Permission: a memoir

The eagerly-anticipated epic now released! 

Celebrate Fantasy Fest 2017 with us 

and click to get your copy of

 Permission at Amazon.com

Available Now!

Rallies, Fests, & Hot Tubs:  Having Fun Can Be HELL on Relationships III is NOW AVAILABLE!  Strut your fabulous stuff over to Amazon.com, and buy it now!

Perhaps you celebrated with us on Duval Street this past week at the best party on the planet . . . Key West’s FANTASY FEST!  If so, we hope you caught Justin in his purple cock sock as described in this excerpt from Chapter Nine of Act III . . .

Justin broke out his brand new, sheer at all times, purple cock sock—a Fantasy Fest first for Justin.  His accessories included his venerated purple velour pimp hat with the stitched-on plastic Cadillac emblem, purple snakeskin cowboy boots, and silver metallic short-sleeved shirt with the super fly collar, all of which he chose because, after all, those accessories had each worked so well year after year after year.

With two “storage” compartments, the cock sock is labeled as such because, well, that’s how it literally functions—not lifting and separating but  separating  and  hanging  down, limp . . . until . . . perhaps . . .

Well anyway, the lower, wider compartment of the cock sock is dedicated to shrouding and supporting the scrotum.  The narrow, longer compartment higher up fits over the penis . . . like a snug tube sock . . . or a condom made of transparent purple nylon—extremely high thread count.

“Very liberating!”  Justin, in delight, reported to Justina.  “Finally, everything isn’t all scrunched up together.  I can really feel the breeze!”  Then Justin added, “But next year, I think I’ll get the extra-large size.  This one’s a bit constricting.  Know what I mean?”

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . la, la, la . . . “Sexy and I Know It”  (LMFAO)

As Justin and Justina started on foot up Duval Street, Justin stopped multiple times to explain the uniqueness of his newly acquired, see-through cock sock to onlookers’ intrigued or aghast or laughing or pointing . . . or aiming a cell phone camera.

“I got it at Walmart!” Justin explained.  “But they only had it in purple.”

“Really?!” several onlookers expressed, thoughtfully . . . without thinking.

It was astounding the number of people who believed Justin’s claim.

“It sure is a lot of fun to put on,” Justin would add with a quick wink to an onlooker before moving on.

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Well, we did it—and it was fun!  We’ve designed an alternate book cover option for Rallies, Fests, & Hot Tubs:  Having Fun Can Be HELL on Relationships II.  This second cover features a brown paper bag—inspired by Justin’s television interview with WTHR Ch. 13—that covers the potentially censorable artistic qualities of the original book cover.

Readers now have two cover options for the same book:  the original (our favorite) OR the family-friendly, brown bag version.

Both cover options will be available for the release of ACT III—coming later this month!  To celebrate the upcoming release, here’s a sneak peak—or “Titty Flash”—from ACT III . . .

As Justin will enthusiastically and dogmatically declare to anyone who cares to listen:  Key West’s annual Fantasy Fest is the best party in the English-speaking world!

Naturally—or perhaps unnaturally—Justin hasn’t been to every party in the English-speaking world or even the lower forty-eight states.  But as he has explained:  “If it’s a better party in any way than the three-day party hosted by the San Francisco hookers’ union COYOTE (Call Off Your Old Tired Ethics) in 1977 when the authorities tried to vacate Gate Six—the hippie houseboat row in Sausalito—then it has to be the best party in America!”

As previously explicated, motorcycle rallies feature, but are not limited to:  jeans, T-shirts, black leather jackets, rain, tents, sleeping bags, Styrofoam coolers, motorcycle exhaust, dust, dirt, mud, roach-coach cuisine, fifty-degree temps, hill-climber ankles, and frequent jealousies only temporarily disguised as permission.  Rallies seem to be all about folks trying to get themselves and their partners to a different kind of place or somewhere else—wherever somewhere else is—implying a journey, a path, inconvenience, some struggle, a goal.  In contrast, Fantasy Fest is all about having arrived:  already being there, wherever there is.  In short, Fantasy Fest at Key West—America’s Best Hard Spot To Get To—is about arrivedness . . . ease and easy satisfaction.

At a motorcycle rally, people fight nature, engineering, manufacturing, their bodies—and their personal vagaries.  At Fantasy Fest, people fall into and then gleefully roll along with everything and whatever—it’s all so effortlessly damn satisfying and pleasing and pleasurable:

Elegance, ocean breezes, sand, sun, surf, white-lace thongs, killer sunsets with clouds like neon meringue, five-star restaurants and hotels, hot tubs, submerged-lighted swimming pools, concrete sidewalks, ceramic tile, consistently excellent coffee, Margaritas and pina coladas, cigar stores, excellent music live and DJ-ed, art galleries, thousands of the planet’s most beautiful couples, the most delicate coconut shrimp and expertly attended-to rack of lamb, lobster and asparagus omelets, acceptance, invitation, indulgence, freedom—pure, spread-your-wings and glide-here freedom!

Key West’s Fantasy Fest is a total, unpredictable, sensation-trip—plush, lush, and clean.  Like a round brilliant, dazzling with its fire . . . and unexpected clarity . . . the air and light of Key West enthuse, delight, and reward.  The pleasurableness, in so many ways, even includes the incessant walking.

In contrast to motorcycle exhaust explosions and fumes, mud, raccoons, porta potties, funnel cakes, deep-fried turkey drumsticks, no coffee after 10:00 a.m., and bitchslapping, Fantasy  Fest  at  Key West annually combines San Francisco’s air of refinement and detachment; Chicago’s sense of urgency, ambition, exuberance, and innovation; New Orleans’ funkiness and delight of bodies and contrariness; Canadian cognitive intelligence, alertness, and equanimity; the United Kingdom’s verbal precision and acuity; and Caribbean and Central and South American natural unhurriedness and  rhythmic sensuality:  an elixir uniquely un-American, un-Puritan, un-Orthodox, and delightfully, discriminately improper.

At Fantasy Fest, sensuousness, taste, and natural curiosity are embedded in extreme zaniness and restrained frivolity practiced annually with almost religious zeal and glee . . . abandon!  And in a very consistently user-friendly venue.  In short, Fantasy Fest offers two weeks of planet Earth aliveness perfection.  And the Fantasy Fest chicks, of all ages, are more fun, more relaxed, and more gregarious than the chicks in Rio.  And the guys, also of all ages, are so much less threatened . . . and threatening . . . than the muscled macho men of Ipanema and Leblon.  Fantasy Fest is Ibiza gone wild—for all age groups!

Decades ago, one of Justin’s business communication sophomores asked:  “So Justin, what’s your definition of happiness?”

“The absence of fear or threat,” Justin stated without having to think.  “The absence of neediness or criticism.  Life as regard; bodies as invitation.”

That would also be Justin’s description of Fantasy Fest . . . of Heaven . . . on Earth.

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Justin Case, the Story Inn’s “Village Idiot 2015” winner, appears as “Invisible” author on WTHR Ch. 13.  As you’ll see in the clip below, our book cover had to be censored . . . AGAIN!  This pattern hit us upside the head with a 2×4.  We need a book cover that we can actually advertise without covering up the artwork.  Justin’s customized brown paper bag impelled us in the following new direction . . .  What if we were to cover the censorable features of our book cover with . . .

We are indebted to Kevin Rader and his WTHR Ch. 13 team for putting together a superbly crafted segment that aired three times the week of May 6^th and may be included in Rader’s special in June.  Of course, we are also indebted to Rader and his team for the close up of our—again compromised—book cover.

Oh yeah . . . we are also indebted to the creators of Justin’s brown paper bag mask.  The mask was designed by a Story Inn waitress and a random motorcycle chick who arrived at the Story Inn . . . for Justin Case . . . just in time.

Speaking of quality Village-Idiot moments, here’s an excerpt from Chapter Eleven . . .

“Good moanin’!” Justin announced.

“Where are you?” Justina giggled.

“On the road, and laughing!  I’m hauling the trailer to the Boogie to get my bike.  So, I’m maximizing this opportunity for uninterrupted conversation with you.”

“The Boogie ended two weeks ago.”

“You right!  But we haven’t talked since before that weekend.  The bike experienced a mechanical failure.  I had to leave it there.”

“For two weeks?” Justina asked.

“Well, the day after da Boogie, I drove back to the campground with the trailer to get the bike, but the campground was closed.  The owners of the campground had duct-taped a piece of cardboard on the gate.  It read:  ‘On vacation.  Back in two weeks.’  I guess da Boogie is kinda rough on them, too.”

“I can imagine!  But what happened to your bike?”

“It’s a Yamaha!  It wouldn’t start on Saturday after it had rained.  Got out the tools and circuit tester.  Determined the starter solenoid was fried.  But that was mostly a guess.  So I went to the swap tent where vendors sell used and hard to find motorcycle parts, and some guy was selling a starter solenoid from a 1979 Ford F-150 straight six.  I thought:  ‘I’m very familiar with this particular part.  I think I could make this work.’  After an hour or so, I had the bike running.”

“Really?!  Using a truck part?!”

“Yeah, but then I did a dumb thing.  I didn’t think to disconnect the battery on the bike overnight, just as a precaution.  The next morning, the battery had drained, so the bike wouldn’t start again.  And it was starting to rain again, so Mimi said:  ‘I have to be at work tomorrow.  Just leave the bike here overnight, and come back tomorrow with the trailer.’  So that’s what we did. . . .  Except the campground was closed the next day.”

“Doesn’t anything ever go the way it’s supposed to for you?”

“Not if it involves motorcycles and camping and weather and alcohol and music and . . . naked women.  There’s a Molly Hatchet song that goes . . .”

“I know it.  It’s one of my favorites.”

“Imagine that!  But anyway, I’m gonna ask you a question that I never thought I ever would ask you.”

“Really?!  Another one of those?!”

“Hell yes!  Okay . . . here it is . . . ahem:  ‘Hey Justina, you wanna go to da Boogie with me?’”

“Absofuckinlutely!  Like you always say, ‘Maximize the moment!’”

“Okay!  Let’s just keep talking, and I’ll let you know when we get there.  I think you’ll like it.  You’ll have fun!”

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Did you catch our ad in Thunder Roads Indiana?!  Our ad below appears on page 10 of the May issue.  Yeah, once again, our book cover was censored!  And yeah, once again . . . we’re still laughing about it!

We are indebted to the Thunder Roads Indiana team for allowing us to, once again, compromise the book’s cover in order to advertise it.  We are also indebted to Thunder Roads Indiana for Hoosier Thunder Run.  Hopefully, we’ll bump into you at one of the official “Ride n’ Win” stops!

Rockin’ and rollin’ with proximity, here’s a BikerFest excerpt from Chapter Five . . .

Music at a biker rally, whether performed on stage or broadcast  from  the  fairing speakers of someone’s Ultra Glide, is predominantly classic rock . . . shake-your-booty, chug-your-beer, spit-in-the-grass, howl-at-the-moon, dance-your-ass-off rock.  Songs like “Welcome to the Jungle,” “Walk This Way,” “Free Bird,” and “Shook Me All Night Long.”

After the live music concert ends well after midnight each night of a rally, a person has three options:  (1) cruise the midway to take pictures of babes flashing their body parts; (2) head for Lucky’s RV where, each year, he erects an eight-by-eight stage featuring spotlights, a killer sound system, and a chrome plated twelve-foot-tall stripper pole; or (3) simply head for the tent and call it a night.

After dancing to a Guns ‘N Roses cover band all night—“Paradise City,” “Sweet Child O’ Mine,” “Patience,” and others—Justina’s feet were aching.  Justina and Justin decided to head for their tent.  Which was perfect because their tent just happened to be nine, possibly ten, yards from . . . Lucky’s RV where the real party of the night was just getting started!

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Justin Case was elected as 2015 “Village Idiot” at Story, IN:  population 5.

The balloting was fierce in the hamlet’s annual April Fools’ Day contest for this prized title.  To commemorate this honor, Justin received a $100 gift certificate redeemable at The Still—the tiny tavern in the basement of the Story Inn.  You can read about it—and LYAO!!!—at this link:

The Story voters had five pages of Justin’s follies to consider before voting.  Justin’s folly presented in the following excerpt from Chapter Seven of Rallies, Fests, & Hot Tubs:  Having Fun Can Be HELL on Relationships II wasn’t even included in Justin’s “Village Idiot” campaigning . . .

Justin’s then-wife was not thrilled when he woke up the next morning and walked . . . to the motel room bathroom.  “What’s that on your ass?”

“Uhh, a hickey, I’m hoping?  Hell, don’t ask me.  I wasn’t even there when it happened—whatever it is . . . or was.  What is it?  Do we have any coffee?”

“It looks like somebody wrote something on your ass, in red.  To me, it looks like an e-mail address?  Is it?  Was that your idea?  Are you going to use it?”

“Hell, I don’t know.  If it is, I can’t even read it from here.  Was she cute?”

“You tell me.  I wasn’t there, didn’t you notice?”

The bathroom didn’t seem to be getting any closer.

The likelihood and synchronicity of someone at Fantasy Fest carrying a Sharpie and also being just close enough—among fifteen thousand revelers on a Tuesday night—at the precise moment and exact spot on Duval Street at which a third person—nude and body-painted—wants to write her e-mail address on a butt cheek is so implausible . . . and yet it happened.  We don’t know what any of this means . . .

Or thought we didn’t, until Reverend Sharpie Night at Justina’s third Boogie.

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Spring has sprung, and just for fun, here’s another excerpt from Chapter One:

Rallies, over the years, also have featured various tribute bands of Lynyrd Skynyrd, Guns N’ Roses, BTO, AC/DC, Aerosmith, Metallica, Foreigner, ZZ Top, et al.  The rock-and-roll dancing, on slick, dewy grass under a full or waxing or waning moon—while some stranger shares a joint or some chick is bending over in a thong or taking off her top—is always inspired and always immensely satisfying at these biker rallies.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . la, la, la . . . “Shine”  (Collective Soul)

This is the good shit:  the fun, meaningful, spontaneous, and natural shit that sustains bikers through those November Mondays, January Tuesdays, and February Wednesdays—when the kids are sick, work’s a drag, bills pile high, no one’s listening to you, and sex is just a three-letter word in TV sitcoms—that follow each year while the bike, tarped and STA-BIL-ized, leans alone on its low, curved, shiny stand in the garage.

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Happy St. Paddy’s Day!  Here’s a little something green from Chapter Nine . . .

Yeah, Justina developed an intense, totally explicable, love for bad boys very early on.  In a local eight-ball hall, Justina’s pool-hustling dad had plopped her onto a green felt table—turned low-railed playpen—with cue in hand at around age four, which probably explains her various pool table shenanigans at sports bars, at rallies, and even at Fantasy Fest.  Hell, it might even explain her affinity for the blue, dry-erase, markers she uses on the whiteboards of her classrooms.

“If I can’t use chalk, it’s at least gotta be blue,” Justina has told her adult students.

And, if there’s a pool table within proximity, Justina will discover it, strut around it, pose atop it, and even fuck on it.  By the way, she’s not too bad of a shot either:  two-ball kisses are her specialty.  Ahem . . .

Well, that was the narrow and specific influence of Justina’s dad.  But, it was Justina’s uncle Kenny, who’s responsible for her love of motorcycle riding . . . and leather . . .

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Have you spotted our ad in ABATE’s Hoosier Motorcyclist Magazine?!  Just this week, our ad appeared on page 45 in the “Dust off your bike . . . ” February/March issue.  You may notice that our book cover in the ad, ironically, was CENSORED!  Justina had to superimpose a teacher’s blackboard over partially naked and body-painted body parts presented, we thought, quite tastefully on the book’s cover.  Note:  This is the monthly magazine published by the organization that has hosted da Boogie for 34 consecutive years!

We are indebted to the HMM editorial board for allowing us to compromise the book’s cover in order to advertise it.  We are also indebted to ABATE for its continued annual sponsorship of da Boogie.  We are much looking forward to celebrating at ABATE’s 35^th Boogie in July!  See you there!  BOOGIE ON!

Speaking of ironies, here’s an excerpt from Chapter One . . .

Whenever talking about da Boogie with locals, a Boogie devotee typically gets a comment of either wistful intrigue or instantaneous and adamant scorn.

“Yeah, I’d love to go to da Boogie!  But my old man won’t let me.  He says it’s way too wild.  Of course . . . he goes every year.”

Fucking husbands!

“I wouldn’t go to the Boogie if you paid me.  From what I hear, it’s all fat, naked people having orgies all week.  It’s sinful!  And I hate camping . . . and mud . . . and crowds . . . and loud music.”

Obviously, even people who’ve never been to da Boogie or even a less-fabled motorcycle rally have—carry—their own Boogie and rally stories even though they’ve never been to one . . . or either . . . or any.

“Curiouser and curiouser,” offers Alice from her own Wonderland stories.

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As the celebrated pianist Van Cliburn said, “We need music to tell us why we are living.”  Or something like that . . . . 

 So, pleasure yourself now with the la, la, la . . . musical references for Rallies, Fests, & Hot Tubs:  Having Fun Can Be HELL on Relationships II.  Just go to “RFH:  ACT II” under “The MUSIC” tab for YouTube links corresponding to the music throughout the book.

But first, have some fun with this excerpt including a la, la, la . . . from Chapter Five in which Justin gets his groove on.  After all, Justin has dedicated this book to his brother . . . who taught him how to dance . . .

The DJ returned and announced the last set for the night.  All the women who could squeeze, squirmy, or shimmy themselves onto the pole dance stage did so for one last hurrah . . . and photo op.  Justin and Amaris, adjacent, started to dance . . . and kept dancing long after the music had stopped.  Justina, feeling a tad depleted and deprived of attention, now, after some fourteen hours of non-stop partying, announced that she was heading for the tent.

Justin and Amaris continued to dance.  Amaris turned toward the stage and bent over, grabbing the edge of the black, vinyl-tiled plywood stage.  Justin continued to dance—against her rotundress rump—while several cell phones flashed.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . la, la, la . . . “Fat Bottomed Girls”  (Queen)

Justin didn’t know that fishnet could be so easy to get his fingers into and under.

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