The Quest for the Golden Willy

In J P Dooley's newest book: The Adventure of the Golden Willy: The Adventures of Lance the Pornstar, is it truly the golden willy, or is it just another quest to obey Hippie Law?

”What makes you so sure this is the Willy you’re looking for?”

“Even if the object in her hand isn’t the real thing, it’s the exact replica of an object that very few people outside the household and family treasury have ever seen. A reproduction, if it’s a copy, in such minute detail, including the balls and the peculiar shape of the glans, as to be virtually identical; it matches the only photograph we have of it, even down to that mark near the scrotum, that some think is Leicester’s crest.  This one had at least to have been cast from the original.”

“Notice how it shines,” he continued.  “Those who have beheld the Willy in person, including myself and the Duchess, feel it could be genuine.  I say, is there any more of that weed?”

Cockjaw

As said in the last post, J P Dooley's The Adventure of the Golden Willy: Adventures of Lance the Porn Star is now available on the Amazon Kindle!  Here is a racy yet hilarious excerpt from the first chapter:

 

"It was when Peggy Perdu, my comrade and co-star, couldn’t open her mouth wide enough to taste an hors d’oeuvre without her jaw cramping.  “Cockjaw,” she said massaging her cute face.  “This is all your fault, Lance.”

 

I smiled and then we both laughed, I robustly and she through barely parted lips.  If you’ve seen any of her movies or videos, such as XYZ and Beyond Impossible, you know how she takes giant penises in ways and postures that defy the imagination, riding, sliding, sucking, jacking and licking, and indeed it had been the monster member of our associate, Rex Goliath, that had bruised her mandible.

 

Rather a reference to something that had happened a week or so before."

 

Fifty Shades of Fun: The Adventure of the Golden Willy: The AdventuresOf Lance the Porn Star is now available on the Amazon Kindle!!!!!!

It's finally here!!  J P Dooley's newest book The Adventure of the Golden Willy: The Adventures of Lance the Porn Star is now available on the Amazon Kindle!!!!!!

Download it by clicking on the link below:

http://www.amazon.com/dp/B0122DD7J8/ref=tsm_1_fb_lk

Here is a quote from Lance himself:

"“Agatha Christie,” I said, “could not have orchestrated it better.”"

Living in the Moment with Jaymo

Sometimes getting high really is just living in the moment and enjoying the scenery as observed by Jaymo in Two for the Road by J P Dooley:

"The rest of the winter was wet, a long rainy season, and in the spring the University bluffs, still undeveloped, were lush with tall grasses, new fennel, and big swaths of yellow, purple and white flowers, mustard and wild radish.

On a warm day in late March I was walking alone on the trail along the cliffs, above the sea, my shoes slung over my shoulder, feeling the still moist earth between my toes, sensual and pleasant, enjoying immortal sights, the islands like shadows in the bright early afternoon haze, kelp lying thick and luxurious on the surface, whales making their way north, the rushing surf and afternoon breeze combining hypnotically:  rising and falling, pushing and receding, a yearning and a surrender.

A sensation first, and from the corner of my eye I see it:  a ship with square sails, coming out of the west, flags flying, long red pennants, a weathered black hull, modest castles fore and aft but not a galleon, narrower, nimble.  I know I am imagining it, a colorful ghost, but breathless hold the vision of it, coasting well off shore, continuing east beyond Campus Point as if skirting a phantom headland or reef, before making a slow graceful turn into Goleta Bay."

Lee: The Definition of Hippie Law

Lee sums up Hippie Law perfectly in an excerpt from Two for the Road by J P Dooley:

'“Do you think Mescalitán could be New Albion?” Lee asked as I finished the last column in the waning twilight.

“I suppose it would have to be, whether he landed around here or not—part of his grandiose claim, but the ship I saw didn’t look exactly like the Golden Hind.” It had been similar but lower fore and aft, different lines, packing more sail.

“Maybe it happened more than once,” Lee suggested.

Ultimately the cannons were identified as late Eighteenth Century, cast in New England, and likely belonging to a ship that had entered the Pacific as the Eagle and been renamed the Dorotea (the Dorothy), the galeta after which the adjacent town had been named.

“I was so close that day, Lee.  And I wasn’t even stoned.”

“Getting high,” she said, “has never been entirely about the drugs and sex, but how much fun you’re willing to have, and how far you’re willing to go.”

She’s an all-the-way sort of person.

“I like the drugs,” I said, reloading the bowl.

“Well, you’re an orthodox old hippie.  But you know what I mean:  it’s about following the rapture to where it leads, getting higher.”'

Perfecting Yourself Does Not Get You High

Even if you do everything perfectly, you cannot fake getting high.  As exemplified in J P Dooley's Two for the Road, sometimes you just need to let loose and have fun:

"The spawn of my father’s brother, in youth the wildest high school tripper and rounder, a dick with ears who had screwed the novia of Carlos Reyes, the lovely Maria Jesus, on the floor right in front of him, and given us all a case of the crabs; who had borrowed my pound and a half down sleeping bag for a weekend in the mountains, leaving me his ratty Dacron over-nighter with a broken zipper and torn up lining—his dog had birthed puppies on it; my bedding for six sea-faring months when he forgot to return it, and I had nearly frozen to death in it on the Alaska Highway.

The Claremont Colleges had made him more thoughtful, and soon after a major Acid trip where the rest of us saw giant beings with wings on their heads, he had become a cultist, follower of a guru who recruited on college campuses and promised enlightenment in only three lifetimes.

Not a bad deal except that it cost you every pleasure of this one: no meat, eggs, or cultured milk, no garlic or onions, a diet so bland it was like eating cardboard; austerities and fast days and no sex except when the moon was right.  He had got into it to avoid the draft, after pulling a high number in the lottery.  “Just a cover,” he had told me then, a useful affectation developed further in an attempt to make it flawless.  A stunning reversal of the wild abandon of his youth, the same way, I mused, that thieves sometimes become cops.

A week later, I watched him as he walked up the hill in late afternoon sunlight, carrying his pack and dusty banjo case, less kid-like with his hair cropped short and a thick moustache. His lady was gaunt and didn’t look very happy.

He introduced her as Ananda Deva.  “We go by our Sanskrit names now,” he said.

“Bliss Goddess”, a bad fit in her case; she called him Ram Murti.

Their eyes were wide and empty, mercilessly calm.  It’s good to cultivate the perspective of cosmic witness, especially when you’ve been too avid a player and sinner; good to watch it all just happening, but they were kind of creepy.

Lee put on water for tea.  “Are you hungry?  I have a pot of beans going, vegetarian.”

“We’ve been fasting,” Herman said.  “Need to break it with buckwheat and rice.”

Lee nodded, into everything.  “There’s a pan in the cupboard.”

“We’ve got our own."

His girlfriend took it from her pack and started to pull out a fat bag of grains.

“Don’t forget,” Herman said grimly, being the enforcer, “we have to bathe and meditate first.”

I directed them to the creek across the road.  They returned an hour later in the gathering dusk, more wide awake—the stream was cold—but just as self-absorbed and down. Whatever they were doing or pretending to do, they were both depressed, lackluster, low pulse.  And Herman seemed uptight and reserved around Lee, strangely circumspect, rarely looking at her, directing most of his conversation at me.

“I don’t masturbate anymore,” he said. 

Yeh, whatever, to each their own, I thought, but after years of DeSoto Jr. I’d had it with Brahmin pretenses of purity and oppressive dietary requirements. Filling my pipe carved from a deer antler--new buds from the first harvest, dried in a paper bag over the stove--I lit it and handed it to my cousin.

“Wow,” he said.  “Pot.”

“We haven’t had any for a long time,” his girlfriend said.

The way they each took a big hit and held it seemed to indicate a mood to break out; they were on vacation after all.  Soon they were stretching and sighing, and for the first time the Bliss Goddess was smiling.

“I’d really like to try some of those beans,” she said.  Herman held out for rice and buckwheat until it became obvious that no one was going to fix it for him.

A sinfully deep experience for them both, ecstasy in feeding the starving body; Lee and I had been there, only a few months before.

After supper, over more weed, everyone now more animated, we brainstormed possible adventures.  “What’s it cool to see around here?” Herman asked.

I considered local options:  Canyonville, Milo, Tiller, all forgettable places.

“Let’s go out to the coast tomorrow and look for magic mushrooms,” Lee suggested.

Herman appeared depressed again.  “We don’t eat fungus.”

“Oh, Hermie,” his girlfriend said, abandoning his Hindu pseudonym.  “It might be fun.” "

The Potato Lottery

Part of getting high sometimes is about simplifying your life and feeling grateful as exemplified in J P Dooley's Two for the Road now on Amazon:

"It was a parcel east of Azalea with a funky plywood cabin, on a south-facing hill above a recently paved logging road.

A hundred seedlings:  I put some in a hot-house cobbled together from a pile of old lumber at the top of the driveway, a few more in deer cages down the hill, ten or twenty in the damp spot below a barely weeping spring, others hidden in clumps of thorny blackberries and wild rose, a dozen in a straight row along a collapsing fence.

Except for the ones near the spring, the rest had to be watered, buckets carried up the hill and across the slope, five gallons at a time.

The ancient hermit’s life:  chop wood and carry water.  It makes you strong.

Hard times at first, after the fast life of the city, not much stimulation, no beating heart but fat quiet and inland heat, followed by cold.  A contemplative environment in which I scribbled down notes and ideas for paintings, quick sketches and color schemes on a couple of reams of white vellum from the Oakland Library System that Aggie Ina Kolb had handed in the window of the truck as we were leaving.

“You’ll need these,” she said.

We worked with a brush-piling crew, didn’t get paid for three months, and spent the summer living on a fifty-pound bag of rice and what we could forage.  No abundance of wild edibles in the southern Cascades, or harvestable forest products like moss:  we had pot, pinched tops from the plants, but no food.  We ate rice with onions, fried rice, rice gruel, rice cakes and peanut butter.  Unconcerned, we grew thinner.

On my birthday, on my way to a public spigot down the road for water—our shallow well was poorly sealed, and things lived and died in it—coasting on my bicycle, I came upon a potato in the road that had bounced out of a truck, and screeched to a halt, overjoyed, as if we had won the lottery."

The Humor of the Oracle

In this free sample from Two For the Road, by J P Dooley, Jaymo and Lee demonstrate one can get high from how fate likes to play jokes on us:

"Nearing Tok Junction in high good spirits, we went through our gear, tightening down our packs, and Lee pulled out the book.  A last oracle before being on our own again; we each threw separately.  

Girard went first.

41.  Sun/Decrease.  “Six in the third place means:  When three people journey together, their number decreases by one.  When one man journeys alone, he finds a companion.”

He handed the coins to me, and I threw:

64.  Before Completion.  “Success.  But if the little fox, after nearly completing the crossing, gets his tail in the water, there is nothing that would further.”

From Tok it was still five hundred miles to Ninilchik, three hundred just to Anchorage.  A weary feeling of having it in the bag, and I had to remind myself that every hitch is a roll of dice, and that we are all but out of money.

Lee held the book to her head, put it down and shook the coins thoughtfully before dropping them.  All broken lines until the last, the hexagram of Splitting Apart.

“Six in the fifth place means:  A shoal of fishes.  Favor comes through the court ladies.  Everything acts to further.”

Commentary:  “Splitting apart means ruin.”

Three were about to become two; separation and ruin followed by a bride delivered by her court, still some way in which I can fail to make the crossing, and I’m wondering if it’s going to be Girard and Lee hitching off into the future and me going my way alone. Impossible to vibe it out:  Lee was capable of anything, always ready to leave the past behind and step boldly in some new direction.

Still before noon when they dropped us off at the junction across from a gas station, and we watched the One World Land Transect Expedition chugging off up the grade towards Fairbanks in bright sunlight.  “That was definitely weird,” Lee said as we slung our packs and crossed the road.

Great to be free of them but I felt uneasy, contemplating the oracles and how the images might be fulfilled.

Before we even had a thumb out, a car pulled up slow and stopped.  Three women inside.“We’ve got room for one,” the shotgun passenger said, and they were all looking at Lee.

 It was not the way I thought the moment would arise, so soon, and reviewing the hexagrams, saw the permutation I had not considered, that she would climb in and leave us both behind.

“Well, I did think about it,” she told me later.

“Thanks,” Girard said, and slipped into the back seat, his pack on his lap and the door shut before they could change their minds.  “See you down the road,” he said, waving through the window with a cheerful smile.

Suddenly it was just Lee and me and the highway, and I’m feeling entirely unburdened, rapturous, fancying that everything has been fulfilled:  a splitting apart, three have become two, and I am with Lee, my only destination, the other side of the river.  We kiss and eat peanut butter sandwiches.

After noon, in spite of the bright sun in a clear sky, the temperature dropped sharply, and we could hear the wind, low on the mountain, rushing like surf in the stands of slender young trees, stirring a meadow of dead fireweed, an acre of dry flowers drifting away into the air. People passed and waved, a cheerful mood all around but no one stopped."

New J P Dooley Book Available on Amazon!!!

Two for the Road by J P Dooley is now available on Amazon!!!  Here is a free exerpt that illustrates the way adventure can bring one into the ever present now:

 "The water, even at sunrise, was deep blue.  A sure sign:  you could tell there was going to be wind.

Twenty-five miles west of Santa Barbara by eight-thirty, between El Capitán and Refugio, an early start but I knew we were in for it; I’d been on this coast too long to mistake the dark scuff that extended out to the islands.  The surf, breaking big on the points, would be blown out by noon.

Approximately the hour when we rounded Conception and ran, head on, into the unbroken North Pacific swell, long lines to the horizon, shearing into whitecaps, and a dry gale driving straight into our face.  The blunt bow of the Hake slammed into the big waves like a crashing semi, shuddering, groaning, steel whining, spray flying to the stern; the only dry spot on the deck was a four foot square behind the pilot house.

Danny and I braced ourselves against the walls, Rinaldi’s face a snarling mask as he fought the wheel, his enterprise on the line, a gamble of everything.  Blinding glare through the film of water over the windows, heatless, wind howling, little jets of moisture blowing through cracks onto the binnacle.

A tough haul, even for a seaworthy craft, and high drama:  each swell stopped her cold, engines racing as the screws broke free on the crests, digging in again to drive her down the back side into the next one.  We were making about two knots an hour, human walking speed, and as the afternoon passed, and the waves got steeper and more hollow, looming mountains of water, I wondered how much she could take before breaking up.

The pounding became monotonous, hypnotic, collapsing everything into the moment, no future, no past, just this now and the next jarring collision, fear ceding to a crystalline euphoria.  It was like a drug--terror and pleasure and the soul stripped naked:  sea junkies, taking it to the limit, one more time, and one more time."

The Psychedelic Rule Part II

Sometimes drugs are used to further one's process of getting high.  Jaymo shows us the proper mental state one needs to be in to have a fullfilling experience in J P Dooley's Getting High:

"Acid’s not a drug in the usual sense; not a narcotic or an upper or downer, or a sedative, but something more like a key that releases blocked energy, unlocking hard patterns of thought and perception, who we think we are, opening the channels, letting it flow.  No particular physical event—constriction of arteries, slowing of alimentary process, suppression of pain—but an expansion of mind, feeling out beyond eyes and fingers, inward to an awareness of autonomic function, everything repressed by notions of sanity and propriety—for most people rapture and a sense of the beauty and intricacy of things, love, and the way in which this kaleidoscoping sphere of time-space is almost infinitely funny—everything unconscious, unthinkable, stupid, prurient and innocent coming to the fore, equal and equally meaningless in glittering reality.

But first the ego must go.  A feeling of confusion, everything out of control; you cannot will yourself to breathe but it happens anyway.  Bizarre thoughts, terror that you are going mad, losing it; I grope at the sand, clenching handfuls, aware of the millions of silicate particles between my fingers and the sickening vastness of matter and mind, coincident with memories of animals defecating, and the voice of John Lennon:

“Don’t hold on, relax and float downstream

This is not dying, this is not dying”