By LP Hastings
By Michael Goldstein
By R. Scott Moxley
By Gustavo Arellano
By Gustavo Arellano
By Matt Coker
By Nick Schou
By Bethania Palma Markus
The upscale crowd that gathered at Costa Mesa's Aire Global Cuisine on April 16 for the Newport Beach Film Festival Director's Dinner were well-prepared to mingle, network and, most of all, take advantage of the restaurant's generous open bar. What they probably weren't prepared for was the onscreen unveiling of Orange County's secret history as the nation's onetime epicenter for LSD.
But for 10 minutes, diners got an exclusive glimpse of their county's trippy past when director William A. Kirkley presented a trailer for his upcoming documentary Orange Sunshine, the true story of Orange County's Brotherhood of Eternal Love, also known as the Hippie Mafia. The movie depicts the unbelievable rise and fall of Timothy Leary's legendary cult—which started as a group of Laguna Beach surfers and quickly became the world's largest acid, hash and marijuana distribution network.
The group's headquarters, a Laguna Beach head shop called Mystic Arts World, mysteriously burned down in 1970, and two years later, law enforcement indicted several dozen members of the group. Those who weren't arrested fled overseas. The story of the Brotherhood is one of the strangest chapters of American counter-cultural history, yet 40 years after its inception during the so-called Summer of Love, it's one that remains little-understood and, outside the confines of Laguna Canyon, all but unknown.
That fact isn't completely coincidental. Many people associated with the Brotherhood continue to live underground, believing they could end up in jail if authorities learn their true identities. Several members of the group lived under assumed names until the mid-1990s, when they were finally tracked down and arrested. Meanwhile, other people who weren't really in the Brotherhood have made a career out of hyping a self-proclaimed connection.
As one former member—who spoke on the condition of anonymity—told me, "If you remember it, you weren't there."
Fortunately, enough people who were really there and who do remember what happened are now helping Kirkley tell the tale. The film's title comes from the name of the orange-colored acid tabs the Brotherhood printed up by the thousand in Laguna Canyon and then distributed to Grateful Dead shows and communes around the country in their effort to fuel the nation's psychedelic revolution, which they hoped would eventually lead to a nationwide spiritual awakening.
Kirkley, 28, grew up in Newport Beach before moving to New York, where he filmed his first documentary, Excavating Taylor Mead, a lost-and-found profile of Andy Warhol's first superstar, whom Kirkley met at a restaurant in New York's Lower East Side and originally mistook for a homeless person. The movie debuted at the 2005 Tribeca Film Festival as a nominee for best documentary; it then screened in London, Italy, Philadelphia and Boston.
After finishing that film, Kirkley returned to California and began searching for a new project. His father-in-law, a former Laguna Beach resident who had peripheral involvement with the Brotherhood, told him about this crazy band of surfer hippies in Laguna Canyon who once tried to sell enough acid to buy an island where Timothy Leary would reign as a demigod. Then—shameless self-promotion alert—Kirkley read my Weekly feature story about the Brotherhood ("Lords of Acid," July 8, 2005), and he was hooked.
"I couldn't believe that OC had this kind of hidden past, this secret history you would never expect in such a conservative place," Kirkley says.
How Kirkley came to be the first filmmaker to explore the story of the Brotherhood is a story almost as surprising as that of the Brotherhood itself. As a child of divorced parents in Newport Beach, Kirkley rebelled against what he saw as the meaningless conformity of Orange County. He shaved his head, leaving only an anarchist-style spiked Mohawk. He skipped classes to skateboard around town. The first time he ran away from home was during his freshman year in high school.
"A girl I knew had a car," Kirkley recalls. "I told her I was going to Seattle and asked if she wanted to go with me. We drove all the way up there and spent the last of our money at Denny's for a meal. Then we fell asleep in our car and were woken up by a police officer." The cop put Kirkley back on a bus to Orange County. But he ran away again two years later, when he was 16 years old. He hitchhiked his way to San Francisco and fell in with a group of fellow runaways.
"It didn't last long," Kirkley says. "I realized it was just a bunch of frat boys who shaved their heads into Mohawks because they didn't get a Range Rover for their birthday. One day, I was sitting around, smoking pot with all these people, and I just see all these kids becoming the future bums of America, the future homeless. I had way too much to do with my life. I had always known I wanted to be a filmmaker, and if I stayed in that scene, I would never reach that goal."
After a year in the Bay Area, Kirkley moved to the Los Angeles neighborhood of Echo Park. He hung out in coffee shops and told local bands he was a music-video director, did a few shoots for free, signed up with an agent, and began working on a film script. "It was a hitman-genre script, a romantic dark comedy called Cigarettes for Breakfast," Kirkley says. "I started going to parties and meeting all these people and being introduced as the next big writer." The agent landed a $50,000 option deal but told Kirkley to wait for something better—nothing ever came of the project.
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