Philosophy And Frostbite Falls

by Fielding Goodfellow

 

One again I was flying, it was sometime in my junior year, and with the help of hallucinogens, I was soaring up melting stairways that brought me face to face with a flying squirrel and a talking moose. That same year I met Amber Wayne, the head of The Founder’s College Association For The Advancement of Existential Women or some other inane group who could do things with her mouth that I was sure would land her a position with The Disney Princess Whores. For a couple of Benzedrine she would drop, pop and swallow with vacuum like precision and deliver a blow job other men could only dream of. To be fair, it wasn’t just the blow jobs that kept me around. We had made some kind of weird connection and there were times, although few and far between, when all either of us wanted to do was talk. I suppose I liked her.

I first saw the moose and squirrel in Frostbite Falls during one of my early trips up the melting staircase while still in high school.  It was a nice enough town,  filled with foreign  spies and gangsters, but too cold for me to ever stay very long.

“Do you know anything about Existentialism?”,  Amber asked me one evening.

“Everything I need to know about it”, I informed her, “I learnt from Woody Allen.”

“I didn’t know Woody Allen was an Existentialist.”, she stated.

“One of the best.”, I assured her. ”

“Really?”, she asked.

“Really.”, I replied. “The essence of it can be summed up in one Woody Allen quote. ‘I took a test in Existentialism. I left all the answers blank and got 100.’ Now that’s Existentialism.” We both laughed, and then she hugged me. We had never hugged before and while it felt odd, it seemed appropriate.

Once again I found myself in Frostbite Falls, sitting in the stands watching the football game between Wossamotta U. and The Mud City Manglers who, surprisingly appeared to be girls. The squirrel and moose played brilliantly, and despite the trickery of the Manglers coach, at the end of the frantic game, Wossamotta U. had won on the final play. The crowd was ecstatic,  and burst into a rousing chant of the school’s fight song, “Our praise for you will never cease. All hail magenta and cerise”.

One morning, much to the dismay of the paranoid, bible thumping zealots who resided on her dorm room floor, and were usually prattling around tennis courts in their starched, pasty white personalities, The Association of Sexually Submissive Existential Sadists held a parade to celebrate their annual Slime, Grime and Punishment retreat. I suppose it was more of a procession, I mean there were no floats, no clowns, and no marching bands. Hell, there wasn’t even a group of short skirted college freshman twirling batons. We could see them from the window, walking around in circles, chanting existential fodder as they marched around the endless loop that circumnavigated the campus. “Life is Meaningless”, and “Man is only what he makes of himself.”, they shouted.

“Now there’s a crock of meaningless drivel.”, I blurted out.

“You think so?”, Amber asked.

“Not now.”, I told her. “I can’t handle any more extra curricular existentialism.” I took a couple of bennies out of my pocket and handed them to her. “Take these.”, I said, as I dropped my pants and waited for the drug to take effect.

I stopped seeing Amber shortly after that procession of the depressed, aging, philandering philosophers who seemed capable of being aroused only by being a pain in someone’s ass. I have nothing against existentialism, I mean, its just that I had heard enough. It seemed to have become nothing more than a series of thoughts that only served to confuse.. There was some talk about man not wanting truth as the truth will destroy our illusions. I want the truth. The fact of the matter was however, that Amber did not. We just sort of drifted apart, but there was the occasional drop, pop and swallow whenever we saw each other. After a while we stopped running into each other, and that was the end of that. After graduation, I heard that she began a career in the adult film industry, which I suppose was bound to happen, I mean what else was she going to do with an undergraduate degree in Philosophy. I continue to soar up the melting stairway,although I can’t predict when it will occur, and encounter the moose and squirrel, through whom I have had dealings with two of the foreign spies, Boris Badenov and Natasha Fatale. I have been asked to play on the Wossamotta U. football team, and am seriously considering trying out for next season. ‘Our praise for you will never cease. All hail magenta and cerise’.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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The House On Walmer Road

by Fielding Goodfellow

 

I first met Zippy Pressman in my freshman year at college and we became sort of drug brothers, joined at the trip so to speak. He was a weird little guy who was given his peculiar name for the way he scurried around like a lab rat lost in a maze. I always thought it was due to the drugs we had all been religiously abusing back then, but he claimed that he was just wired that way. He was born a hyperactive, histrionic pain in the ass, but he was also the guy most likely to test the improbable, and attempt the impossible. I suppose that’s what I liked about him.

During that autumn weekend of day tripping and midnight toking the world seemed to come alive in glorious hues of red and orange and yellow, stretching out as far as the eye could see. Zippy  began to tell the tale of the old, haunted house on Walmer Road. Everyone who knew about it said it was evil, filled with the malice manufactured by the tortured souls who had been trapped inside its decaying walls for decades. The story, as Zippy ad libed,, was that old man Newton, a crazy mother fucker if ever there was one,, came home following a night of titty bar drinking, and found his wife and her lumberjack lover engaged in the horizontal rumba. In his drunken rage, the old sot killed them both, slitting their throats from ear to ear, and then strung the bodies hanging upside down from a cross beam hanging over the adulterated, matrimonial bed. “We should really go check it out.”, Tate squealed like a Bay City Roller bimbo. There was a great deal of discussion and debate, but no plan really, and before I knew it, we were taking our expanded minds on a trip to the old house on Walmer Road, confident that we would be kept safe by the flying lizards and talking dragon that had been stalking us for  days.

,As we made our way through the overgrown fields, crickets chirped and a coyote howled, and Zippy chirped and howled back as he zig-zaged his way through the waist high weeds while Tate and I followed closely behind. It seemed that the promise of madness, murder and the paranormal, all designed to keep us away,, was pulling us in. It could have been the drugs, it almost always was, but from the top of the ridge, the old, abandoned house seemed alive, with broad shoulders reaching up to the sky. One of its eyes was closed, boarded up when the glass shattered during last winter’s ice storm, and I’m almost certain it was smirking, daring us to continue in through its mouth. “Are we good to go?”, Zippy asked as he pressed his shoulder against the door.

About thirty years before we set out on our journey of enlightening the spirits we believed were roaming around the house, Emily Newton failed to show up at sister’s home for their regular Sunday brunch and bible barn burner. They say that when Emily’s sister went to the house on Walmer Road and discovered the bodies, the shriek could be heard for miles. Henry Newton sat on the front porch the entire time, staring into space, seemingly unaware or unconcerned by the situation he was now in up to his eyeballs. When the police arrived he was still there, not moving a muscle. The man didn’t even blink.  The scene in the bedroom was described as gruesome, and horrific, and the double homicide quickly became front page fodder as it always did in those circumstances.  Henry was portrayed as a drunken monster, and Emily as his meek, abused, yet dutiful wife, who had suffered quietly with her anguish for years. The trial was expedient and judicious, and Henry Newton was convicted and sent to the gallows where he was hanged, until dead, by the neck. It was beautifully ironic  And just like that, the legend of the haunted house on Walmer Road was born.

It was wonderfully psychedelic inside, as the light streaming in cast a spectrum of color that sparkled through the dust and cobwebs, coaxing the shadows to dance across the floor and up and down the walls. “Did you hear that?”, Tate asked anxiously, as we moved across the creaking floor towards the staircase that led to the scene of the grizzly crime. We stood painfully still, but heard nothing.

“Its was probably just the floorboards.”, Zippy told him. “Old houses make noise.” We made our way up the stairs, stepping over the rotted boards and missing steps, and at some point I thought I heard Steve Miller belting out a rousing rendition of ‘Space Cowboy’ that seemed to drift down from the heavens. Tate reminded me that Steve Miller was still alive, so I popped another mushroom and stepped aside to let the dragon walk in front of me. We stood on the landing at the top of the stairs, looking down the hallway that offered a myriad of doors to choose from. Zippy was as animated as ever, excitement coursing through his veins, making it impossible for him to stand still. Tate and I stood behind the dragon, pushing him along the narrow passageway ahead of us.

On his second attempt, Zippy found the murder room. The bedroom that was once shared by Mr. and Mrs. Newton, and the occasional young lumberjack, was weirdly creepy. The air was rank with the odor of death, and there were scratches on the floor which Zippy was certain were left by the murder bed. There was a heaviness in the room, and an uneasiness seemed to settle upon us. I suppose Zippy was too wired to notice, but Tate and I were scared shitless. “I think we should get the hell out of here.”, Tate whispered.

The flying lizards, dragon and I agreed but Zippy wanted to continue the search for the ghosts of Emily Newton and her lumberjack lover. “Go on home and sit with the other women.” he shouted at us as we turned to leave.

The other women, including Zippy’s psychovaginal friend, Evelyn, and Maya,  the Guatemalan I was currently banging, were safely back on campus in the Winter’s College dorm room of Tate’s girlfriend, Ramona, and by the time Zippy realized we had left, we were already on our way to join them, stopping only for Tate and one of the lizards to urinate in the field. I’m not sure how long Zippy stayed at the old, abandoned house on Walmer Road but at the time, I really didn’t give a shit. I don’t suppose Tate did either. As we made our way across the field and back into the land of the living, we finished off the mushrooms I had brought along singing ‘Space Cowboy’, although Tate and the dragon struggled to stay in key.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

. scored us second row floor seats for The Steve Miller Band.

 

 

The Doctor Is Out…

by Fielding Goodfellow

I am at that age when shit happens. Not just to me, but to people I have involved in my life. It was sad to learn that the doctor was sick. He was by his own admission, really sick. He had been diagnosed with cancer some time ago and despite beating it back with his love of life and the usual regimen of assorted treatments, it had returned with a vengeance. And anger. It seemed so very angry this time. And while he continued to fight back, he recently discovered that the battle was lost. He began preparing for the end by doing his best to enjoy whatever time he had left. He was like that though. He had survived a stint in the army, a truck load of ex wives, and years of relentless hallucinogen use with a laugh and a story to tell. He said he was okay with it now, and I was certain he was, but it was hard for me to get my head around the fact that the doctor of debauchery and depravity was on his way out.

I called him my friend, but we were really kindred spirits, enjoying life in the theater of the absurd, and travelling across time and space to worlds that existed only in our own minds. We met somewhere on the Oregon trail, balls deep in female loggers, peyote buttons, and a polka music playing drummer who joined us on our journey of paradoxical pandemonium, all in an attempt to rewrite history as we imagined it. We shared our own life stories, our love of science fiction, books, beaver hunting, and music. We traded barbs and snappy retorts, wrapped in sarcasm and irony, and laughed until we forgot what the hell we were laughing about.

I had planned on visiting the good doctor, several times, but it seems I left it too late. Its a shame really, I mean I would have liked to have smuggled the Italian French-Canadian hybrid into Comerica Park and stuffed him full of hot dogs and beer as we watched the Tigers blow a two run lead in the top of the ninth to the Jays. But shit happens. At least we were able to boldly go where no man has gone before. For that I am eternally grateful, but man I hate having to look for a new doctor.