. Easier said than done. I tend to procrastinate and without someone cracking the whip, I bog down. So, I enlisted the help of some old friends. They read my book as I went along and gave me valuable feedback. I welcomed their criticism and drew from it. If they, my friends who knew me, couldn’t understand what I was trying to say, how would my new friends and readers understand?
Now I was on a roll and cranked out the pages at a furious pace. I talked to my son’s English teacher and he agreed to do the very important job of editing. We haggled back and forth over commas and correct grammar. He caught some of my major mistakes, thus saving my book from mediocrity and me from embarrassment.
After all the work, the end product was something to be proud of. My mother would have really liked it. I am sure she is watching over my shoulder as I am writing this right now. This one is for you mom.
Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: 70's, adventurous, books, drugs, Fiction, love, rebellious, sex, teenager
One of the more controversial concepts of Dawn, the main character in First Trip, is her propensity to not only do drugs, but to have sex with strange men. Although the late 60’s and into the 70’s was a time of free love, there was still a societal belief that women didn’t have sex, but men did. The reality of the era was that a macho man had sex; a good girl did not have sex. Dawn feels she is equal to any man, therefore has the same rights to sex as men. She is the type of person who wouldn’t wait long enough for a man to dump her. She would leave them first. This comes from a deep-set feeling of worthlessness, due to the loss of her biological father and lack of love from her step-father.
The world does not have the same outlook as Dawn. Having lost her virginity at a very young age, she does not understand why that would make her a slut, but believes it is so. She has no self-worth and finds that drugs ease the pain of living in her world. She is living in a world where she feels she has no control, and this comes from her parents’ actions.
An excerpt from Chapter 10:
One afternoon I came home and there were panties and strawberries on the steps. Broken furniture was scattered all over the yard. My dad’s car had a huge dent in the hood and tell tale parts of his recliner were lying about, giving evidence of what had happened. In my mind’s eye, I could see him standing on the balcony, balancing the recliner on the rail.
The vision gave me pause, standing there at street level looking up. I could hear them screaming at each other. The fight was still on and I wanted no part of it.
I found out later they had been drinking martinis and fighting for most of the day. My step dad tossed the contents of the refrigerator over the balcony, scattering it down the three flights of stairs. He then threw my mother’s dresser and its contents over, followed closely by his own recliner. Think he was mad? He was insane.
I stood there wondering, should I go up? I knew what the scenario would be. They could not leave me out of their fights. Even if I managed to escape into my room, they would drag me out and into whatever their fight was about.
I had been through it before. They would say the fight was because the garbage hadn’t been taken out or dishes were not done or that I had been out the night before. They had me to blame for their bellicose relationship. If I was there, that is.
It made me feel that if I were not around, maybe they could get along. I thought yes, I will just leave and they would eventually mellow out. Then I paused again. I would be putting myself at risk for another stint in juvie. The thought of where I would go or how I would survive never even crossed my mind.
Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: 70's, books, equality, publishing, womanhood
How do you miss something you never had?
Reaching womanhood in the 1970’s was a confusing time for me. I knew something was not right, just couldn’t quite put my finger on the problem. What was I missing in my life? Most women accepted their lot in life and didn’t complain much about being less a human being than a man. I felt an inner unrest. Although I wasn’t alone in this feeling, most women were content being second-class citizens. Should I have automatically known I was equal to a man? Not in 1970.
Although some in those days would burn their bras and proclaim equal rights, it was usually women who kept their sisters down. The 1970’s opened women’s eyes to the fact they had a right to be equal to men. The idea that women have the same rights as men for sex, money, and power, was still a new concept.
It wasn’t until 1920 women won the right to vote. Passing the 19th amendment was a real battle. It was not easy to get 36 states to vote for the ratification. But, even after getting the right to vote, women did not immediately flock to the voting booths. It was1980 before the number of women voters equaled that of their male counterparts.
In 1960 the FDA approved birth control pills and the woman’s movement really took off. In 1963 Betty Friedan published the Feminine Mystique and Congress passed the Equal Pay Act, making it illegal for employers to pay women less for the same job a male held. I can say that by the early 1980’s equal pay was still not happening, despite the law. My employer told me that my male co-worker made more money because he had a family to support. His family was a wife who did not work, she was a housewife, and they had no children. I resented it, but was not ready to sue for my rights. At that time I was raising two kids and working to make ends meet. I could have used the extra money, but like most women, I didn’t want to make waves. If the same thing happened today the fight would be on.
In 1979 a woman truck driver came into the Denny’s where I was working as a waitress. You could actually hear the buzz from the other waitresses. One comment was “How can a woman drive such a big truck? It isn’t safe.” I asked the other waitress if she ever heard of power steering, and pointed out a local male truck driver who was smaller than this woman driver. She sniffed and walked away. I couldn’t change her mind. Women were not meant for certain jobs, or so it was in her mind.
I can gladly say times they are a changing. It is the younger generation who will make the complete transition of equality between men and women. They can see women who are doctors, lawyers, judges, and other jobs that were once thought of as a man’s job. These children will grow up accepting women as equals to men. That’s as it should be. The world is finally getting it right.
Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: 70's, addicts, adventurous, delinquent, drug addiction, drugs, Monterey, Monterey Peninsula, Psychadelic, rock and roll, young adult
In the 1970’s California was the free spirit of the United States. People came to California to start a new life and throw off old inhibitions. A lot of the newcomers settled in the Los Angeles area. There were some who came with hopes of breaking into the movies, others for job opportunities, and some came just to be part of the in-crowd. There was plenty of money, sun, and parties. There were surfers, bikers, hippies and straights all mixed together in the LA area. LA was a true national melting pot.
The Monterey area was still pretty much made up of small towns. I grew up in Pacific Grove, one of those small towns, and at the age of eight would walk down to the beach by myself to spend the day swimming and climbing the rocks. There was no worry that a child would be abducted back then. It just didn’t seem to happen like it does today. More likely, it is the media attention in the late 1970’s and the 1980’s that brought a nation-wide awareness of missing children. Back in the 1960’s and early 1970’s no one thought anything of a third grader roaming the town unattended.
It was this adventurous lifestyle that gave me the self-assurance needed to take my journeys. Women were still oppressed and expected to stay home and raise a family. I had no interest in growing up to be a housewife. By age 14 I knew that I did not fit in with the lifestyle society wanted for me. Very few women were entrepreneurs, corporate managers, storeowners, CEOs, or held any top managerial positions. I had no real role models to follow, so struck out on my own. Unfortunately I headed in the wrong direction, down into a world of drugs.
In the early 1970’s drugs were readily available to anyone who wanted to partake of them. You could score from a dude who picked you up hitchhiking, or a classmate, or the guy down the street. There was an abundance of bennies, also known as cross tabs. They were little white pills with an X marked on them. The truckers used them to drive long haul, the housewives used them to lose weight, and the musicians used them to make their gigs more enjoyable. You could mix a handful of bennies with a joint and play all night long. Cocaine was prevalent with the rich kids, and bennies were for the po’ folk. Back then Methamphetamine was not quite as popular, mainly because Benzedrine was available in pharmaceutical form.. Although up until 1959 it was an over the counter drug, now it is not even available as a pharmaceutical drug due to the highly addictive and destructive properties.
I didn’t know all that back then, I just liked the way I felt when I took them. I had a boyfriend who was dealing them and I had more than I needed to destroy my life. There was a time that I took more than 30 tabs a day.
Many of you out there have always dreamed of writing a book. Two years ago if you had asked me if I would write a book, I would have laughed at you. And 20 years ago I would have thought you were out of your mind if you said I would start up a newspaper and write a community column. The biggest reason I would have gone through those thoughts is that I never thought of myself as a writer.
Who am I? I have a friend who always calls me a hippie. I tell her “I am not a hippie, I am a biker chick.” It all started years ago when I got my first bike and named him Bluejay. We were the best of friends and went on many adventures through the small town of Grover City, on the west coast of California.
Later in life I progressed to a Harley. I went on a few poker runs, but never attended a love-in. No, I am not a Hippie, nor am I even a Biker anymore.
I have found we can be more than one person, have more than one talent, and wear more than one label. With hard work and perseverance you can be whatever you envision yourself to be. As with anything, the more you do it, the better you become at your craft.
How did I get to be a writer? I got tired of driving in the fog all the way to Fresno everyday to create grocery ads for newspapers, and decided to start up a community newspaper myself. I had worked many years for various newspapers and thought, “Why not have my own newspaper?”
So now I had a new hat. I was a graphic artist, but I was also a publisher with very little money to pay a reporter. I went to events around town and tried my best to convey to the public what went on in the city council meetings, awards ceremonies, and various community events. I found an audience, and they liked what I wrote. It’s a very addictive feeling when you receive good feedback from something you have created, be it a story or a painting.
All I can tell you is that if you want to be a writer, just keep plugging along with your stories and never give up. If you have the desire to be a writer, you are already half way there.
First Trip; Sex, Drugz, and Rock & Roll in the 70’z is about my life growing up on the west coast. I plan to write two more books that will cover the 1980’s, 1990’s and into 2000.
Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: addicts, adventure, adventurous, biker, cannibal, Carmel, delinquent, drug addiction, drugs, hitch-hiking, juvenile, loner, Los Angeles, love, misfit, Monterey, Monterey Peninsula, motorcycles, music, Pacific Grove, preternatural, rebellion, rebellious, rock and roll, runaway, San Francisco, sex, teenager, travel, vision, warlock, young adult, youth in revolt
We turned off the highway onto Palo Colorado Canyon Road, south of Carmel. I pretended to be sleeping, but was completely aware of everything going on around me, due to the copious amounts of Benzedrine pumping through my blood. Tim was chattering at me, but I ignored him.
About a mile or so up the road, he stopped the car at an old shack surrounded by huge redwood trees. I thought about jumping out of the car, but then decided he could easily outrun me. He came around to my side of the car and opened the door, scooping me up effortlessly and carrying me up the short flight of steps into the cabin.
I kept my eyes closed, pretending to be overcome by the drug that was in the joint he had given me. I could hear other excited voices, but did not even try to sneak a peek.
He answered them all with, “Hey guys, I brought dinner home.”
A chill went up my spine. He wasn’t carrying anything but me. He couldn’t be talking about me being dinner, could he? I thought to myself, “Now what the hell am I going to do?”
I had a real sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. I’d never had this kind of trouble before. Maybe a few late nights and the parents to contend with, but nothing like this. He took me into a back room and unceremoniously dropped me down on a cot. He left the room and shut the door. I heard the lock engaged. I lay there wondering what my next move would be. I could hear them moving about and discussing something. I presumed it was a plan of how to do me in. Maybe they were arguing on the way I was to be prepared; I couldn’t hear them well enough to tell. Another shiver went up my spine.
I finally got up and quietly checked the door. It was locked, just as I thought. I couldn’t go out that way anyway. I had to do something. I was not going to just sit there and wait for my fate. Next I checked the window, stuck shut. It was either painted shut or nailed shut. Either way, it wouldn’t open. What the hell was I going to do? If I broke the glass, they would hear and be on to me. I was small, weighing in at about 110 pounds. There was no way I could fight them all off.
Quietly, I moved around the room looking for something that could help me in this dilemma. I found some old shoes and clothes in the closet, but not much else. I turned to the dresser. In one drawer I found an old pocketknife. That definitely would be helpful.
I turned back to the window with the newfound treasure and began prying at the pane. It was old and loose and with a little work I managed to pry out the small triangle shaped metal pieces that were holding the pane in place. I then pried at the pane itself, until it was loose, and I laid it back toward me. I gently and quietly eased the glass to the floor and slide it under the bed. I stopped to listen, alert for any footsteps near the door. I stuck my head out the window looking for sentries, then nimbly jumped out the portal, escaping into the forest. I kept looking back at the cabin, fully expecting to see someone in pursuit. Once out of sight, I hit it at a trot toward the highway. I wasn’t out of the woods yet, but felt much better on the move.
It took about 15 minutes to jog down to Highway One. It was dark by then and traffic was light, only about a car every few minutes. I hiked up the road from the canyon’s turn off before I stuck out my thumb. This was just in case Tim came looking for me. With this small head start I would have a chance to run down to the beach before he could see me.
I was impatient for a ride and felt the need to get as much distance between me and that pack of psychos as I could. The third passing car slowed then stopped. My luck was holding. I could see no lights coming from out of the canyon. Time to celebrate. Maybe the driver had a joint. One could only hope.
I never did tell the authorities about my encounter. Who would’ve believed me? It was OK, though. I later heard they were caught. I found out about it a few days later during a radio news report. A hit and run accident on Highway 1 led to the capture of two of them, and that led to the rest of them taken in and charged with murder. The two in the accident were found with human finger bones in their front shirt pockets. They told the cops that they had been snacking on the fingers. I was just relieved that it wasn’t my fingers they were snacking on.
