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Tuesday, May 31, 2011

Sample Sunday - strip searched at airpoort

Sometimes I don’t engage my brain. Only when we were about to leave for Egypt did the thought strike me that there probably weren’t going to be many good-looking babes amongst the mummies. My God, what have I gotten myself into: a whole summer of celibate philosophizing in a foreign country, dust storms and death in the heat of the desert? This is not exactly what I had in mind.

To make matters worse, I found out the Professor’s wife wasn’t going to join us on the trip. Who was going to cook for us? I guess flat biscuits weren’t her thing. No wonder God parted the Red Sea so the Jews could exit from Egypt during Pharaoh’s time around 1570 B.C. Who wants to hang around with a bunch of dumb dead mummies whose idea of music probably revolved around a rock band called the Walking Deadbeats, banging a bunch of pots and pans? Oh, I forgot they didn’t have pans in those days. I guess that’s why Mrs. Armstrong didn’t want to come along. She wasn’t going to be able to make her luscious biscuits. I think the heat is getting to me and I haven’t even left the country yet.

Before we got on our charter flight from San Diego International to Cairo – the good professor had booked us on this special flight with a bunch of other college groups to save money, security took a special interest in us, making us remove not only our shoes, but also our socks, in an examination that took the better part of two hours. They made us strip down to our underwear searching for bombs or whatever, and would have done worse if we didn’t complain.

I personally think it was because the two security guards were female, but the good professor said it was probably because we were going to Egypt, which had a reputation of harboring terrorists since it was the home of an organization called The Muslim Brotherhood, which was trying to cause a revolution and take the country over. Thank God I didn’t keep my parents gift of steel spiked boots. They probably wouldn’t have let me on the plane.

The woman security guard who was conducting our search said, “Okay, now take off your underwear and bend over.”

I said, “No Miss, I will not.” What the hell is going on here? I’m not a prisoner on the way to jail. I thought we were supposed to be searched by men. I want to see the head of security.

“What’s the matter, big boy, you shy? You’re blushing,” said the female security guard who must have weighed three hundred pounds. Her skinny, pimple faced friend laughed from a corner of the glass-enclosed cubicle, holding her hands in front of her eyes in mock embarrassment at my nakedness. The room, part of a maze of inspection rooms, was bare except for a small metal table and one desk type chair.

“Not anymore, lady. I’ve got nothing left to hide, and stop poking me with that electronic wand. You’re supposed to use that to see if I’m carrying any hidden weapons. Do I look like I’m carrying a hidden weapon?”

"Take your underpants off big boy and I'll let you know."

Wednesday, May 25, 2011

Excerpt Johnny Oops in France

Danielle’s friends gave me a going away party on a secluded
section of the beach that spread below the village of Ez, late in the
afternoon, the day before I left. They made a huge fire of driftwood.
Brought a ton of French wine from Pinot Blanc to red Syrah and a beer
called Biere de garde. We grilled French garlic sausages called
Saucissons a l’Ail. When you bite into them, herbed garlic and pork
juices squirt pleasantly in your mouth, a perfect counterbalance to the
strong dark beer.

Someone brought a big old-fashioned boom box, which blasted
out French party music by a wicked group called Rinôçérôse from an
album named Installation Sonore (V2) and dozens of others whose
names I can’t remember. Forget the misspelling of Rhinoceros. The
Album was made by two former French physiologists and the cover is
a picture by a psychiatric patient of a rhinoceros. He couldn’t spell
properly even in French. They gave me a copy of the Rinôçérôse
album as a going away present hoping I would introduce it at some of
the dance clubs I go to in NYC. Me and my imagination, I made a
decision on the spot never to exaggerate to the people that I care about.
The music played none stop, but no one bothered us. One of
Danielle’s friends is the son of the head gendarme or policeman. We
danced, partied, and many couples including Danielle and I snuck off
to make love behind the sand dunes.

Later, as a blazing roiled sun set behind the horizon, everyone
gathered together to toss me into the air in a blue beach blanket with a
picture of Mickey Mouse in black and red. They cheered my name.
“Johnny, Johnny, we love you,” they shouted in English. “Johnny,
Johnny, don’ go. Johnny, Johnny, come back soon.”

Why did I have to come a foreign country to find friends who
really care about me? Maybe I wasn’t ready to be a social animal
before, and maybe Danielle has brought out the best in me. I don’t
know. All I know is that I’m out, and I’m loving the togetherness. May
the party of life go on forever. I don’t want to be alone any more.

Saturday, May 21, 2011

Sample Sunday, Great Review

5.0 out of 5 stars This is a Great Book!, May 21, 2011
Rebecca Forster (Palos Verdes Estates, CA, US) - See all my reviews
Amazon Verified Purchase(What's this?)
This review is from: Johnny Oops (Kindle Edition)
Don't be fooled by the cover. This is not science fiction but one of the best romps with an angsty teenager searching for himself through sex, psuedo-religion, sex and more sex. Wryly told, you cannot help but adore Johnny Ooops and hope that eventually he will find peace for his pysche, his soul and his manhood. If you liked Catcher in the Rye, if you loved A Confederacy of Dunces then you will adore Johnny Ooops. Highly recommended for those who like smartly written, terribly inventive, totally fun reads.

Tuesday, May 17, 2011

Excerpt Johnny Oops Chapter 28

With a great deal of relief I decided to continue making love to any one and everyone who suited my whim; celibacy is not the type of lifestyle I crave. This recent escapade had convinced me that I, and only I, have the word and the power and the glory that was always going to be mine. Sharing is not an Opps family virtue, and definitely not an option I wish to pursue. I feel so relieved.

I ran out to the garden, without looking around to see if anyone was watching, and started dancing around wildly shouting, “I’m the man, I’m the Prophet. I’m the one. There will never be anyone as great as me. That’s the word. I’m the Messenger. I should know. I’m the Prophet. I’m the man.”

From the kitchen of the mansion where my faithful flock was watching, listening, and preparing to party again, I could hear a collective sigh of relief as all in one voice they said, “Amen.”

Happy days were here again and all was right for this feckless group that made up the bulk of my entourage. They were so happy; they spent most of the rest of the evening cooking up a drug infused stew. It was smooth and velvety, yet heavily laced with a liberal sprinkling of canibas and the fine liquor of a pungent and thoroughly corrupt life style.

The pervading aroma of unpredictability wafted up from the stew through the open kitchen window and out into the garden where I was standing in the bright moon light, washing myself, and mimicking the stone cherub statue in the goldfish pond. I breathed in deeply, relief flooding through every pore in my body, nostrils flaring, as the unpredictable smell of the insatiable all consuming stew hit my nose.

I was getting myself ready for what was to come. I continued my prophetic crazed dance of shifting images, alternate visions of reality, and quantum language chants as I prepared to program a new beginning for my flock and myself, but who is programming me? Maybe it’s the Game Master. Maybe it’s the Almighty Maybe they are the same. Maybe all I’m missing is a little pinch of love. I wish I knew who I was.

Sunday, May 8, 2011

Sample Sunday Excerpt Chapter 35

I feel like a sham virgin who is confessing to her priest that the same man has just raped her for the sixteenth time. I can’t help it. I’m in love again. Life is good. Jody and I are together again in every conceivable meaning of the word. I’m feeling my oats.

Don’t tell me I don’t know how to live life to the fullest. I know my main job is to fulfill my promise and spread the word of kindness and caring, but all work and no play was obviously making me a bore. Jody and I need a little R & R and will have to learn to pace ourselves. This walking across the country is starting to take a toll on us, to say nothing about what it is doing to our feet. We need a home of our own.

“We have a responsibility to ourselves,” I said to Jody. She of course agreed.

“I’ve come up with the bright idea to buy a luxury mobile camper. This way we can have our own home again, and continue touring the country to spread the word at the same time.” Sometimes I can’t believe how brilliant I am.

“Sounds good to me darling,” Jody said. “I’m ready to have my own home again. I’d love that.”

That’s all I had to hear. I used part of the donations I was constantly raising for one good cause or another like the Pineys to finance our expenditures, and we painted a sign on the side of our new mobile home that read, “Clasped Hands,” with a pair of multi colored clasped hands painted right under the letters to signify the new Society of Clasped Hands that I had just formed.

It was fun. I drove the camper, and Jody cooked and cleaned. Jody thought we were playing house just like a couple of kids and I was all too happy to go along. I always loved playing house and doctor and nurse. You get my drift, but I soon discovered we weren’t kids any more. It’s my damn genes. They are aggressing again and causing me to age at an unbelievable rate. Oops, I’m now the physical equivalent of a man in his fifties even though I am only thirty. Where the hell has the time gone?

With a feeling of foreboding I looked at myself in the full-length mirror on our closet door in the camper. I’m losing my hair and what remains of it is turning grey. To make matters worse I’ve developed a paunch, probably from all the fast food meals Jody and I were eating on the road. Me with a paunch, I used to be a stud. What happened to my ripped muscles? I think Jody noticed, but she didn’t say anything. I guess you can’t easily tell a Prophet he is getting old and fat, but I have eyes. I can see for myself. This is disgusting. I have to shape up.

Wednesday, May 4, 2011

Timeless – Johnny Oops ll Sequel


“Quick, quick, hurry before they discover our intent. Pull as hard as you can. It’s going to take both our strength to sling shot ourselves into space, Outy. We’re weren’t authorized to take off before we made further tests.”

“Now you need my help. Why didn’t you recognize my value while we were still in our world? You are a lot like your father Johnny Oops, only more stubborn if that’s possible. Okay pull, pull, here we go. This is unbelievable. We’re traveling faster than time.”

“It’s my genius that has made this possible, Outy, You’re little more than your name implies – a belly button on the girth of the universe,” I said with a smirk on my face. Standing six feet five inches of rippling muscles tall I make a ridiculous figure cramped into the webbing of our crystallized pluton framed sling shot vehicle. Outy takes up no room at all because he is only my other self.

If my father Johnny Oops Senior were here now he would appreciate what I’m doing. He always wanted to travel between worlds, but in his case all his efforts were virtual. Mine are real—the product of the scientific genius of my mind. I see Outy is crawling back inside my thoughts. This project is too much for him. Fine with me, I don’t need an inner self. I’m near perfection on my own.

Can you smell that? I think its dissembling burning pluton magma that’s refabricating in deep space. Hope we get where we’re going soon. I can’t control this thing. Trying to design invisible stretch mountings and hinges to stand up to the rigors of the high-speed thrust of our laser sling shot vehicle has been a recurring problem.

“Outy, stop pinching my thoughts, I know we’re in trouble.”

After the earthquake at my parents home killed my parents and most of my relatives I was raised by my religious Kabala grand parents who had stayed behind at their motel awaiting delivery of a kosher meal. My grandfather practiced a religion that helped you see the light and get closer to God in stages. I’m a scientist. I don’t believe in all that stuff. I went to MIT at the age of sixteen and did my graduating thesis on space travel. Graduated at the top of my class, NASA grabbed me right after school and put me to work developing new space travel vehicles. After more than three years of trial and error I developed my Sling Shot space travel vechicle. It’s perfect. Sling Shot will take us to worlds beyond our imagination. I really am a genius like my father, but I’m not into sex like he was. I’m Johnny Oops ll. Science is my thing. Sometimes I think about girls, but I have no time for such nonsense. I’m an explorer of new worlds. I’m going to take us to places where no humans have ever gone. I’m going to be famous like Christopher Columbus or what’s the name of that guy that discovered China in the middle ages? I can’t be bothered with such trivial facts. Oh yah, Marco Polo.

What’s happening? This damn ship is veering off course. That noise, I think the screeching is the invisible stretch hinges tensed beyond allowable limits. The Shudder Variance is failing. Giant boulders or meteorites are bouncing off the hull. We’re going to crash. I don’t even know where we are. I think we’ve overshot our target world. All my instruments have shorted out. “Outy where are we?”

“Now you want to know. We should never have made this trip. We needed more testing. You are so reckless. You’re always in a hurry.”

“We’re here now, Outy, where ever that is. What do we do?”

“Hang on you scientific genius. We’re going to crash. Why aren’t you wearing your helmet? I’m in here you know.”