That Seventies vibe

San Diego covens, the More House commune in Rancho Santa Fe, whither the San Diego peace movement, pyramid selling, radical chic in La Jolla

Author

By Various Authors

Publish Date

Aug. 28, 2016

"Most of the Democrats were expecting to lose but no by so much."

One of the people on Force's list was a woman in La Jolla who “owns half of Ocean Beach,” he said. She was hesitant, didn't want her name used, but said that witchcraft is her religion – she practices by herself. (PaulFleet/iStock/Thinkstock)

Eye of Newt, Toe of Frog

San Diego covens.

Force claimed he had played a role, witchwise, in the indictment of San Diego's former Mayor Curran and his staff, in the Yellow Cab scandal.

By Connie Bruck, November 1, 1973 | Read full article

There are about fifty More Houses in the country, divided into classes “A” and “B." Directors, those who have risen in the hierarchy, live in “A-Houses," such as this Spanish mansion in Rancho Santa Fe. “B-houses” are in the city and open to serve the public. “We have a B-house in National City.” (Lucian Pillow)

Following the Yellow Brick Road

North County commune

Whither the San Diego Peace Movement?

Six different people handed me six different pieces of political literature as I walked up the steps to the building. The people from the Servicemen's Center, sitting at a table piled high with bumper stickers and leaflets pointed across the lobby to a student member of the local movement. The student, an oriental with longish hair and glasses, explained that his group used to be called Stop the San Diego State Railroad, and that it originated around the Peter Bochmer firing controversy at State. ("San Diego State is like a railroad, throwing people off the track.") "The Railroad group has about 30 hard-core members, but it should get bigger as the school year goes on. The McGovern people will be looking for something to do."

Nov. 9, 1972 | Read full article

Mood on Campus

"People I talked to thought Nixon had used the peace treaty as a gimmick to win the election. They saw the war dragging on another four years." (Meyer/Schoepfer)

"I just said I hope 19 — marijuana — passes."

"Yeah, I do too. But I don't think it stands a chance."

"I'd rather have it win than McGovern."

"Well, I'd rather have it win in California than McGovern, if McGovern's going to lose nationally.... Thing is if Nixon wins, we're all going to need marijuana for the next four years."

By John Martin, Nov. 23, 1972 | Read full article

Pyramid of Soap

So this was pyramid selling: recruiting other people to recruit other people to recruit other people to sell. It seemed as though Bestline's approach could more properly be called pyramid selling than Amway's. Bestline kept playing down the fact that eventually, someone was going to have to sell the product.

By John Milton, Feb. 1, 1973 | Read full article

My aunt was a friend of D.H. Lawrence and his wife, Frieda. They talked my father into going there instead of Paris. We got in an ol’ Chevy and drove to La Jolla first. We lived on the corner of Hillside and Soledad for $25 a month.

Goodbye Radical Chic

The first time I saw B.B. (BeBe) was 1967; she was in a white corduroy jockey suit and cap. She reminded me of a 90-pound white rat on speed. Later at an after-the-play party for Theatre Five in Pacific Beach, Bob Glaudini, the director, threw her over his shoulder and carried her from the theater screaming, "You're all fascists, you live off the rich." I looked to check the response of her husband, San Diego Superior Court judge Roger S. Ruffin....there was none. A few years ago, Warhol put her in his film shot on the beach at La Jolla.

By Winifred, Nov 13, 1975 | Read full article

There was talk of starting a commune, purchasing a mansion at Sunset Cliffs. Instead our mother moved us to an apartment on University, near 55th. Our apartment filled up with macramé hangers our mother made, incense, candles on brick-and-board shelves.

Peace Be Still

A daughter remembers her hippie mom.

I am late to the first Gulf War protest, the one before the war officially starts. It's dusk, and as I cross Broadway and pass the hollow pillars of the Federal building, there is already the rhythmic thumping of somebody's African drum, backed by a thick echo of cheering. I come around the corner onto dark, milling hundreds, a harassed-sounding voice ringing through a PA system. The air has cooled and smells of incense. A girl twirls in circles, then skips off through the crowd, shaking a tambourine.

By Kathy Miller, April 18, 1991 | Read full article