Ten Years After the Future #HistoricalRomance

Ten Years After the Future: Will Donna find a man who will be devoted and true? Can Sally ever combine her forbidden sexuality with her need to be of service?

Ten Years After the Future: Historical Romance

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BLURB: Ten Years After the Future

Begin a captivating journey into an era that was both a time of overly indulgent forays into hedonism, as well as a unique period in our nation’s history, when young Americans, politicized by the draft and the horrors of the Vietnam War, awakened to their sense of self and took responsibility for building a finer world.

REVIEW: Ten Years After the Future

Ten Years After the Future

Bill Samos

Reviewed by G. L. Helm

4 stars

I was rather confused by the beginning of this book. It was more character sketches than a real story. It was richly poetic and colorful but I had a hard time figuring it out. It was about family and the directions the children went. It was more concerned with the two sisters than with the younger brother though he comes into it more later in the book. The book is set in and around Oakland and Berkley in the midst of the 1960’s. Perhaps that is why it was so confusing for me at first because that was a very confusing time. One of the sisters, Donna, goes to UC Berkley and falls in with a free loving, drug using hippie crowd. Her sister, who is at first confused about her own sexuality is training to be a nurse. She ends up joining the Army as a Nurse and gets sent to Vietnam.

TEN YEARS AFTER THE FUTURE is very poetic, and quite beautiful because of it. It is also very sexual, both hetero, and homosexual. It is also filled with rock and roll references from that time including the Grateful Dead and Janis Joplin, who is not served very well by the author.

At the end the book tapers off from confusing, colorful and poetic to rather common, with new baby and return to old family values.

The book is worth the read, but don’t expect to be swallowed up in the story.

3/8/18

EXCERPT: Ten Years After the Future

The dance hall was more like a storage warehouse, a cavernous shadowy funhouse. Everything swirled colors before the drugs even kicked in. Meandering through the angelic ghost-like dancers, they quickly found their way to the front of the stage

The evangelical alchemy of the Grateful Dead—and Jerry Garcia’s nimbus of black hair, belied his un-rock star stature and glory. She was mesmerized from the beginning by his angelic plaintive voice, all teary toned and wise; with a beat that was both an easy rhythm, and blue, at the same time. His voice—a helpless mournful supplication to a distant, seemingly almostattainable heaven. She had never heard such a soulful voice and yearning guitar harmonizing together. Music being created,rather than planned or executed—a perfectly refined improvisation; jams that went on for twenty minutes.

Strobe light staccato-jerky movements pulsed beneath cellular exploding light shows. Tie-dye florescent togas undulated in waves, spinning dervish dancers in bare feet and flowing prairie skirts, and dancers—swimming wildly in mid-air, scaring away the phantoms from every ancient dancehall visions and high school hops of the past. The ghost was cleared. The dead were grateful

And hair; hair, everywhere hair, flapping and flying, flouncing and bouncing like windblown willows, fleece braided tentacles. Sweat pouring off in a rain storm of complete abandon and all the head-snapping corybantic dancing…even the name of the band—shattered any lingering fears or presentments of eminent endings or destruction. They had the audience pulsing with them upon each note, as if everyone there had all taken the same psychedelic drug together and knew it.

Then that roaring, dominating sound, as if dozens of jet planes became harmonic in the same frame, the drawn-out agony solos as ecstasy; a waterfall of bass notes wrapping tightly around vibrating electric guitars, all twisted together by an electric organ, and pounded into one’s body fueled by duel drummers. All six parts in unison, improvising perfectly together. Music at once busy and clean, bouncy and diabolical; she felt as if they were all vibrating underwater together, hyperventilating through the same gas mask of joyous, psychedelic drugs.

Pig-Pen, the scruffy, street urchin, biker, circus barker organist/vocalist striding center stage, intoning everyone to “Get your hands out of your pockets!” and “dance” and then actually specifically pointing out and shaming any non-compliers; until everyone, in spite of themselves, had their own unique mojo going. His disheveled, tough- guy menace, ready at any moment to strut forth and forcefully break into the middle of the instrumental perfume. It was far-out, spacey, time-machine, liquid blues in glorious melody, hatcheted open by an interloping shit-between-the toes, down-home barn yard, western funkiness. Everyone was rocking slowly as one big conscious, peristaltic, snaking engine to the pure music throbbing through each pore of existence.

Donna had never experienced anything like it. And what happened next had her actively disbelieving what she waswitnessing.

Some audacious woman in the audience was overly troubled by Pig Pen’s bold, peacock strutting. She jumped on stage from the side, and theatrically mocking his swagger, moved in and grabbed his microphone right out of his hand. While Donna expected security to quickly show up, others around her started jumping up and down and clapping wildly. Normally mellow, Shell went wild too.

“That’s Janis Joplin!”

“Yeah?”

Donna knew she should be really impressed, but something about her wasn’t really impressive. Long, unkempt brown hair, a floppy brown blouse, a pair of tight green bellbottoms, little make up and mismatched jewelry; she looked more like she might have just crawled out of a basement rocking chair, mocking Donna’s vision of a rock queen.

Flailing with the pulse of the rising rhythm, incarnating a musical spirit of her generation, head down in concentration, she gyrated closer and threateningly closer to the lead singer. Arms thrashing above her head, within and through her entire body, limber but wobbly, she blended orgasmicly with the electronic vibration. She was a definite show all on her own. But it didn’t make sense—she had her own famous band she could do that with, Big Brother and the Holding Company, why did she need to upstage the Dead? An excess demanding attention to replace love? A savage consumption of admiration, driving toward her own ecstasy? The previous gentle, sunbeam aura and daisy chain dancing was suddenly being rent, by a playful but viscous knife. Most stood more amazed and observant.

Pushing Pig Pen playfully to the side with her rocking hips, the band, confused, warmed up to a tighter and tighter rhythm.

“Okay, big boy. Let’s see you whip it out!” Left hand extending the mic away from him in a clumsy pirouette, while her right hand grabbed at his crotch.

Pig Pen, looking suddenly sheepish, almost embarrassed, certainly confused, backed away, cautiously muttering something about his “old lady.” Not the macho guy he was moments previous.

“Come-on, honey. If’n you won’t whip it out for us and show us what the big band leader’s got here, you gonna loose your gig to little ole’ Janis…” Theatrically bending over.

“Oooh noooo; my ole’ lady get the rolling pin after me…”

“Well then, you just lost yer lead here hot shot. See you later…”

And as startled fans hooted and shared bemused glances, Pig Pen quietly, without further fuss, moved off stage. Janis swaggered, danced in over-pleased ambling circles, threw her head back in celebration, and clapped frantically for audience support.

“What’s going on?” Donna hung tightly around Shells neck and shoulders.

“I dunno. I guess we got two shows goin’ for the price of one?”

Jerry Garcia, looking less worried than entertained, calmly motioned to the other band members with a head nod to crank up the flurry, and entered into an unnamed jazz type jam. Janis jumped, danced and whirled about, cherishing her newly assigned role as “band leader.” But apparently tiring herself out with wild dancing, she soon ambled aggressively toward the lead guitarist. With a mischievous, conspiratorial nod toward the wide-eyed spectators, she crowded and loomed in on Jerry Garcia.

Carefully positioning herself to the right and slightly behind him, she bent her knees, squatted slightly, and wrapped her crotch around the back of Jerry’s guitar. Lingering there, she began, slowly at first, throbbing and sexually mimicking intercourse to the beat of the drums with Jerry and his guitar.

While no one in the crowd assumed they might see sex right there on stage, Donna could feel a collective “now what?!” of bewilderment shared by everyone else in the crowd. Everyone seemed to be holding their breath in expectant anticipation.

What happened next clearly stunned Janis as much as every other eye glued upon them in the old warehouse.

Bio: Bill Stamos

Bill Stamos grew up in the SF Bay Area and spent much of his youth traveling and wandering, whence came his first book of travel misadventures, “Border Crossings”. Previously importing art, designing clothing, running his own career counseling business, and teaching and counseling at a community college, he has left that race now to plant trees, clear jungle, and prepare his next book, while cataloguing the clouds as they roll by in Hawaii.