Humor of The Human Condition

Fielding Goodfellow collection of short stories out now on Amazon, just in time to make someone laugh for Christmas. You can check it out here: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B08P2C697X

A Novel Idea

Everyone knew that something strange was going on out there beyond the horizon, but they just couldn’t seem to stop themselves from heading straight into it. It didn’t make much sense to us, but then nothing about them ever did. When we decided to head off into the great unknown and wander around the continent with a backpack, a dream, and a seemingly unquenchable thirst for sex, drugs, and rock and roll, we were really hoping that we would be able to find a little sanity. It took some time for us to figure out that it wasn’t about changing what had happened, but rather learning to live with it all. Its simple really, I mean discovery can only occur after you step into the great unknown. Johnny Rangoon knew it. He said  that there was nothing better than jumping into life head first without any fear, but he hadn’t gone very far since some farmer in Spain threatened to cut off his testicles and feed them to his dogs for sleeping with the man’s wife. We didn’t really know if it was true or anything, but it was one hell of a story. We hoped it would be different for us, I mean what we really wanted was for it to be a part of who we were. We wanted it to help us discover our humanity, but I suppose we just weren’t jaded enough to understand that it was all about choices. We were dreamers though, with no idea that there was a price to be paid for that too.

We thought we could change the world even though no one seemed to want anything changed, but instead we learned how to fly, and sailed across the universe in our collective consciousness. Tate suggested that one of us write a novel about it. I thought it was a good idea, and I planned to write it, I mean at least until we started wandering around Copenhagen’s Vesterbro and found Anna who worked in one of the sex clubs that lined the Istegade, and showed me the effects of mixing Psilocybin and Absinthe. I’m pretty sure that the time I spent with her set the tone for the rest of my life, not that I’m blaming her or anything, I mean I wouldn’t have changed any of it. We hung around Tivoli with our minds fuelled with the psychedelic fantasies that took us to places we never knew existed. The novel was lost somewhere out there among the sex and drugs, I mean it just sort of mutated into a never ending passion play with Anna’s body as the stage. I was sure I belonged right there between her thighs, although I suppose it could all have simply been the Absinthe and the Psilocybin.

Johnny Rangoon used to say that the world was always changing, even though we couldn’t see it at the time. He said that there’s a constant state of flux in which the universe bends and turns its way through space and time, in order to accommodate the ripples in the continuum. It was all pretty interesting and everything, but it had nothing to do with people changing. That was the issue though, I mean as far as we could tell, it was the people that really needed to change. Everyone of them, except for Anna, I mean I really wanted her to stay exactly the way she was. So we plugged on, looking for a way to change the perceptions of the future, without having to change the past. It seemed simple enough to us, but for those who had an axe to grind, or a cross to bear there could never be a peaceful resolution, I mean how could there be when they simply refused to see the past as a reminder of how much better we could all be to each other. Instead they turned it into some kind of weapon that gave them a reason to make demands and hold others accountable for what they had never even done. The constant attention focused on the message was leading to further alienation, dissension, and segregation. There was no need for the past to be removed or rewritten, I mean  history needs to be remembered in order to learn from it. Sadly though, everything has become a cause. It has been theorized, and politicized to death with no one moving closer to a better world. We continue to hide behind the bends and turns in the space time continuum without getting any closer to discovering a way that we could all simply stop being assholes to one another.

I never wrote the novel, in case you were wondering, I mean I suppose I should have but I don’t think I ever had the passion to commit to anything for that long. I shared the journey through a series of  stories which while telling the tale, kept me from being tied up in some remote corner of my mind while I search for a way out. Johnny Rangoon kept clear of the unknown until his death, and was buried along with his testicles in a simple, yet poignant ceremony. I eventually left Anna in Copenhagen, and Tate passed out in the back of a 1975 AMC Gremlin that was parked in front of a Mac’s Milk, while I made my way to the front of the marches and protests in hopes of reminding someone, anyone, that none of it really matters, I mean we’re all just insignificant specks on a tiny blue rock that floats through space in a predetermined orbit around a star that really doesn’t really give a flying fuck if any of us are here or not. Either way, it will continue to shine until its life is over. And that’s pretty much just the way it is.

A Night At The St. Regis Hotel

Nobody would have believed that Asher Wilde was involved in anything out of the ordinary, but when a couple from Omaha, Nebraska found his body stuffed in the bar fridge of room 1104 at The St. Regis Hotel while looking for Mountain Dew, we were pretty sure that he’d been up to something he have been better off to have left alone. There was always something going on that most of us didn’t even know was out there, I mean almost anything was possible particularly if they told you it wasn’t. We were starting to figure out that things weren’t always what we were told they were. Farberman believed that Wilde had been murdered. I didn’t really know either way, although it was unlikely that he stuffed himself into that fridge, but Tate and I barely knew him so we just assumed that Farberman was right. Wilde had been bouncing around time and space, writing cheap pulp fiction that I had never heard of, but to be fair, we were pretty messed up on all kinds of shit back then. It wasn’t unusual for us to float through the myriad of galaxies that lay between the living room and the kitchen, fighting off the flying lizards, and watching the chimpanzees perform a pretty solid cover of ‘Tears Of A Clown’.  It didn’t really mean anything though, I mean he wouldn’t be doing any writing anymore. I wasn’t always sure if any of it was real or not, I mean sometimes it just seemed too fantastic to be true.  Farberman believed that Wilde had been silenced, I mean we were sure that there were secrets out there that we just weren’t supposed to know. I don’t think it really mattered, I mean it was close to impossible to get anyone else to see what had been going on. They said they wanted the truth, but so much of their time and energy was wasted on lying to themselves and pretending that they already knew so they wouldn’t have to see their piddley ass lives turned inside out. I suppose it was just human nature, but I really didn’t think it had anything to do with Wilde’s unfortunate demise.

Nobody could say what Wilde was doing at The St. Regis Hotel, or why the couple from Nebraska would be looking for Mountain Dew in a hotel bar fridge considering what they charged for that kind of thing, but Farberman wanted answers. We thought it was best to bring in a professional, and with Phillip Marlowe and Sam Spade dead, we really had no choice but to call Aragon Nixx, the Sci-Fi Private Eye. Tate and I were supposed to help him out but we really had no idea how we were going to pull it off, I mean we were already fighting off the flying lizards and trying to keep the chimpanzees on key as they ran through the Motown catalogue. Tate thought we’d be okay though, I mean he said we had more than enough peyote to get us through anything. Nixx showed up disguised as Javier Estoban, the infamous Mambo dancing Cuban national who looked a lot like Raul Castro, and sounded exactly like Desi Arnaz. We had no idea who he was at first, I mean jumping through time and space had a habit of making things pretty weird, but this was weirder than what we knew was already going on in boardrooms and bedrooms across the cosmos. In his guise as the traveling mambo dancer, Nixx wasn’t able to uncover much useful information, but he did manage to book himself two weeks worth of dance lessons in the hotel ballroom. The front desk clerk was almost certain that Wilde was in the hotel bar with a couple of chimpanzees in gabardine suits the night before his body was found, and I suppose it was possible, I mean nothing really surprised any of us anymore. Nixx said that if we found out who did it, it will invariably lead us to why, while Farberman suggested that knowing why will lead us to who. Tate and I had no idea which one of them was actually right, but at least there was some agreement that the chimps were probably involved. It was troubling for Tate and I though, I mean if it turned out to be true, it could very well be the end of one of the best Motown cover bands we had ever heard.

Nixx said that it wasn’t uncommon for governments to use unsuspecting animals to assist in the demise of its citizenry. He had seen it before. We had no idea though, which government secret Asher Wilde could have uncovered, but I suppose the answer to what really happened to him lay somewhere in that secret. Nixx was certain that the chimps knew more than they were saying, but we just couldn’t seem to get them to talk even though Tate kept feeding them opium infused bananas. Sometimes, despite all of the effort, the truth remains as elusive as freedom, and we just need to walk away with more questions than answers. It doesn’t really matter, I mean Wilde would still be dead, and the chimpanzees would still be filling taverns and concert halls that dotted the American mid west. I suppose that Tate and I were at that point, I mean we just didn’t care about Wilde anymore. There were far more important things that needed to get done, I mean the flying lizards needed to be rounded up, and the chimpanzees needed to be settled down. We also needed to find a way to get out of the nightmare that was The St. Regis Hotel, I mean eight dollars and ninety-five cents for a can of Mountain Dew was insane. Nixx hadn’t been able to help really, and I was beginning to suspect that he never would. I suppose he tried his best, but it seemed that the great Sci-Fi Private Eye was completely out of his league. Tate was having more success simply feeding  the chimpanzees, I mean at least he was building some kind of relationship with other living beings. We called it quits, although I have no idea if Farberman and Nixx carried on with their investigation, but Tate and I returned to the couch that served as the centre of our galaxy, strategically placed between the kitchen and the living room and settled in to watch the chimpanzees lay down a kick ass cover version of ‘I Can’t Help Myself’.