fuonlyknew

Rocked in Time (Volume Three in
the Resistance Trilogy) slips behind the scenes of a blasphemous
theater company hell-bent on toppling America’s Vietnam-era
establishment with punch lines, pratfalls, and comic rebellion. Along
the way, our protagonist pursues a love for the stage, a passion for
resistance, and the intimate politics of sexual revolution amid the
tear-gassed campuses and burning cities of a nation at war with itself.

Release Date: October 18, 2022

Publisher: Harvard Square Editions

Soft Cover: 978-1941861882; 408 pages; $22.95

Amazon: https://amzn.to/3AhO7NW

Book Excerpt  

RATMAN MEETS THE 50-FOOT HINDU

The Emeryville flats used to stink of the tide. Dead fish, drying algae, bottles and cans, old tires lay scattered over a landscape of mud and sewage. Stick figures perched on the muddy edges of the East Bay, fanciful driftwood and tin creatures standing stork-legged in the mud, stick-flapping arms, wings, feathers, broken brooms, old flags, weathervanes, hubcaps, rusted saw blades, other detritus.

Celebrating America’s junk. Resistance. We drove together, my cousin Eric and I, in a VW bus weathered to a chalky blue. Across the flats, the Bay Bridge arched toward Angel Island and beyond, to the summer fog bank of San Francisco. We bounced into the Haight-Ashbury to check out a band my cousin had written to me about the previous winter. He called them the Jefferson Airplane and they were playing at a little club called The Matrix.

We were stoned on Mexican weed. I was reciting lines from Ratman Meets the 50-Foot Hindu, a play I had recently closed back in Harvard’s experimental, black box theater. I played a 50-foot Hindu who had journeyed to America to avenge the murder of the sacred cow. This zealot took his revenge by stomping his burger-munching victims to death with a set of hooves.

I’d picked up the fake Indian accent from the cultural ether without offense. White people had begun to stir, waking to the notion that civil rights were human rights and that racism was alive and well in America. When Ratman and the 50-foot Hindu walked the earth, India still seemed like a distant, overpopulated nation, shaped by British colonialism, its independence two decades old but still imbued with the nonviolence of Gandhi and the meditative power of the spinning wheel. The Maharishi hadn’t yet hustled The Beatles, India and Pakistan hadn’t yet become nuclear powers, Bangladesh hadn’t been flooded out by cyclones, and John and Yoko’s meditations hadn’t dispatched my generation on a simpleton’s goose chase.

So, my Hindu accent was still okay and my character diabolical, a complex being who, beyond his fierce and scheming interior, presented himself as an addled older gentleman whose faith had been defiled by America’s hamburger fetish. He was a man with a mission. But the 50-foot Hindu had proven to be no match for Ratman.

In the finale, the superhero and his diabolically tragic foe squared off in a revolving restaurant high above the city.