“The Tiny Surfer Turn-Ons”
by Bob Garcia
All hail the Tiny Turn On!
The Tiny Turn On is usually between the ages of 10 and 13 and is most in evidence in the private beach communities where he can smoke pot with relative impunity on the deserted sands at night under a beach house (“the stilted ones where you can get way back there underneath”) during the day or sometimes right on his beach front porch staring at the sea and giggling at “square” sand strollers as they pass by with clinking martini mugs giggling hack at that “cute little kid” on the porch with freckles.
Meanwhile that giggling little Tiny Turn On is usually saying, “Fuck you baby,” in spasmodic giggles as be cups his little thin joint and passes it over to another kid in Hang Tens who is about 10 years old. They are not inexperienced at taking a hit and they hold the smoke quite well between giggles, and punching one another’s shoulders, for you see the joke is on the world baby.
The Tiny Turn On, in this case, is a kid named “Markey,” who is 12 years old, a surfer, skateboard champ, attends one of the most exclusive of private schools in Malibu and lives on that romantic, stuffed street called Old Malibu Colony road.
Markey specializes in jumping from house roof to house roof while stoned and peeping at the nocturnal goings-on through sea-air smudged sky lights. He’s been caught five times, but when you’re high—it’s all a kick!
Markey’s parents are in TV production and consequently are away most of the time. They drink. Markey is usually left in care of his aunt, who doesn’t drink, but thinks that children who do are “nasty.” She is very careful and measures all the liquor bottles in the house when Markey comes in giggling with tears in his eyes three nights a week. She doesn’t understand that he’s stoned, but it really doesn’t matter. She thinks marijuana is something that Amazon Indians put on the end of poisoned-tipped arrows.
Markey runs with a gang of boys and girls ranging in age from 10 to 18. They all turn on—either to pot or Red Mountain, or if they can’t get ahold of either they zig-zag with hydrangea, bananas, ivy, peppers (rotten ones that have been hollowed out, natch), regular crab grass, tea from tea bags, and, even on occasion, dried seagull shit because someone jokingly told them that seagulls eat all types of plants, and when mixed together in their stomachs and fermented in said feathery pouch comes out in shit form with a peculiarly hallucinogenic quality.
Markey, being a member of the surfing cult, is no stranger to the more bona-fide stimulant/depressants and has tried grass, hashish and even opium. LSD is still unknown to him—but it will not be far long, he states. “Walt till next week.”
In a beach community there are no age barriers between groups, and when a 19-year-old sits out on his board waiting for a wave surrounded by the 10-12-year-olds—he usually doesn’t avoid them. They live on the same beach.
So, a 10 or 12-year-old who is a good surfer, and friendly and polite out in the water, is usually considered a “bitching” guy on land to the older turn-ons, So what does it matter that he’s underage when be wanders into a beach pad where everybody is turning on? He’s “bitchin” and that’s that. Turn him on. What’s the difference as long as he doesn’t get flipped out? Then you can always throw him in the water or claim that he’d been sniping at your bottle of Red Mountain. Parents, especially beach parents, always smile somewhat longingly when little Johnny comes in pluperfectly drunk, so they think.
Markey is also the veteran of many surfing trips up to the Ranch and beyond, and also way down South. Usually these jaunts are made in a VW bus or something like that. Obviously the kids that drive the bus are of license age and if they are worth their salt, they turn on baby. Why shouldn’t they? It’s very nice soul surfing while stoned. After all, all the big, good guys always ride Sunset or Waimea in the Islands on acid—“That’s a mind blower,” says Markey. Well, the drives are long, and the back of a VW bus or a Ford van offers a great hiding place for smoking the old weed. Markey’s first surfing trip with the older guys was at the age of nine—and they offered to turn him on.
But at that time he just didn’t like cigarettes. He couldn’t inhale, and the smoke choked him. Eventually, at the age of 10, he made another try at the marijuana bit—this time in a dainty little pipe, something he could better understand and hold, and not get grass ends in his mouth. It didn’t work driving up, but it sure as hell did coming home. He was high for three hours on a mixture of grass and hash.
Today when high school kids in the know are trying to score grass or bennies or speed, and the heat is on their school dealers, they know where to go—to the local junior high school. That’s where it’s at.
While Paul Paranoid is doing his dope shuffle—dealing on the Strip, the Boulevard, or the Santa Monica Pier, little Johnny Turn On is dealing in the back of the little yellow school bus on his way to morning session along Pacific Coast Highway. All the little girls surrounding him are giggling as he offers 10 rolled joints to Markey for his big friend on the beach. Some of the cigarettes have mustard on them from his ham sandwich.
There are lots of female Tiny-Turn-Ons, says Markey, “and boy do they get screwed up.” The usual procedure for sexual experimentation on Markey’s street is to start fast with a mixture of Red Mountain and Bubble-Up mixed in Bubble-Up bottles. This batch is usually mixed in the bathroom of one of the kids’ houses.
Next the semi-loaded kids trip on down to a little club which they have made in the back of Jeff’s dad’s garage. The club consists of four mattresses and a couple of Laurel and Hardy posters. The joints are then unrolled and the girls (ages 13-15), who are also on the Red Mountain kick, start in puffing joints. These are fat Bombers. They cough, spit out lots of smoke, but eventually start swearing that they’re high.
Of course the facts are that they have swilled down a half a bottle of Red Mountain, and the lack of air in a small room crammed with 10 bodies and the expectation highs which are just starting are forgotten as bona-fide reasons for their infantile highs.
Soon male Tiny-Turn-On hands reach for female Tiny-Turn-On breasts. Little dry lays are going on on mattresses under the smiling faces of Laurel and Hardy.
A transistor radio is brought out to blast away behind little orgasm spasms shaking Tiny-Turn-On bodies. The little transistor radio tinnily reproduces “Light My Fire,” as female Tiny-Turn-On No. 2 starts to vomit. She’s ruined her clothes, but she’s told mama she’s sleeping over at Ginny’s house and mama trusts her.
Markey leads her outside. Both of them are semi-stoned on booze and pot. Markey tries to press against her, but she’s crying now. Markey pushes her away, and decides to go for a midnight paddle. He runs along the beach to his home and gets his board from under the porch. He quickly gets out of his Levi’s and slips on a pair of authentic Roy’s Cabana trunks. His head is starting to clear, and be realizes that it’s only Friday night. There’s a whole weekend ahead. And tomorrow Jim is bringing over his water pipe, loaded with Red Mountain and grass. Grass filtered through Red Mountain, Markey says, is a real mind blower.
