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Authors: Michael Douglas, John Parker
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clouds from good-quality marijuana,
some of which he cultivated in Kirk’s backyard until his father discovered it and banned this enterprising cottage industry.
Kirk was not particularly averse to drugs himself. He had smoked marijuana for years and snorted cocaine on occasions, but
could not risk having his two eldest sons hauled up before the local judge for what was still an offence likely to be punished
by a prison sentence.
Virtually from his return to Santa Barbara, Michael Douglas fell into the mould of 1960s West Coast youth – if you remembered
it, you weren’t in it. And he was most definitely in it. Jack Nicholson, then a struggling young actor doing Roger Corman
quickies, succinctly summed up the times: ‘We all listened to Dylan’s
The Times They Are A-Changin’
and
Mr Tambourine Man
and analysed the words. We argued about the meanings and drew our own conclusions, but it didn’t matter what it meant because
everyone was so stoned they couldn’t remember the words, anyway. That was it, babe. I mean, this was the scene we were all
at, to use the then terminology. And it was terrific. Terrific.’
In April 1966 Kirk and Anne were off on their travels abroad, for a goodwill tour of Eastern Europe. By then, the hippie movement
centred on San Francisco was in full swing. Commentators spoke with alarm about the march of freedom and said the youth of
America appeared to be abandoning traditional values to embark on journeys into the unknown by way of pot, LSD and magic mushrooms.
There was great discussion at the time about the upsurge in drugs. Major literary and showbusiness figures on both sides
of the Atlantic supported the legalisation of pot, and at the famousHuman Be-In at Golden Gate Park in San Francisco, Allen Ginsberg, now converted to Buddhism, blew on his conch shell and declared
that every person over the age of fourteen should try LSD at least once. Flower power, psychedelia, free love, make love not
war …
At the time, Michael agreed.
Communes and group living – and loving – were all the rage, and Michael found himself drawn to them. In that spring of 1966
he moved into a counter-culture colony which had settled in a group of old buildings in an area known as Mountain Drive, a
secluded spot on Banana Road, high in the hills of Santa Barbara.
‘There were, I suppose, between 100 and 150 of us at any one time,’ recalled screen writer David Garsite, one of the former
inmates, interviewed in 1994 when he was in his fifties, on his fourth wife and doing ‘this and that’ in Las Vegas. ‘The age-group
was pretty diverse, from college kids – which I was – to fortysomethings who had dropped out. That was the thing then, of
course, and we lounged around playing Dylan and Beach Boys and Rolling Stones. We were of the “smile on your brother” brigade
– you know, from the Jefferson Airplane hit. We never cut our hair, grew straggly beards and the girls walked about topless.
I have this vision of Michael Douglas in torn jeans and velour shirt – you could tell he was Kirk’s son even then – flashing
around on his big motor cycle, with his long hair trailing in the wind, and a blonde with the most fulsome bosoms you ever
saw riding behind him. We grew our own pot and imported some, especially the fine Mexican grass, when wecould afford it. There was LSD in abundance and a pot of mescaline on the stove. We freaked out and had nightmares about our
pricks being cut off, that kind of stuff. It was like a scene from some Roman or Greek epic, acted out in modernity. We used
to lie around naked, swim in our pool, which was more like a swamp, tread grapes to make our own wine, put on our own plays
and talk abut Vietnam, the draft and civil rights. There was an abundance of casual sex, and a few children were born as a
result, which in hindsight was pretty irresponsible. But generally we did nobody any harm and the only racket was the
some of which he cultivated in Kirk’s backyard until his father discovered it and banned this enterprising cottage industry.
Kirk was not particularly averse to drugs himself. He had smoked marijuana for years and snorted cocaine on occasions, but
could not risk having his two eldest sons hauled up before the local judge for what was still an offence likely to be punished
by a prison sentence.
Virtually from his return to Santa Barbara, Michael Douglas fell into the mould of 1960s West Coast youth – if you remembered
it, you weren’t in it. And he was most definitely in it. Jack Nicholson, then a struggling young actor doing Roger Corman
quickies, succinctly summed up the times: ‘We all listened to Dylan’s
The Times They Are A-Changin’
and
Mr Tambourine Man
and analysed the words. We argued about the meanings and drew our own conclusions, but it didn’t matter what it meant because
everyone was so stoned they couldn’t remember the words, anyway. That was it, babe. I mean, this was the scene we were all
at, to use the then terminology. And it was terrific. Terrific.’
In April 1966 Kirk and Anne were off on their travels abroad, for a goodwill tour of Eastern Europe. By then, the hippie movement
centred on San Francisco was in full swing. Commentators spoke with alarm about the march of freedom and said the youth of
America appeared to be abandoning traditional values to embark on journeys into the unknown by way of pot, LSD and magic mushrooms.
There was great discussion at the time about the upsurge in drugs. Major literary and showbusiness figures on both sides
of the Atlantic supported the legalisation of pot, and at the famousHuman Be-In at Golden Gate Park in San Francisco, Allen Ginsberg, now converted to Buddhism, blew on his conch shell and declared
that every person over the age of fourteen should try LSD at least once. Flower power, psychedelia, free love, make love not
war …
At the time, Michael agreed.
Communes and group living – and loving – were all the rage, and Michael found himself drawn to them. In that spring of 1966
he moved into a counter-culture colony which had settled in a group of old buildings in an area known as Mountain Drive, a
secluded spot on Banana Road, high in the hills of Santa Barbara.
‘There were, I suppose, between 100 and 150 of us at any one time,’ recalled screen writer David Garsite, one of the former
inmates, interviewed in 1994 when he was in his fifties, on his fourth wife and doing ‘this and that’ in Las Vegas. ‘The age-group
was pretty diverse, from college kids – which I was – to fortysomethings who had dropped out. That was the thing then, of
course, and we lounged around playing Dylan and Beach Boys and Rolling Stones. We were of the “smile on your brother” brigade
– you know, from the Jefferson Airplane hit. We never cut our hair, grew straggly beards and the girls walked about topless.
I have this vision of Michael Douglas in torn jeans and velour shirt – you could tell he was Kirk’s son even then – flashing
around on his big motor cycle, with his long hair trailing in the wind, and a blonde with the most fulsome bosoms you ever
saw riding behind him. We grew our own pot and imported some, especially the fine Mexican grass, when wecould afford it. There was LSD in abundance and a pot of mescaline on the stove. We freaked out and had nightmares about our
pricks being cut off, that kind of stuff. It was like a scene from some Roman or Greek epic, acted out in modernity. We used
to lie around naked, swim in our pool, which was more like a swamp, tread grapes to make our own wine, put on our own plays
and talk abut Vietnam, the draft and civil rights. There was an abundance of casual sex, and a few children were born as a
result, which in hindsight was pretty irresponsible. But generally we did nobody any harm and the only racket was the
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