1972: The Doors The Temple and The Hormones
Between my freshman and Sophomore year over the summer, there has been BIG changes. Part of those changes has been the hair under my armpits—finally—about time—which means raging hormones have kicked in.
Yeah! UGH!
I think for the regular guys who went through puberty when they were supposed to like Rick Arredondo, who had a mustache in 7th grade, this hormone business might have set in gradually. But to a late-blooming sophomore like me was as subtle as a tsunami tidal wave of sexual awareness.
I read somewhere that guys think about sex every seven seconds—that might be the stat-line for those regular guys who have had time for this thing to settle down a bit. For me, however, it was like EVERY SECOND. I was in trouble; every thought was about girls.
Too much information right!
Regardless of what was going on below the belt and everything that was happening down there I was still VERY MUCH interested in finding out what this “love thing” was all about. I hoped that this hormone flood and "lust business" would not derail this sacred quest.
I want to know what real love is all about. I want to feel it—experience it and finally be able to grasp the meaning of what it means to be loved.
BUT, I almost did not get the chance to find out because of the DEATH RIDE down Tuna Canyon Road earlier this morning. It all began with a fundraiser yesterday at Saint Monica’s and a group hike we took last night to the mysterious Moon Fire Temple –something hippie in origin that could rival the Dahlin house and anything in Venice.
Mary and Theresa Blaser and Theresa McCarthy and Mimi Lennon and Debi Gas were now followers in our social-media-site in the Water Polo corner of the school lot that we controlled.
This new “Street-Cred” had given us more status and power to rule the roost—veloci-rooster-status. We were cool. We had a following. We wore Speedos, had shiny hair from chlorine and reigned supreme on the bench by the music room.
Yesterday, Michael Moore, the big brother of my water polo buddy, James, brought a 55 Ford and parked it in the center of the lot along with a giant 50-pound sled hammer. As one of the school fundraisers, he charged twenty-five-cents-a-swing to destroy the car. Bob Rooke must have had a couple bucks—he smashed windows and took it upon himself to crush the front end of the sad dying beast as if slaying a dragon itself.
He did it mainly for the girls—damsels in distress! Heck yeah. Hello, hormones—I get it.
SEVEN SECONDS.
Well, we decided that for our fundraising project, we would sponsor tricycle races.
This turned out to be more popular than smashing the car. After the first couple rounds of true competition, girls decided they wanted in on the fun. Girls sat on the trikes while the boys pushed them around the small-orange-coned obstacle course. Boy and girls touching each other—oh yeah. Need I say more?
Anyway, we had all of these tricycles we had amassed from the greater Santa Monica and Palisades area that we had to return.
Our water polo team recruited our new coach, Palma, and in true Dahlin-Wolf-Pack fashion we invited our new groupies to join us in a dangerous midnight hike to the eye of the Moon-Fire Temple. More girls increased the chances and the odds of budding romantic interest and thoughts of well—you know—hormones and the seven-second rule.
This turned out to be like the hikes my brothers used to take to the Albino Camp to scare their girlfriends so they would run into the “strong, protecting arms of the brave boys” who were kept them safe by holding them tight.
Uh-huh! Right?
You know what the boys were thinking about EVERY SEVEN SECONDS.
The staging area was the Moore house at the end of Bainum Drive in Topanga. They had just put in a huge built-in pool with a bubble over the top that stayed up with air pressure from a giant air pump. It was kind of cool, but I knew in the wrong hands if someone from Venice (like a Dahlin) were to pull electrical cord it could spell disaster—suffocation and murder. Nervously, I looked around for any of my people who might be suspiciously hovering around the outlet before I decided to enter the bubble. My older brother, Tony, wasn’t there so I didn’t have to worry about electrocution.
About midnight we drove up Tuna Canyon Road towards the top of the mountain range where it intersected Saddle Peak Road. We turned off our lights and rolled quietly onto a dirt road and ditched the cars. There was a big locked gate that we had to climb around to get in.
The moon was only half-full. This gave us enough light to see the path in front of us and also made it dark enough for this clandestine operation.
We heard footsteps approaching that scared the beegebees out of all of us. We took some minor injuries by jumping off the road. Boys and girls huddled together—this part was good—seven seconds, remember? But we could not see the security guards armed with machine guns who were slowly moving along the path searching out intruders. Some alcohol and other herbs were involved, and though hunted, giggles still prevailed.
Sheeze Louise. We were goners.
The armed security guards turned out to be two curious llamas. As we walked along the windy ridge road towards the Moon Fire Temple, James Moore told us the story behind, Lewis Beach Marvin III, the eccentric who built the place and the animals he had brought in – like llamas and camels and “Lions and tigers and bears—Oh my!”
James knows everything. Even though some people believe that the Temple was built for the 1966 movie called Harper, starring Paul Newman and Lauren Bacall, he said that wasn’t true.
He said, Mr. Marvin, the heir to the S&H Green Stamps fortune built the place. James said that this Marvin person had a bunch of artsy-type friends and musicians who came and performed there—like The Doors, Van Morrison, George Harrison, and Janis Joplin.
Coming around the ridge we saw the round temple and quietly stepped onto marble flooring with the round moat that had a giant fire-pit inside in the shape of eye. The top was open to the sky and we could feel the eclectic vibes of the hippie ranch and the eerie feeling of crossing paths with the likes of the Charles Manson cult.
Whispers grew. Giggles and wonder abounded. Shushing from the “shushing-police” died. We spun, taking in the 360-degree view from the top of the Santa Monica mountains. We jumped back and forth across the dry moat and explored some of the abandoned side rooms as budding romantic-relationships bloomed.
I had my eyes on a couple girls, but I struck out—dang that seven-seconds.
This would become the first of many trips to Moon Fire or "The Temple in the Clouds."
On the way out we heard the llamas approaching and walked boldly towards them until we saw the oncoming lights of two jeeps that must have had key access to the large front gates.
Back into bushes.
Quiet this time. The threat was real. Apocalypse pending, we crawled through the rugged chaparral and prickly manzanita bushes. We made it to the cars and escaped.
Hours later, Palma and the girls and the groupies and the casual followers left the Moore’s house that left a small group of us water polo guys who spent the night, for the even more dangerous frivolities that followed the next day.
DON’T!
Please don’t, ever allow stupid guys with tricycles loose on the top of steep mountain roads. Trust me it only spells disaster.
NEXT TIME.
Death on Tuna Canyon Road.
Oops another second. hehe
Girls at Saint Monica's credit: Mark Mullineaux Facebook Post
Harper Movie Poster credit: http://www.impawards.com/1966/harper_xlg.html
Moon Fire on side of cliff overlooking ocean credit: https://www.flickr.com/photos/30369681@N03/9317732954/in/album-72157634692817677/
Moon Fire pics Credit: Wall Street Journal “A Cosmic Crash Pad” http://www.wsj.com/articles/SB10001424127887324705104578147121874414006
Charles Manson credit: http://history1900s.about.com/od/1960s/p/charlesmanson.htm
S&H Green Stamps credit: http://myauctionfinds.com/2010/06/09/licking-and-gluing-s-h-green-stamps/
