In Search Of Spock

 

by Solomon Tate

There was a guy busking near Yonge & Dundas at a time when the city frowned upon such artistic endeavors, and I stopped to listen with Farberman and Goodfellow. “He’s actually pretty good.”, I said.

“Not bad.”, Goodfellow agreed. “But what the hell is he singing about? Its inane and cursory, not to mention somewhat derivative.”

“Why do you always have to do that?”, Farberman asked Goodfellow. “Why do you always have to fling words around that no regular person ever says?”

“Because”, Goodfellow replied. “I am not regular.” It was true, Goodfellow always enjoyed speaking as if he were a Rhodes Scholar. The truth is, he barely squeaked through University. But to his credit, he was an exceptionally perceptive writer.

“You’re not normal, either.”, Farberman quipped.

Goodfellow was right though, the lyric and concept of the songs were flat and uninspiring. There were times when I missed playing. I hadn’t been involved in a project since the demise of The Habits, and I had this recurring sense that my existence had become something like Canadian Whiskey with the alcohol removed. Goodfellow, Farberman and I headed off for a night of degradation and debauchery that only the mind of Fielding Goodfellow could envision. We hit Filmore’s and The Brass Rail, notable titty bars, and wound up at Larry’s, a dive bar that catered to the disreputable, dissatisfied, and disenfranchised pseudo anarchists that had sprung up across the city like weeds in a garden. Some all girl punk band, Pussy Riot, who Goodfellow seemed to know were playing, and he guaranteed a good time for all.

Fielding Goodfellow was many things, but he was never ever wrong about what constituted a good time. We wound up partying with the band through most of the night, getting wasted and getting laid. Even Farberman seemed to enjoy himself, although there were several occasions in which he freaked out over the giant ducks doing calisthenics in the room.  Farberman hated ducks, although we once shared the Peking Duck at Szechuan Palace, and he seemed to like it.

A few days later, after returning from one of  Goodfellow’s peyote induced parallel universes filled with Spanish speaking lizard people, Farberman’s dog went missing. This was really nothing new, I mean every year we went through the same thing. The dog somehow got out of the yard and went out looking for a canine call girl. Farberman searched frantically for the animal, and each year he returned unsuccessful to find Spock, the Labrador, laying across the front porch of his parents’ house, smoking a cigarette. But this time Farberman said it was different. All of Spock’s toys, his water and food bowls and his leash were gone as well. “Are you suggesting that your dog has run away from home?”, Goodfellow asked with his patented brand of psycho-sarcasm.

“All of the evidence seems to support that theory.”, Farberman replied.

“You’re out of your fucking mind.”, Goodfellow told him. I was siding with Goodfellow on this one. It seemed unlikely that the dog could have packed up all of his belongings and hit the road.

“What would he need the leash for?”, I asked.

“I have to try to find him.”, Farberman said. And with that, Goodfellow, Farberman and I set off in search of Spock. We started at the Farberman house, and found that indeed all of the dog’s belongings were gone, from the bowls to the food and even the toys. All of it was gone. It was as if there had never been a dog here. Goodfellow proposed a theory that Spock was a victim of alien abduction, which Farberman quickly refuted as unfounded and obtuse. So, we wandered the neighborhood, checking backyards, alleyways, and the ravine that ran through the area, without any measure of success, and wound up sitting down in the middle of a park that Spock was particularly fond of.

“Have you asked your parents anything about this?”, I asked.

“They’re the ones who told me that Spock was gone.”, Farberman replied.

“Maybe they meant that he had died.”, Goodfellow blurted out as he and I dropped a hit of purple haze. Farberman sat motionless, deep in thought.

“I have to go talk to my parents.”, he stated, as he got up and headed out of the park. Goodfellow and I remained at the park for a while, waiting for the longest train we had ever seen pass by. When we caught up with Farberman, he was quite distraught. Spock was gone. Really gone. He had died. He was old, and well, shit happens. It was sad though, I mean, he had that dog for 18 years, that’s like 126 in Spock years. Farberman just wanted to be alone, so Goodfellow and I, still reeling from the haze, went back to the park with the train.

It was Goodfellow, surprisingly enough who came up with the plan for the memorial service. He thought that it might make Farberman feel better. “Put some closure to it.”, he said. With the help of Farberman’s parents, we tracked down Spock’s body at the Veterinarian, and recovered it for burial. Even though the Farbermans had paid for cremation, Goodfellow secured the remains by trading some of his sacred hallucinogenics with a veterinarian assistant. “It seems like the least we can do for the scientist. He’s not a bad guy.”, Goodfellow said. “He just needs to loosen the fuck up.” This too was true. Farberman was without a doubt the most sober, solemn and resolute person I knew.

Goodfellow went all out for the service. he had invited several people to attend, and participate. He managed to obtain a small, headstone prop from a theatre company, and had SPOCK carved into it. We arrived at the park the deceased loved so much. Farberman was in awe of what he was witnessing. The girls from Pussy Galore were there, singing a somewhat punked up version of The Beach Boys ‘Forever’,  but it was nicely done. Spock was laid to rest in his favorite park, with a headstone to mark his final resting place. Goodfellow had retrieved his leash from the vet as well, and gave this to Farberman, as balloons were released into a clear blue sky. I swear I saw Farberman cry, but I suppose he needed to. When the service was over, everyone left, leaving me and Goodfellow to stand silently with our friend. Goodfellow had outdone himself, and I was surprised at just how thoughtful this usually arrogant ass was. It seemed that he was not as big of a prick as he wanted us to believe. He did indeed have feelings, and he cared. I never really looked at him in quite the same way. We stayed friends for many years, until our paths veered off in different directions. He still writes, ventures through time and space, and occasionally sends me coded messages of his whereabouts, which I have never been able to decipher. I am certain however, that he is totally wasted at the time, and most likely sitting in his living room. Farberman went on to work in government supported research, until his disappearance years later. And me, well, I wrote some books, some short stories, and taught creative writing. That singular event brought the three of us closer than we had ever been. Even Farberman and Goodfellow developed a new found respect for each other. And I have decided that when my time comes, I would like to go out like Spock. Old and tired, with friends singing on a clear, sunny day. Just be sure that Goodfellow doesn’t bring any lizards or ducks. It will scare the crap out of Farberman.

 

 

 

 

 

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Joey

 

by Fielding Goodfellow

It was 1978. I found myself sitting at Fran’s, following a  screening of The Planet Of The Apes while on peyote. I was unable to sleep, confused by what was merely a by product of the hallucinogenic, and what was not. Giant apes that spoke and rode on horses was a little too much for my friend Tate, and he had been taken to hospital and held  for what they suspected was a psychotic break, but turned out to be nothing more than a bad trip. I had just taken a seat as 10cc’s  ‘Dreadlock Holiday’ began playing on the radio. Joey  was on the other side of the counter. I had known her for almost 3 years. She was insanely beautiful, with dark eyes and a Joan Jett haircut. As she gyrated to the rhythm I sat there mesmerized, watching her move her hips.  She was a part time waitress, an aspiring photographer, and she fronted a local, all female rock band called Pussy Galore. Judging by what her spandex tights were revealing, I could see that it made perfect sense.

I felt kind of bad for Tate, freaking himself out like that, but mind was on Joey. I thought about jumping over the counter and taking her right there and then more than once. She told me that her band had a gig coming up, and asked if I would come down and see them play and write an article for them. Pussy Galore was in need of a publicist, and seeing this as an opportunity to get into Joey’s spandex tights, I accepted the invitation. The show was at Larry’s Hideaway, a downtown bar one step below skid row where, for a two dollar cover charge, you could get cheap watered down beer, and a chance at contracting any one of the myriad of  diseases that were living on the tables and chairs. Still, it was one of my favorite places in the city. In a world filled with socio-political unrest, it was a haven for the freaks and the outsiders.

There was a small crowd at the club that night, with a handful of failed AA members, and a small group of punkers who had recently shared both a needle and the lone girl in their group. I spotted Joey off to the side of the stage, and headed over. “Let me take you backstage and introduce you to the other Pussys.”, she said.

“Well”, I replied. “I’d certainly like to meet as many as I can.” When I got backstage, I found 4 women of incredible beauty in various states of undress, clarifying beyond a shadow of a doubt why this band had chosen the name Pussy Galore.

Their performance was inspired. They appeared on stage braless, in see through tops, and g strings and, despite their lack of any real talent, they had driven the crowd into a frenzy.   When Joey removed her top and squeezed her tits as the Pussys banged out ‘Suck On These’, mayhem erupted. Tables and chairs were kicked over, and glasses were thrown at the walls. I was pretty sure it was due to Joey’s boobs and not the music, but the Pussys certainly had the attention of the audience. I sat with the girls in the dressing room following the show, discussing what I would write as we got wasted on peyote.  I tried desperately to look at their faces while we spoke, but I was unsuccessful. We agreed to meet at Joey’s apartment in a few days to map out a promotional strategy for the band.

In the days before the band meeting I went to check on Tate. I found him with Farberman, a science nerd who had been Tate’s college roommate. Farberman was an ass, a narrow minded little man with aspirations of changing the world one experiment at a time. Tate was doing better, a little disoriented, but generally well. I liked Tate. He just needed to have that stick up his ass surgically removed, but he was alright. It was good to hear, as I suspected that world could always use another mediocre writer who was hanging from the edge so precariously.

The meeting with the band went as well as could be expected, and we agreed to move forward with a plan to promote and exploit their sexuality. Perhaps it was the drugs, but the girls had no problem with posing nude, and I had no problem with accepting the job of taking the photos, after all, I was the official publicist. When these 4 women were completely naked together and started posing, their inner bi-sexuality was simultaneously triggered. I found myself shooting various shots of girl on girl action that would have caused a lesser man’s brain to explode and ooze out of his ears. There I was, with a camera in my hand, and an erection in my pants, and all I could think about was banging Joey as I watched her become more and more aroused by the drummer’s touch. When the girls were done and, I assume, the effects of the drugs had worn off, they wanted to go get something to at. three of them dressed, while Joey and I stayed behind. “So do you think you’ll be able to help us?”, she asked, still naked.

“Well, I certainly like trying.”, I replied.

“Let’s see if I can help you with your problem.”, she said as she took my hand and led me into the bedroom. Shortly after, Pussy Galore disbanded. The guitarist and bass player took off to some island in the Caribbean after discovering that they were in love with each other. I have no idea what became of the drummer, but I heard that she had joined a metal band who went on to have a moderately successful career. Joey continued to work at Fran’s for about another year or so, and finished her photography course. She moved to England and failed in her attempts at achieving her dreams. She died of a drug overdose in a hotel room occupied by a member of a semi-famous rock star. It was sad , really.

Larry’s Hideaway was torn down to expand Allen’s Gardens, a favorite for dog owners who refuse to clean up after their animal, the homeless, and other marginalized members of the community. Farberman went on to work for the government in a top secret installation that was involved in experimenting with weird ass weapons systems. And Tate, well he became a writer and a college professor of creative writing, as well as an alcoholic. I have heard that he has been clean for many, many years now. Every now and then I look back at those days, hanging out a Fran’s with Joey, getting wasted with Tate, and hanging out at the Roxy for the Friday midnight movie madness with fondness and hilarity.

 

 

 

 

and other than Carl The Crasher, who had earned his name by attending every Bar Mitzvah in the city since 1968  without every being invited, no one ,  else was around

 

A Trip To Emerald City

by Fielding Goodfellow

 

The truth is that we are surrounded by absurdity. And assholes. Absurdity and assholes seem to have sprung up like weeds in The Deadly Poppy Fields while we were busy manipulating our way through the complexities of locating a drive-in, or a drive through. We are surrounded by scarecrows, tin men, and lions. I had anticipated the  3 Stooges, but  I would wholeheartedly support a ‘Shemp For King’ movement, as I watch the ignorant, the heartless, and the cowards embark on a mission to find the great and powerful who, ironically is hiding behind a curtain.  In light of the mass delirium, quite often a result of messing with poppies, I would prefer to be a Munchkin, more specifically a card carrying member of The Lollipop Guild. Every now and again though, I hope that there are miracles. Not the walk on water, or part the sea kind of miracle, but the whack on the back of the head with a mallet kind that makes you stop and realize that there never really was a place called Oz.

The never ending barrage of bullshit that is hurled at us with blinding speed, invades our psyche like nuclear fallout. It penetrates and infects us. Thinly disguised as tradition and culture, we spread this viral miasma across communities like a pandemic giving birth to schisms and isms that are glorified with chants of  “We’ve always done it that way”. The ebb and flow of change, much like sanity, moves us no further along The Yellow Brick Road, but lulls us into the erroneous belief that we are somewhere else merely by changing the scenery. Its all just smoke and mirrors, a deceitful illusion used to draw us into The Deadly Poppy Fields where we fall asleep and become redundant.

Sanity appears like hallucinations, and reality dabbles in paranoid schizophrenic flashbacks. When you find yourself laying face down on a beach in some tropical paradise with alligator servers bringing you drinks with those damned umbrellas, and you have no recollection as to how you got there, you stop and wonder if any sentient being knows what the fuck is really going on. With some assistance from the peyote you managed to procure from the Spanish speaking burrito working the front desk, you realize that its all just one big mind fuck. And when you wake from your slumber among the poppies  you find a hoard of flying monkeys dressed like Moroccan bell hops swooping down, as you high tail it across the fields to find yourself standing at the gate to The Emerald City you have spent a lifetime searching for, only to be informed by the doorman that you are not worthy enough to be permitted entry. It really makes no difference, as you find, when the peyote wears off, that you never left the living room.

 

 

 

Feeding The Baby

 

 

My wife was always an exceptional mother. I would watch in amazement as she exercised her maternal prowess. With 5 kids, there was always changings, and feedings, and trips to doctors, and a host of car pool events for the older ones.I helped as much as she would allow, relegated me to the chores and tasks she felt didn’t require a mother’s touch. I changed diapers, and gave kids bottles when they were done nursing. The responsibility for the nursing of the children was entirely hers. Except for that one evening in 1996.

The baby was crying, my wife was exhausted, and it was 2 in the morning. “I’ll go get her and bring her in here.”, I said.

I picked the baby up from her crib, and cradling her in my arms began the walk back to my wife. Suddenly I felt a sharp pain, and looked down to see the baby firmly attached to my nipple. Now I don’t know what the protocols are in a situation like this, but I began tugging, and pulling, and tugging some more, but she just wouldn’t let go. I screamed. Really, I screamed. My wife came running to find me sitting on the floor, trying to pry this monster off my nipple. “You have to break the seal.”, she said, laughingly.

“Get this thing off of me.”, I shouted, as the baby began sucking harder and harder. My wife inserted one of her fingers into the side of the baby’s mouth and I don’t know what happened, but the baby fell off. I was free. I passed the baby to my wife, and went into the bathroom to examine the damage. It was sore, and red, and I think I saw my life flash before me. “I think its swollen.”, I told my wife. “Do you think I should see the doctor?”

“You’ll be fine.”, she said.

“What the hell is wrong with that kid?”, I asked, still massaging my swollen, painful nipple.

“There’s nothing wrong with her.”, I was informed. “She was just hungry.”

It took a few days, but things got back to normal, as the swelling went down, and the pain subsided. Following that fateful night, I have never picked up a baby without wearing a shirt.

 

 

 

 

 

 

I had always gone out of my wife to help my wife take care of the kids when they were younger. I clothed them, fed them, changed them, took them for walks, took them to the park, took them everywhere really, and just always tried to be involved. So when my youngest was a baby, and in her crib crying, I decided that I would go get her and bring her down to my wife. I lifted her out of her crib, and cuddled her against my chest, and began the treacherous walk down two flights of stairs to where my wife was waiting.

 

 

sima latching o to y nipple…

Sexualization

by Fielding Goodfellow

The waiting room was painfully disturbing, with dark stained walls and floors, and outdated copies of Chatelaine and Reader’s Digest stacked neatly on a table that sat between two high back faux leather chairs. There were Rockwellesque paintings hung in such a way that one could never be free of their idiosyncratic smiles no matter where you moved in the room. There was a typed note taped to the door that read ‘PLEASE LEAVE BOOTS HERE’ which of course, I chose to ignore. There were book cases lining the walls, filled with tomes that illustrated the limited imagination of the woman who worked here. There were diplomas, degrees, and a variety of accolades framed and meticulously affixed to a wall as if we needed any reminders that we were in the presence of mediocrity. The interior of the office itself was no less disturbing. There was a black leather couch, with a chair behind it, next to a small table with a lamp atop of it. At the other end of the room was a large desk, neatly organized, with everything in its place. There were cabinets strategically placed around the room, on which photographs of the doctor’s friends and family, engaging in frivolous fun, were displayed. I only saw her for a few sessions, and I suppose that after banging her on her office desk, she just wasn’t able to face me. She told me that I was pre-occupied with sex, that I had an addiction to sex, and that I was using the immediate gratification sex offered to compensate for the void in other aspects of my life.  It might have been true, but I really didn’t care.

There have been a multitude of women, women of varying ages, backgrounds, ethnicity, and perversions, all of which I embraced willingly, with an appetite as voracious as a starving jackal. There were however, no Pee Wee Herman moments, sitting alone in dank movie theaters frantically wanking to the prefabricated sex being projected on the semen stained silver screen and then, putting the limp weapon of mass erection away, rejoin the human race. Actually it’s never really about the orgasm, although that is a wonderfully brilliant bonus, but rather the intimacy,  the physical contact, the tactile pleasure of skin touching skin. It is always about the woman. The orgasm is merely the ultimate prize you discover in the box of Cracker Jack, once you’ve eaten the candy coated popcorn. Yes, I truly did buy the Cracker Jack for the popcorn. The prize was an added bonus. I suppose then that I just might have an addiction to women well, naked women. More specifically, naked and horny women, with dark hair and glasses.

Over the years I have regularly sought them out, plying them with food and drink, and tickets to movies, concerts and other assorted events. There were weekend getaways, gifts of flowers and chocolates, and in retrospect, it was all meticulously orchestrated in an attempt to get their clothes off, and keep them off for as long as possible. Many years ago, one of my neighbors, who I had been having sex with on a regular basis, told me that I was a ‘horny little fucker’. It seems that I never quite grew out of it, although I prefer to not use the word ‘little’ any longer when discussing my sexual exploits.

In the early 1980s, when I was doing some PR/Publicity work for local, independent New Wave bands, I was riding the Subway to attend a meeting at a local radio station. Seated across from me was a young woman. I couldn’t take my eyes off of her. She was stunningly beautiful, again with dark eyes and dark hair, and glasses. As fate would have it, we exited the train at the same station, with her walking slightly behind me. I don’t know why, I suppose it could have been the copious amount of drugs I had taken, but I stopped, turned to her and let her know just how beautiful I thought she was. She thanked me, and asked if I was interested in joining her for a cup of coffee. And so, began the eating the Cracker Jack, and I accepted the invitation. Coffee soon turned to arriving at her place and enjoying a rousing game of the headmaster and the school girl, and the prize at the bottom of the Cracker Jack box was mine. I missed my meeting by the way. The therapist had informed me that the designation of addiction is given when the behavior interferes with the normal functioning in my life. Well, wasn’t she surprised when I informed her that getting laid whenever possible was normal functioning in my life, and as the Jung Madame Freud became a willing participant in the doctor and the patient game which took place in her office  during one of our sessions, it appeared to me that she was as  just as much of a horny little fucker as I.

These incredible women are everywhere, in cafes, on buses, and in book stores, with erect nipples inciting and inviting me with a nod and a wink.  Addict or not, the mere possibility of engaging in sex is what makes it so wonderfully thrilling. Otherwise, I too would be sitting in the dark at Petrov’s Porn Palace, weapon in hand, defiling myself over and over again again as the girl with the big tits  gets down on her knees.

The Commencement

 

by Fielding Goodfellow

2004 Commencement address at Wharington College. It has been reported by several witness that Goodfellow was under the influence of hallucinogenics at the time. 

Many of the people I used to know seemed to possess an inane need to belong. Not to anything in particular, just a compelling need to attach to something bigger than themselves. It appeared back then, that belonging was paramount to one’s own happiness, and sanity. There was a seemingly endless parade of lemmings, following a path of insanity in order to maintain some semblance of sanity in a world that had at its very core, the intent to drive the masses out of their friggin’ collective minds. I watched them, one by one, leap off the ledge into certain madness for a chance at eternal happiness. Don’t think for a moment that it was only the disenfranchised who suffered from the psycho-social ennui that seemed to consume a generation that had been promised happiness and contentment.

Politics and religion had only served to compound the listlessness, driving those who felt that they were merely empty shells into fragmented realms of humanity. Locked away in groups of other lost souls, removed from contact with those who were non believers, the paranoia of being a sole entity in a disturbingly frightening existence was enough to compel them to bang their tambourines at airport arrival terminals, and bus depots. And if it wasn’t the tambourine players, there were the 2 by 2 door knockers, and a host of other pseudo religious zealots who offered step by step guides to arriving at your destination one step ahead of the rest of humanity. In its simplest form, politics is what compels people to embrace religion. The design of government is to keep its people in constant turmoil and crisis, while religion offers freedom from such nonsensical bullshit through blind acceptance

And just when it appeared that things had become as bleak as they could get, the machines arrived. As if there wasn’t enough down time for human beings to wallow in their failed dreams and relative insignificance, technological advances relegated them to nothing more than directors of their lives, as the mechanized and artificially intelligent pseudo humans are given the staring role in what used to be theirs. They perform the tasks we are no longer required to perform, and never complain, or unionize. With this abundance of down time, more and more tattered souls seek some kind of solace and relevance for their glaring obsoletism.  And when the burden becomes too much to bear, the vacuum created by making them redundant, manufactures a desire, or perhaps a need to invite the 2 by 2 door knockers in for a cup of tea, and a enlightening discussion of how to save their souls by giving themselves over to some superior being who champions their arrival in a joyous, peaceful kingdom with flutes, harps, and an one can only hope, an eternal all you can eat buffet. There are self anointed shovelers of shit, parading around like arrogant school yard bullies threatening the voices of dissent, who always seem to find new ways of deceiving the general public. Prefaced with phrases that echo across galaxies, in the name of God, country, and freedom, their solicitous battle cries only serve to separate a man from his humanity.

The solution is buried so deep under layers of propaganda and lies spewed out by the those who lust after power, and long for the day when all men just shut the fuck up. The emptiness and the loneliness are shoved down our collective throats in the guise of pride and patriotism, designed to keep us wandering around this desert in search of just one drop of water so that we can stay alive and continue to wallow in misery, depression, anxiety, and a multitude of other debilitating disorders. And that act of mind numbing, aimless wandering keep them entrenched in the pursuit of the fabricated dream at the risk of forsaking the very essence of what makes them human. And while they roam the desert in search of that elusive drop of water, few ever are able to see beyond what the illusion offers. Just bite the fucking cactus. There’s water in there.

And so, my advice, with best intentions paving the road to hell, is this. Take care of yourself. Do not belong to anything. Nurture your own thoughts and ideas. Be humane, and be humble. Read everything. Listen to music. Play it loud and sing along. It doesn’t matter if you don’t know the words. Make them up. Just fucking sing. Have sex. Have lots of sex. Laugh often. Laugh at everything. Most importantly, laugh at yourself. Always, laugh at yourself. And make the bastards fear you. Insanity, drugs, and sex are your best defense.

 

The Resurrection Sisters

 

by Fielding Goodfellow

 

By 1972, we had enough. We were drowning in Holy Water, and choking on Sacramental Wafers. The existential revolution, while short lived, drove scores of highly susceptible teenage girls into the cars of  College men who regularly passed by Our Mother Of The Holy Emptiness Catholic School. They were plied with rock and roll, taken to drug parties, and subjected to sexual perversions their parents had desperately tried to protect them from. And without a second thought, these young ladies embraced it all, dropping hits of acid, and listening to The Blues Magoos or The Electric Prunes, while they doled out blow jobs still dressed in starched, white shirts, and pleated, plaid skirts. By 1975, these same girls had been transformed into card carrying socialists, marching around the campus, topless, demanding freedom of speech and freedom of choice. There were several of these events, in which the primarily freshmen and sophomore female participants, stood tall and removed their shirts to expose an array of breasts, stretching as far as the eye could see, chanting slogans about equality, freedom of expression, and political change. They carried banners and placards, emblazoned with the fiery catch phrases of the day. Truth be told, while my intentions were to be supportive, it turned out that I was only there for the tits. The hallucinogenics swimming around my head, like Siamese fighting fish, turned everything into a kind of cognitive pornography.

When the Campus Police arrived, taking target practice on these women, swinging batons at them as if they were pinatas, grabbing hold of them, as shouts of “Get your hands off my tits”,  echoed through the rally, the tittie parade ended. It always ended this way. I met Meghan and Holly, the resurrection sisters , so named for their ability to bang a man out of a coma, at one of these events. And, after a short discussion about hallucinogenics, we returned to the apartment they shared. As I prepared the peyote, Holly, now dressed in nothing but a very short towel, sat on the back of the couch, across from me, and began rubbing lotion on her legs, lifting one up at a time to rub in the cream, and consequently affording me a view of her little piece of paradise. “I see you’ve brought the cat out to play.”, Meghan said, as she witnessed Holly’s magic kingdom as well.

“She gets lonely sometimes.”, Holly replied, as she raised the other leg.

“Oh, that’s okay.”, I replied. “I’m actually quite fond of that breed of cat.” Holly was remarkably beautiful, and I was beginning to have some difficulty controlling the saluting navy seal who was stirring in my pants.

As the peyote began to take effect, I suggested that we play Tequila Strip Poker, before the pterodactyls flying around the room, noticed the Apple Bonkers hiding beside the fridge. Tequila strip poker, which  I had first discovered at the University Of Michigan in Ann Arbor, was simple. It was basically poker however, you bet with the clothes you were wearing, taking it off and placing it on the table. If you won the hand, you took it back, put it on, and took a shot of tequila. If you lost, you left the clothes off, and waited for the next hand. The winner was the one who got the last drink.

“Get dressed.”, Meghan said to Holly. “We’re gonna play Tequila Strip Poker”. The girls were completely messed up, and Mehgan, who had lost several hands in a row was convinced the armadillo sitting on the kitchen counter behind her was relaying information about her hand. He certainly was not. There was only one shot left in the bottle. Meghan had folded her hand, while Holly and I played for the last drink.  And here I was, gazing at the now completely naked Meghan, while Holly and I, both wearing our last article of clothing. were battling it out in the final hand of an intensely hard fought game, in the off campus apartment these two women shared. Holly removed her panties and placed them on the pile of clothes already on the table. Not to be outdone, I placed my boxers atop the pile.

“Three sevens.”, Holy said as she laid her cards on the table.

“Well”, I said. “Nice hand. But not good enough. Full house.” I displayed my cards for all to see. I took the bottle of tequila and finished it.

“What do we do now?”, Holly asked.

“Whatever you want.”, I said, knowing full well that all I really wanted was to play with the cat.

With the navy seal already at attention and holding a salute, Holly dropped to her knees, while Meghan drove her tongue down my throat like a drilling rig searching for oil. I’m almost sure it was the effects of the peyote, but these 2 women provided me with an insanely satisfying pornographic experience that few had ever rivaled. We stayed together all night, indulging in drugs, sex, and Pink Floyd’s ‘Wish You Were Here’. Holly and I started dating, if we can call it dating. The relationship was merely a series of meetings that involved one hallucinogenic or another, and limitless, meaningless, mind blowing sexual acrobatics. Meghan, who often felt left out, was regularly invited to join our circus themed sexcapades, and willingly accepted. The 3 of us spent most of our time together, roaming the campus in search of pterodactyls and Apple Bonkers, and an empty lecture hall in which to engage in our carnal calisthenics.

By the end of the year, Meghan had become chairperson of The League of Women for Social Change, leading the charge of equality, leading the marches against all those who contested their demand,, standing tall and topless, while Holly had developed a paranoid schizophrenic disorder. There was some chatter that the drugs had created the disease, which I suppose could have been true, but the orgasm that seemed to last for several months may just have easily played a part in her declining stability. I guess, no one will really know for sure. She received treatment, and last I heard, she was doing well, taking her medication, and had written a series of children’s books with illustrations that closely resemble our peyote picnics. Meghan completed University and went on to find fame and glory as an exotic dancer on the less than reputable Ontario-Quebec circuit. I have seen her perform a few times, and well, she can still get the navy seal to stand at attention and salute. And me, well, I finished school, with a double major in psychology and philosophy, and a minor almost in my bed. The 3 of us have never been together since those days, but I did enjoy an evening with Meghan, getting high on peyote, and playing a rousing game of Tequila Strip Poker, as Close To The Edge started to play.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

And yet, amid the hallucinations and the multiple realities that I was experiencing

For the record, what transpired over the next few months was never my intention.

 

 

 

 

The Handyman

 

“Do you remember…”, my wife began, and I braced myself. Every time she began with that phrase, it meant we were about to set out on a review of all of the tings I had done wrong, or had forgot to do, in front of all of the kids. She thought it was cute and funny and something my kids’ partners should be made aware of.

“Do you remember the time you tried to put that barbecue together?”, she asked.

“I don’t think so.”, I answered.

“Oh, come on.” she said. “Sure you do. We were living in that big, old farm house. You were out in the back yard with your tool box. I was watching you from the kitchen window. You kept dropping screws, and were crawling round in the grass looking for them. When you were done you had all of these left over parts.”

“They always put extra screws in those things.”, I said.

“That’s exactly what you said then.”, she continued. “And when you put the burgers on the grill, the whole thing tipped over, and the food was on the ground. Remember? We had to throw it all out and order pizza.”

“Ya. Ya.” I said. “I remember. I also remember you thought it was the best pizza you’d ever tasted.

“I remember that.”, one of my sons responded.”

“For that you wake up?”, I asked him.

“It was funny.”, he said. “You were so mad.”

“And what about the time he tried to build a wall unit.”, another son stated.

“Oh ya.”, my wife said. “You put the doors on upside down. The whole thing was backwards.”

“It worked, didn’t it?”, I asked.

“Well, we couldn’t use the drawers or the cupboards.”, one of my daughters stated.

“You don’t need drawers or cupboards on a wall unit.”, I answered.

“Didn’t he try to put a crib together once?”, another daughter asked.

“Oh, that was great.”, my wife answered. “He wound up shoving a screwdriver through his hand. 5 stitches, and nerve damage in a finger.”

“The damn crib was put together, wasn’t it?”, I stated.

“Yes it was.”, my wife answered, as condescending as I had ever heard her.

“Are we done.”, I asked.

“I don’t think so.”, she said. “I’m sure there’s more.”

“And the desk.”, someone shouted.

“Right.”, my wife shrieked. “You built me a desk. Lifted it out of the box, and pulled your back out. But you just kept on trying.”

“You still use that desk, don’t you?”, I pointed out.

“I do.”, she replied, “but I rebuilt it myself, afterwards. well, the kids helped.”

“Didn’t you get hurt a lot when you were a kid?”, one of my daughters decided to join in.

“I don’t remember.”, I replied.

“Oh, sure you do.”, my wife interjected. “Your mother told me all kinds of stuff. When you were 5 or so, you got a hazel nut shell in your eye. Almost lost the eye.”

“Didn’t one of us almost poke his eye out?”, a son asked.

“Yes.”, my wife answered. “You did.”. she said looking at my eldest daughter.”You wanted him to read you a book, when he said no, you hit him in the eye with the book. What did the doctor say?”

“Detached retina.”, I answered.

“Right.”, my wife continued. “For 3 weeks he walked around with a patch on his eye. It was like living with Jack Sparrow. And, you fell off of the roof of your parent’s house at least once, right? Right. And what happened when you went through the screen door?”

“Nothing happened.”, I said. ” I was running down the hall, and pushed the door to open it so I could go outside. I missed the handle, so the door didn’t open, and I ran right through the glass.”

“And the can opener.”, my son shouted.

“Oh, yeah.”, my wife said as she laughed. “What were you trying to open, a can of tuna? Well it doesn’t matter. We had just got one of those openers that are supposed to make it safer to handle the cans. Well, not for him. He was draining the liquid, and he yelled “Oh shit”. When I went to the kitchen, I saw him with a dish towel wrapped around his hand, and blood pouring out. 7 stitches, and nerve damage in the rest of the hand.”

“Holy shit.”, one of my sons said. “You probably shouldn’t do anything.”

“What I should do”, I told him, “Is kick your scrawny ass.”

“Oh, relax.”, my wife said. “You probably just wind up pulling a muscle or something.”

“Are we done?”, I asked as I stood up. “I’m going to smoke now.”

“Almost.”, my wife continued so I sat back down. She came over and sat on my lap, putting her arms around my neck. “And yet”, she said, “he is the best man I know. He has always kept me and the kids safe, and he makes me laugh. He is always there for us, helping us fight our fights, and making the pain and fear go away.” She looked me in the eye and continued. “And just so you know, I don’t need you to put things together, or build me things. You do more for me, for us, than you even realize, and I wouldn’t change a thing. You are the best husband I could have imagined.”

“Well”, I said, “now the truth finally comes out.”

“Just one thing though.”, she said. “If you’re going to cook, please let me know. You never remember to turn the oven off.”

“Oh, I remember.”, I told her. “I just choose not to do it because I know how how happy it makes you to think you need to take care of me.”

“You 2 are so messed up.”, one of my daughters said.

“Ya.”, my wife said. “But we like it that way.”

 

 

 

 

Fielding Goodfellow Speaks

 

This is an excerpt from an interview with Fielding Goodfellow published in ‘Psychedelic Psecrets’, in June 2016.

I met Fielding Goodfellow at a small Middle Eastern restaurant just north of the city. I had been advised by his publicist that he does not talk about politics or religion. I arrived a few minutes early, to find him already seated at a table, drinking Turkish coffee. The following has been transcribed from notes I took at this meeting.

MAG: You’ve written short stories, a few novels, and a screenplay. No one seems to know much about the screenplay. Where did that come from?

FG:  Oh, ya. ‘Free Swim In The Gene Pool’. My foray into film. It was, by the way, a resounding piece of crap.  I wrote it on a dare from a friend.

MAG: ‘Free Swim In The Gene Pool’? I’ve never heard of it.

FG: Well,  I’m not surprised. As I said, it was crap.

MAG: Did you always want to be a writer?

FG: No, I never thought about being a writer. I wanted to be a super hero. The writing thing I think was always there, laying patiently in wait. And then one day, it just all started to fall out.

MAG: There are numerous references to your days at University in most of your work. What was your major?

FG: Well, as I remember it, my University days were quite the Space Oddity, so I suppose there was Major Tom. Oh, and there were the majorettes.

MAG: Sex and drugs. Right?.

FG: Pretty much.

MAG:  Both seem to be recurrent themes in your work. What’s your take on the upcoming recreational marijuana laws?

FG:  I have no opinion, really. Drugs are simply a great way to travel to far off places without having to put my pants on.

MAG: You once said that the writing process and sex are pretty much the same. Care to elaborate?

FG: I probably did say that, but I have this weird ass writer friend in Detroit who said it first. But ya, I think its true. The only difference is that with writing, I never have to apologize for finishing early.

MAG: You don’t seem to take much seriously, do you?

FG: No, I don’t. Its pointless. Life isn’t a serious venture. Its a divine comedy. A burlesque revue at best.

MAG: And for those who can’t seem to find the humor?

FG: Get the fuck out of the house. Just live life. Here’s the problem. When I was 13, I was riding my bike around the streets, having incredible sex with the neighborhood housewives. At 15, I was listening to The 13th Floor Elevators, smoking a joint, while getting a blow job from Wendy Phillips. Today, I rarely see kids outside. They’re busy sitting in their rooms, alone, playstation powered up, engaged in some fantasy bullshit with 4 other virginal nerds from assorted parts of the planet. Life isn’t fantasy. It’s life. Go out and fucking live it. Travel. Experience shit. Its wonderfully funny out there.

MAG: Are there any other words of wisdom for our readers?

FG: Stop listening to people who don’t know anything. The world is filled with ignorant twats who are selling information on things they really know nothing about. Why would you trust someone who has never raised kids to teach you how to raise kids? And yet, they write their books, appear on TV talk shows, flogging their insights into child rearing, all with no experience raising kids. They’re full of shit. If you want to know about raising kids, talk to someone who has raised 5 or 6 of them. Stop believing the so called experts.

MAG: So, what’s next for Fielding Goodfellow?

FG: Well, I think I’m going to order the chicken shawarma.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A Night To End All Nights

by Fielding Goodfellow

 

On Saturday night, or most probably early Sunday morning, I sat in Bemelman’s. An upscale Bistro on the corner of Bay & Bloor, it catered to the glamorous, those with celebrity, the nearly famous, and those that knew them. It had become a regular occurrence in the early days of January or February, 1981. It was the time that followed the death of social protest. Lennon was gone, and Dylan was still ensconced in his shroud of born again Christianity, which he wore like a super hero.  It was a time of excess. We indulged in far too much alcohol, inhaled and ingested far too many drugs, and stayed awake for days at a time.  And, I ate far too many eggs benedict. Bemelman’s served some of the best I had ever eaten. There was no longer any dissent. It had faded from our collective consciousness just as it had arrived, over a few beers with an opium chaser.  There were no longer any placard holding, mob scenes, with bra-less socially inept co-eds storming the campus administrative offices. There were no longer marches through the streets, gaining momentum and fervor with every step. And as I sat looking around the infamous eatery, I realized that we had all been had.

Something had gone terribly wrong. It usually did. It seemed as if the world had gone deaf, and possibly blind. The system was corrupt, filled with micro minded Harvard graduates who had been assembled with excess small parts, and suffered from incurable image envy, and no one seemed to notice. And with the future of our little corner of the universe teetering precariously over the proverbial edge, the wolves in sheep’s clothing had convinced most of us that we would not fall into the abyss waiting below, while they had removed themselves from the rapidly approaching cataclysm, by grabbing a pitching wedge to make the short chip shot to the green. And with that shot muffed,  the boisterous call of ‘Mulligan’ echoed across the galaxy. And yet as we hung on to the edge for dear life, not a single call of ‘Mulligan’ was heard. The current status quo of our planet had to have been a mistake, certainly worthy of a do over.

And there I was, mesmerized by the fragile egos of pseudo rock stars, artists, film makers, writers, and actors,  far too large to measure. And me, well, I was left wing. Several years at a Liberal Arts University had propelled me into a life of burgeoning Socialism, with an almost phobic distrust for systems, and a fondness for women who wore glasses.  I found myself sitting with a local music legend, who shall remain nameless, doing lines of coke at a table in the back, mixing it up with shots of Jack Daniels. A few celebrity hangers on had congregated by our table, listening to whatever words of wisdom came from this legend’s mouth, and interjecting random statements in order to validate their own existence. We did some opium right at the table, and in the haze I realized that I was just as full of shit as the rest of them. What the hell was I doing here? Perhaps it was the coke, or the opium, or the alcohol, or the combination of everything I had just sent coursing through my veins into my head, but I knew it was true. I was also sure that using Pez dispensers to dispense pharmaceuticals was one hell of an idea. What could be more fun that pulling a Valium, or a Xanax, or a Percodan right out of Superman’s mouth. There was a great deal of interest at Bemelman’s in starting up Pez Pills, and so another glorious idea was born. But like everything else, the nouveau bohemians were excited about, it waned as quickly as it was born, replaced with a new found  interest in spray on tans.

Sitting with a beer or two, while the opium turned the neurons in my head on and off, I noticed Felix Bergman, a music writer and former promoter who had fallen out of favor with the Bemelman Bohemians over  the Great Corn Flake debacle of 1979. The story goes, that Felix had booked a band into one of the top local concert venues. The singer/guitarist of the band as it turns out, was the offspring of a legendary musician, and  demanded Corn Flakes in his dressing room. However, he simply called it the ‘flakes with the cock on the box’. To make a long story short, Felix had purchased some bizarre sex toy and presented it to this budding star. The ensuing dispute resulted in the band refusing to perform and Felix having a 9 inch silicon penis inserted rather forcibly in his anus. A trip to a local hospital was required. As the story circulated among the music community, names were being bandied about, referring to Felix as ‘butt fuck Bergman’, ‘anal Felix’, and the ever popular ‘bend over Bergman’.  We invited bend over Bergman to our table, and after getting him significantly wasted, realized that it was not the Corn Flake fiasco that had ostracized him. He was a dick. Ironic, but true. And not just any dick, but a 9 inch silicon penis that had been forcibly inserted into someone’s anus. That kind of dick. He was ignorant and arrogant, patronizing and pompous, and criminally boring. The legend didn’t like him much either, so we excused ourselves, and left Bemelman’s for the safety of the stretch limo that was at his disposal. He had invited a couple of young ladies to join us on our way out, and well, if you’ve never had a blow job traveling at 120 kilometers per hour, while fucked up on whiskey, coke, and opium, you should definitely try it, at least once.

The night began to wind down, and I was convinced that tbohemianshis life was no better than what was being offered by the douche bags out there on the golf courses, holding their putters in their hands. It was all just smoke and mirrors. There was contempt and disapproval, judgmental assumptions, and ideologies that could be found in every suit and tie country club. Power and greed corrupt absolutely, even if it it is only imagined. Shortly after this night to end all nights, I stopped hanging out with wannabees, and the pseudo stars, and I gave up drugs. Many years later I ran into the legend at a music conference. He was broke and alone, and had a significant drinking problem.  He depended on the kindness of his old friends to help him out. I introduced him to my wife, and he hit on her. It was funny, yet incredibly sad at the same time. But, as it turned out, the legend was also a dick. But, I wasn’t surprised. We’re all the same, really. We just keep chasing the dreams that continue to frustrate and derail us. I have never wanted to play with the Ivy Leaguers. I have always been content to hang out with the bra-less, socially inept co-eds who wore glasses and marched off to the Campus Administrative Office shouting “Mulligan”. And, for the best part of my life, I have been married to one.