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’.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Night Of The Living Pez

by Fielding Goodfellow

 

Tate and I had just begun day three of our proposed week long journey into psychedelic surrealism, wandering around a psilocybin paradise, carousing with alcoholic, fire breathing dragons, and the flying lizard mariachi band that performed in my living room three or four nights a week. We watched in wonder as the walls melted and dissolved into Irish Middle Earth, where drunken, angry leprechauns cascaded across the hills and dales singing  ‘Danny Boy’ in three part harmony, as they searched for their missing gold.  We drifted in and out of ‘The Completion Backwards Principle’, tackling deep philosophical dilemmas such as how do mermaids open their legs, and do vegans willingly participate in oral sex.

As the hallucinogenics kicked in big time something weirdly Rod Serling unfolded before our eyes. The Pez dispensers that had sat silently on a series of shelves in the spare room for years, began singing the soundtrack from ‘Bye Bye Birdie’. Sad, but true, the DC superheroes couldn’t carry a tune in a Three Stooges lunch box.  Those privileged, pretty boys in their colorful tights and flowing capes were thankfully saved by the Disney Princesses who seemed to be eyeing the apartment with the intent to redecorate it in that neo art deco shit that they seemed to like so much. Snow White nailed her solo in the title theme song and, after leaving her seven diminutive friends with hopes of jumping on that bulge in Superman’s tights, wandered off to see first hand if he really was the man of steel. Pez pandemonium broke out as Grumpy and Sneezy, in the name of retributive justice, attempted to set fire to the hero’s indestructible cape with the assistance of Iron Man, who was desperate for some friction on his own metal. The ensuing dispute ended only when the Chinese Food that neither Tate nor I remembered ordering arrived, “And that”, as Tate succinctly put it, “is the cause of the Dc vs Marvel rivalry.”

As we dug in to Moo Shu pork, Kung Po Chicken and Shanghai Noodles, the leprechauns were standing on the edge of the meadow, peering into the living room. “I suspect Scrooge McDuck is behind the great leprechaun gold heist.”, Tate blurted out. Several of the dwarfs concurred, professing that they had seen the miserly mallard up to his beak in gold coins. The Kung Po was not nearly spicy enough, and the Pezcapades had begun to wind down, with the entire cast preparing for the reprise of the opening theme song. Snow White returned to her place, front and centre, exuberant and energized, seemingly satisfied by what Superman had to offer her. When the music rolled in, there was a rousing cheer from the Hanna-Barbera group, as Snow White stepped up to the microphone. Once the song ended and the final note dissipated, leaving the room in silence, the Pez dispensers returned to their rightful places. “Well, that was weird.”, Tate stated.

“Not really.”, I replied. “You should be here last Wednesday night when they did ‘The Music Man. Now that was weird.”

“You mean this has happened before?”, Tate asked.

“Uh huh.”, I informed him. “Although the performance tonight was a little flat, much like the Kung Po, but it was nice to finally see Snow White smile.” As the drugs began to wear off and the dragons and lizards disappeared, as the leprechauns gathered up their gold and settled in for a good night’s sleep, Tate passed out on the couch, and I allowed my mind to wander back and consider just how a mermaid opens her legs, and whether or not vegans are willing participants in oral sex while I cleaned up the mess from the night’s edition of Pezcapades, and prepared for what I hoped would be a stellar performance of ‘West Side Story’, with the Universal classic monsters as the Jets, and the Hanna-Barbera gang as the Sharks. I had invited Tate back for this must see extravaganza, and me, well I’m rooting for the monsters because “When you’re a Jet, you’re a jet all the way.”