Old Tricks, New Treats (Bag of Tricks, book 3)

Ruby Dee Philippa’s Old Tricks, New Treats, book three in the Bag of Tricks trilogy, feels like stumbling across an old photo album from the early ’80s, only instead of smiling faces, it’s cigarette smoke, torn fishnets, and the wild heartbeat of San Francisco’s punk scene. The story “New Little Friend” grabbed me first. Babs, with her orange hair and restless energy, is that friend you both worry about and admire. She’s reckless, messy, alive—and when she decides to learn how to shoot a gun, the tension between survival and self-destruction hits hard.

What I loved most is how real everything feels. Philippa doesn’t glamorize the scene. She writes it the way you imagine it really was: dirty, dangerous, and full of people trying to find belonging in the cracks of society. You can practically smell the mix of beer, sweat, and hair dye as Babs darts through the Haight in the middle of the night. There’s a rough beauty to it, a kind of poetry in the chaos.

The dialogue, especially between Babs and Ed, is sharp and unfiltered. When Ed teaches her how to shoot, his ex-Vietnam veteran vibe clashes perfectly with Babs’s jittery curiosity. I caught myself holding my breath during her first time on the shooting range, Philippa captures that moment between fear and thrill so perfectly. And that ending of Babs driving back over the Golden Gate, feeling almost invincible, left me weirdly proud of her.

Even though the story is soaked in drugs, danger, and bad decisions, it’s not depressing. It’s honest. There’s a current of resilience running through every page. Philippa writes about women who claw their way through life with chipped black nail polish and stubborn hope. Babs isn’t just another punk chick. She’s a survivor, an anti-hero with her own sense of magic.

What lingers most after closing the book isn’t just nostalgia for a wild past, it’s the realization that this story is really about freedom. Not the easy kind people post about online, but the kind you have to fight for, tooth and nail, against bad odds and worse choices. Philippa gives that freedom a face in Babs: imperfect, defiant, and full of contradictions. She’s the embodiment of that moment when you’re young and think you can outsmart the world. The author doesn’t judge her for falling short; instead, she lets her live, breathe, and stumble through the mess of being human. That kind of honesty is rare in fiction, and it’s why this book stays with you long after the noise fades.

If you’ve ever wondered what it really felt like to be part of that world, before punk became fashion, when it was still raw and dangerous, this book nails it. It’s rough, it’s real, and it has heart. I loved every gritty, glitter-covered page.