Part Two


Ginny Good, A Mostly True Story:

Read and/or Watch

After you write your book, get an agent and get it published, then (if your agent didn't sell it to some big, bullshit publisher with a heavy-duty hype department, in which case you do whatever dumb-ass thing they tell you to do), you have to somehow get someone to read the sucker...and review it. That's close to impossible. The pages with this notification have thousands of media boys and girls listed, one of whom may hype your book. They have to justify their existence somehow, right? G.

July 3, 2023

"On or before July 14, 2023" the host of my website is bagging it for lots of exquisite reasons. So am I. You can see the last 20 years or so here: (stick in the box).

They're getting rid of my email address, too. Use this:

If you want to read my written stuff, click this:

If you want to see or listen to my video/audio books, click these or this and look around:

If you want to know how to write, click this:

Thanks. G.

Gerard Jones

Part One

Part Three


San Francisco Chronicle
901 Mission Street
San Francisco, CA 94103

She might have been the first hippie, but Ginny drew the line at not shaving her armpits. Part of being the definitive hippie chick was not doing the things all the other hippie chicks did — and she had the most perfect armpits ever. Strong arms. Muscular shoulders. When she stretched her arms over her head, the veins in her armpits showed up like veins in leaves. She was beautiful — vital, alive. She was just a regular chick, too. She got her feelings hurt and had sibling rivalries and liked to drink coffee and read the pink section in The Chronicle and go to movies. She wanted to make something of herself. She wanted to have kids, to get a house, to cook, to sew, to plant vegetables, to sing in a choir, to sit on a porch swing somewhere and watch the sun go down. She wanted to make something of me. She wanted to get me rich and famous and educated so we could do all those things with each other. I didn't get rich. I didn't get famous. I didn't get educated. We didn't do those things with each other. We did other things, different things.

Emilio Garcia-Ruiz, Editor in Chief

Mariecar Mendoza

Kurtis Alexander

Noah Arroyo

Jose Bastidas

Nuala Bishari

Tony Bravo

Demian Bulwa

Michael Cabanatuan

Megan Cassidy

Caron Creighton

J.K. Dineen

Chase DiFeliciantonio

Cynthia Dizikes

Tara Duggan

Bob Egelko

Jason Fagone

Joe Garofoli

Michael Gray

Peter Hartlaub

Lauren Hernandez

Lily Janiak

Julie Johnson

Zeba Khan

Joshua Kosman

Ryan Kost

Mick LaSalle

Cecilia Lei

Harry Mok

Robert Morast

Shwanike Narayan

Rich Pestorich

Justin Phillips

Rachel Swan

Aidin Vaziri

Deborah Wandell

Guy Wathen

Laura Wenus

Sam Whiting

Mozes Zarate

SF Gate
901 Mission Street
San Francisco, CA 94103

Then it was the summer of 1967, "The Summer of Love." Scott McKenzie sang his dork song about how everybody ought to go to San Francisco and wear some fucking flowers in their hair. It was far out. It was groovy. It was over. Then it was early October, the Fall of Love. All the hippies gave Haight Street a funeral and Ginny got her ass thrown in jail. The guards squirted mace in her face. The skin peeled away from around her eyes. She looked like a raccoon.

It all started out innocently enough. The three of us—Kirk, the preacher from Thulin's wedding, Ginny and I—were on our way home after a rock concert at Speedway Meadows. Ginny and Kirk were drinking champagne. It was on the verge of the Christmas craziness again. I was a little fed up. Officer Garrens was the cop who arrested her. He was a notorious asshole—The Oracle and The Berkeley Barb wrote articles about what a notorious asshole Officer Garrens was. I'm getting ahead of myself again, however—as is my wont. I'll start from the beginning.

Gabe Chavez

Grant Marek, Editor

Katie Dowd, Managing Editor

Andrew Chamings

Fiona Lee

Amy Graff

Joshua Bote

Cat Ferguson, Features

Tessa McLean

Alex Shultz

Dan Gentile, Culture

Eric Ting

Julie Brown

Ashley Harrell

Julie Tremaine

Christine Hitt

Andrew Pridgen

Amanda Bartlett

Ariana Bindman

Cole Chapman

Greg Keraghosian

David Curran

Matthew Tom

Gabriel Lehman

Los Angeles Times
2300 E. Imperial Highway
El Segundo, CA 90245

The day after our disastrous trip to see "The Snow Queen," I got the hell out of the house in Pacifica and hitchhiked down along the coast highway until I came to the California I'd had in mind back in Michigan. It started just past Malibu. I didn't have any money. I ate food out of garbage cans, slept on beaches and feasted my eyes on sun-bleached blond girls in bikini bathing suits from dawn to dusk—until having no money and a third-degree sunburn had me heading back up toward Pacifica again. That was when I got the job on that yacht I was talking about.

Patrick Soon-Shiong, Executive Chairman

Chris Argentieri, President

Glenn Nano, SVP

Kevin Merida, Executive Editor

Shani Hilton

Scott Kraft, Managing Editor

Shelby Grad

Amy King

Julia Turner, Entertainment

Angel Jennings, Culture

Craig Nakano, Arts

Terry Tang, Editorial

Mariel Garza

Sara Yasin

Vanessa Franko

John Leicester

David Viramontes

Amy Wong

Leslie Cory

Maneeza Iqbal

Marisa Martinez

Christopher Price

Jazmín Aguilera

Kinsee Morlan

Kasia Broussalian

Denise Guerra

Shannon Lin

Faith E. Pinho

Ben Muessig

Jeff Bercovici

Michael Hiltzik

Hector Becerra

Stephanie Chavez

Anita Chabria

Erika D. Smith

Marisa Gerber

Christopher Goffard

Joel Rubin

Teresa Watanabe

Jessica Garrison

Cary Schneider

Kerry Cavanaugh

Tony Barboza

Robert Greene

Carla Hall

Karin Klein

Laurel Rosenhall

Paul Thornton

Susan Brenneman

Robin Abcarian

Jonah Goldberg

Nicholas Goldberg

LZ Granderson

Jean Guerrero

Harry Litman

Elena Howe

Paula Mejía

Boris Kachka, Books

Geoff Berkshire

Kevin Crust

Craig Marks

Christopher Knight

Mary McNamara

Amy Kaufman

Glenn Whipp

Todd Martens

Justin Chang

Mikael Wood

Lorraine Ali

Robert Lloyd

Jessica Gelt

Deborah Vankin

Dorany Pineda

Meg James

Wendy Lee

Stacy Perman

Daniel Hernandez

Matt Pearce

Michael Ordoña

Sonaiya Kelley

Jen Yamato

Jevon Phillips

Ian F. Blair

Julissa James

Dave Schilling

Brittany Levine Beckman

Marques Harper

Michelle Woo

Adam Tschorn

Lisa Boone

Jeanette Marantos

Mary Forgione

Lora Victorio

Scott Sandell

James Angius

Brittany Hite

Lilly Nguyen

Mary Ann Meek

John McCutchen

Lisa McRee

Jeffrey Fleishman

Emily Baumgaertner

The San Diego Union-Tribune
600 B Street, Ste. 1201
San Diego, CA 92101

Virginia Dixon Good was born on March 5, 1941. She spent her childhood in one or another of those sleepy little seaside communities down along the Southern California coast, north of San Diego. Her mother was too busy for kids. She had three daughters. Ginny was her second daughter. Sandy was her third. I forget the first daughter's name. I can't remember Ginny's mother's name, either. I might've blanked it out. Her father's name was George. George F. Good. I never knew what the "F." stood for. There were so many things I never knew. Ginny's mother couldn't have said for sure why she'd even had kids except that having kids was what one did. Kids were annoying. She couldn't understand what the hell they were talking about, for one thing. She didn't know what the Salvadoran maid was jabbering about half the time either, but at least the maid understood what she was saying: "Rosalie! God damn it! If I find one more grain of sand in this kitchen, I'm going to kill you! Do you understand?"

Jeff Light, Publisher and Editor

Lora Cicalo, Managing Editor

Matthew T. Hall, Editorial Director

Fiona Leung, Events

Lilia O'Hara

Phyllis Pfeiffer

Beto Alvarez

Dan Beucke

Abby Hamblin

Sam Hodgson

Diana McCabe

Michael Rocha, Arts & Entertainment

Shannon Lopez

Laura Castaneda

Chris Reed

Kristy Totten

Mike Freeman

Lori Weisberg

Kristina Davis

Gary Robbins

John Wilkens, Books

Diane Bell, Columnist

Lisa Deaderick, Columnist

Karla Peterson

George Varga, Music

Pam Kragen

John Kelley

Richard Lederer

The Sacramento Bee
1601 Alhambra Blvd., Ste. 100
Sacramento, CA 95816

It's hot in Sacramento in the summer. Even at night. You don't need blankets. You don't need clothes. Even a sheet's too much. The two of them were lying in her big bed with no clothes on. It was like Nashville Skyline, like Lay Lady Lay. The window was open. There were a few candles burning on the windowsill. There wasn't any breeze. The flames didn't flicker. They flared up when the wax overflowed and left a new piece of the wick exposed, but the flames didn't waver. The guy was propped up in a pile of pillows pushed against the wall. His arm was under Melanie's head. Her face was nuzzled into the side of his neck. Her hand was lying limply on his chest. His clothes were hung neatly over the arm of the couch. Melanie's white nightgown and the black panties with bunches of cherries on them were on the floor.

I took off my clothes and got into bed with them. I don't know what the hell I was thinking. Maybe I was thinking, hey, Melanie had tried things my way, the least I could do was to try things her way. Her way was that she wanted to be with this guy. Okay. That was all right. I'd just go ahead and be with the son of a bitch, too. I couldn't imagine that she didn't want to be with me, period. I couldn't imagine that she only wanted to be with this guy. I was deluded. Her way was that she didn't want me there. I refused to believe it. She was absolutely in love with me and always had been and always would be. She couldn't help herself. Why the hell else would she have been killing herself all that time? Because she couldn't help being absolutely in love with me forever no matter what, that's why. I couldn't conceive of it being otherwise. That's what deluded is — if you know you are, you're not. I was deluded. I stayed. I stayed the whole night.

Colleen McCain Nelson, Executive Editor

Marcos Breton

Jack Ohman

Josh Gohlke

Robin Epley

Yousef Baig

Hannah Holzer

Melinda Henneberger

Scott Lebar

Amy Chance

Terri Yamagata

Ryan Lillis

Erika Smith

Dale Kasler

Ryan Sabalow

San Jose Mercury News
75 E. Santa Clara St., Ste. 1100
San Jose, CA 95113

My own parents, by way of contrast, had bought a house in San Mateo Village, like I may have mentioned, down in the flatlands by the bay, with the same floor plan as all the other houses in the flatlands; the same hard grass yards, with short, newly planted trees. Instead of carpet, we had rugs. Nothing matched. Nothing was new. And the only remarkable thing in the refrigerator was maybe a bowl of browned potatoes left over from one of my mother's pot roasts. There was nothing in the world my father liked better for breakfast than leftover potatoes from one of my mother's pot roasts, sliced razor thin and fried in sizzling bacon grease along with his eggs—two, sunny-side up. I adore my dad. He's dead. As I've said.

The other thing I liked about going up to Elliot's house was his mother. She used to get a kick out of wearing skimpy clothes around the house. There was this one sheer white silk robe I remember in particular, with a sash she always had trouble keeping tied when she answered the door.

Sharon Ryan, President and Publisher

Frank Pine, Executive Editor

Bert Robinson, Senior Editor

Randall Keith, Managing Editor

Sarah Dussault, Managing Editor

Mike Frankel

Rebecca Salner

Jackie Burrell, Features Editor

Ed Clendaniel

Dan Borenstein

Mario Dianda

Veronica Vargas

Cecily Burt

Julia Prodis Sulek

Kristen Crowe

Jim Harrington

Randy McMullen

John Metcalfe

Martha Ross

Ethan Baron

Sandra Gonzales

Aldo Toledo

Daniel Borenstein

Al Fields

Scott Swyres

Dylan Bouscher

Dai Sugano

Orange County Register
1920 Main Street, Suite 225
Irvine, CA 92614

Toward the end of the summer, when we were just about through renovating the whole huge boat from stem to stern, the captain told me that I could stay on as part of the crew when they took it on a trip around the world. I had it all pictured. Hawaii. Fiji. Bali. Bangkok! Then I don't know what the hell happened. Well, I got fired, is what happened—for going for a ride on the Ferris Wheel on Balboa Island with the owner's son's girlfriend. Her name was Paris. She had long blond hair, freckly thighs and zinc oxide across the bridge of her nose. I didn't know she was anyone's girlfriend. She didn't say she was anyone's girlfriend—and she sure didn't act like she was anyone's girlfriend. But she was. And the owner's son told the owner to tell the captain to tell the foreman that I was fired and that was that—no trip around the world, no job, no money, no place to live, no nothing. I hitchhiked back up to my parents' house.

Ron Hasse, Publisher

Frank Pine, Executive Editor

Todd Harmonson, Senior Editor

Alicia Robinson

Erika I. Ritchie

Teri Sforza

Samantha Gowen

Jonathan Lansner

Jeffrey Miller

Erik Pedersen

Kelli Fadroski

Marla Jo Fisher

Peter Larsen

Sal Rodriguez

Toni Sciacqua

Part Three


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Gerard Jones
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