1973

 

by Fielding Goodfellow

Politics is a dangerous game, full of treachery and deceit as it hovers around smoky, back rooms, peddling itself like a crack whore for a few dollars to be made in a nefarious deal sealed with a handshake and the wink of an eye. Hiding behind closed doors with unsavory and unscrupulous bed fellows, surrounded by broken promises and Philistine fetishes, the skeletons in the closet sooner or later scream with delight. The campaign for senior class president of 1972/73 was no exception.

Arnold Pritchard was a pot head who had served as junior class president of 1971/72 following an election won by acclamation. His  platform of doing nothing ushered in a junior year of psychedelic serenity, which appeared to be exactly what the student body had been pinning for. Sandy Lynde, the blow job queen of Guy Lombardo High, had thrown her insanely short, pleated skirt into the ring kneeling firmly on the promise of an open mouth policy, offering up her student body that had been responsible for fueling wet dreams since her freshman year. There are always difficult decisions to make in electing officials, and the choice between Arnold’s policy of governance from eight miles high, and Sandy’s open wide and say ah approach, had the class divided.

As a writer for the school paper, I was assigned to cover the political wranglings of this heated campaign and interview the candidates. I was completely removed from the events that were unfolding, tripping through high school with a mind accosted by peyote and the occasional Percocet, but I caught up with Arnold in the  second floor stairwell on the north side of the school. There was a cloud of smoke that hung in the air like a London fog, as Arnold passed me a joint that had been circulating around the small group of regulars. He stated that he was looking forward to another mellow year, and referred to his vision of leadership as  nothing is everything. As the peyote, Percocet and pot joined forces on the battlefield in my head, I suggested that it all seemed very Taoist, although I was certain that Arnold had no idea what the hell I was talking about. It didn’t really matter though, I mean, the entire senior class would be led astray by a trail of dropped cheese doodles if he was elected. As I was leaving, Arnold placed a dime bag of pot in my hand and reminded me to vote Pritchard.

I met up with Sandy at her campaign headquarters, behind the bleachers at the football field. “I see you’ve come back.”, she said as soon as I was within earshot. “It’s been a long time.” It had been two years. Two years ago, at the very same spot, I  was on the receiving end of a Sandy Lynde special which despite being only moderately special, was still quite enjoyable.

“This time I just came to talk about the election.”, I told her.

“That’s a shame.”, she said. “I always kind of liked you.”

“Really?”, I replied. “Well so far I think I’ll be voting for Arnold.”

“Ya, I know he’s got the drugs.”, she said lifting her t shirt high enough to expose her tits. “But I bet he doesn’t have these.” I couldn’t be certain, but I was pretty sure that she was right. Sandy had nothing much to say about the campaign or the election. She had no real platform, and was relying on her campaign slogan, ‘wouldn’t you like to have a president who sucks’, to garner enough votes to win her the presidency. Much like her bleacher blow jobs, Sandy’s campaign, while certainly adequate enough, lacked substance.

Somewhere along the campaign trail things got ugly. In the dark and dirty underbelly of politics, it is inevitable that slander and libel become a necessary evil. Tales are told and rumors are spread with little, if any thought of the consequences, as the pundits follow closely behind with mouths wide open like fucking  Pez dispensers, encouraging this odious repartee and hoping  for an equally offensive retort. And so it was in 1973 at Guy Lombardo High a rumor spread faster than a California wild fire, involving Sandy Lynde, an English teacher, and a trip to an abortion clinic in Buffalo, New York, which completely overshadowed the story of Arnold Pritchard’s drug induced mental breakdown and subsequent vacation at the Queen Street Mental Health Center. As happens in all political campaigns, the three week campaign for senior class president was now a hotbed of sin, seduction and insanity. With careers, reputations, and victory hanging in the balance, a stop was put on the campaign and the election was suspended by the school administration until a viable solution could be reached. During the ensuing investigation into the allegations of teacher-student relations which revealed nothing, it was determined that in order to stop the circus of crap that was enveloping the student body , a co-presidency was deemed to be the only decision that could be made. The candidates agreed, and the news was revealed to the senior class. Sadly the gossipers and rumor mongers refused to accept the compromise and protested outside the  administration office demanding their right to vote. Unconstitutional or not, as the simpletons claimed, I was confounded by their failure to recognize the perfect union of sex and drugs. It all ended with the protesters getting up from their failed sit in, after most of them were rendered harmless by Arnold’s seemingly unlimited supply of dime bags.

Out behind the bleachers at the football field, Sandy was holding court with three or four junior co-eds, who were hanging on every word she said, which somehow seemed odd as I imagined that her words were almost always indiscernible as her mouth was otherwise occupied. “Thanks for all of your help.”, she told me. “I really appreciate everything you did.”

“I really didn’t do anything.”, I replied. “I just wrote about what was going on. But I’m glad it all worked out.”

“Me too.”, she said. “I owe you one.”

“Don’t worry about it.”, I said.

“Well.”, she turned to look at her entourage, “We all want to thank you. How would you like to be today’s practice volunteer for the young ladies?”

“Right here?”, I asked.

“Here and now.”, she answered. My pants were down before she finished that sentence, and by the time they hit the ground, the trainees and their coach were all on their knees in front of my now fully erect manhood. It was 1973, and amid all of the rock and roll hoochie koo that had been going on, I developed a balls deep appreciation for politics.

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Have Some Faith

 

By Fielding Goodfellow

Self doubt, like death, arrives unannounced, and settles in without any relief. Hiding in the shadows, skulking around dark corners when I needed all of my time and energy just to keep my head above water, I drifted through the rip currents and undertows of a life that seemed determined to keep me swimming against the tide. It was a fucking nightmare, populated with heroes and villains whose only purpose seemed to be jerking off amid the costumed tomfoolery that was believed to be necessary for the salvation of our civilization. I for one, really didn’t give a damn. By then, I had lost all faith in heroes, and I was certain that I was already being held in the eternal shit bucket with the villains.

And that pretty much sums up faith, an insanely confusing concept in itself. I struggled with this throughout most of my university life, confused and confounded by the idea that in order to reap the benefits of a loving and just superior being, one must blindly believe and accept. The questions, ‘why does God let this happen?”, and all of its variations diminish one’s faith. It appears though, that a believer, one with faith, does not and should not question. After all, isn’t that what religion, and the road to eternal happiness is about? Bishop Marino, the Papal presence in Presque Isle for years, who spent most of his life fucked up on acid, chasing high school girls in plaid skirts and starched white shirts, spoke candidly about his belief that Blind Faith, despite having released one hell of an album in 1969, is not the path to redemption and absolution, and it certainly should never come as easy as the high school seniors at St. Margaret Catholic School For Girls in Mackinaw. I was fortunate enough to have met the Bishop when he guest lectured for a philosophy class I was enrolled in. Following the lecture, I spoke with him about what God really wants for us. His answer was as succinct as it was surprising. “For us to be happy.”, he told me.

And for those who were unable to find any sort of happiness, religious zealots and leaders, began selling memberships to their God fearing clubs, as they stood before the masses with a bible in one hand and the keys to a Bentley in the other. You could purchase an exclusive, all inclusive membership which guaranteed your eternal happiness simply by using your credit card, debit card or paypal. For a nominal charge, you could attend one of the many religious theme parks, take a picture with the gang in attendance at The Last Supper, and purchase an autographed copy at the gift shop.  Or perhaps, enjoy a bag of Jesus Jaffa Cakes, or an order of St. Joan of Arc flaming kebabs. Despite the temptation, I sought out my happiness through other means.

In the early 1970s, during my foray into malaise and post secondary education, I found myself discussing morals and ethics with overweight, middle aged professors who frequented the massage parlor across from the university campus. With both the time and money, they were free to jump in and out of blow jobs on the way to meet and greet their families convinced that they would be offered absolution for their transgressions in exchange for feigned repentance, three Hail Marys and a contribution to the ‘help the heavenly boys choir purchase new robes’ fund.

Belief and faith are not conjoined twins. One can believe without the necessity of faith. Faith mutes the senses, leaving us blind, deaf, and basically full of shit, and sets us off on a mission to convince others to accept our beliefs as correct. Worlds have been devastated in the name of God, and frankly, I am not certain whose God wanted entire cultures reduced to rubble in order to erect a church in his glorious name. At the end of it all, nobody seems happy. The quest for conversion, redemption and absolution continue, while the priests hearing those solicited tales of sin, shame and guilt, often arrive late following the inspection of the altar boys as they tried on their new robes.

Mei-ling was a sophomore dance major who helped pay for her schooling by working part time at the massage parlor across the road from the university. We met in a Film Noir course, and shared a passion for John Huston films, hallucinogens, and sex with the lights on. We spent many hours in her dorm room watching The Treasure Of The Sierra Madre or Key Largo, and chasing the giant alligators off of her wonderfully naked body. Sex with Mei-ling was an incredible ride that often resulted in one existential crisis after another, as I tried to give some meaning to this world within worlds, hidden yet clearly visible and defined, but undetected amid all of the rhetoric and rubbish that bounced around my head like a Holier Than Thou pinball machine, resurrecting years and years of theological brainwashing. And yet, as Mei-ling dropped to her knees, I swear that I found meaning in the overwhelming pleasure that lead to my release.  And during those moments, those wonderfully satisfying moments, I am certain that I found God, I was happy, and as close to heaven as I believed I would ever be.

Perhaps in all of those moments of hedonistic pleasure, in the throes of drug induced trips and ball busting sex, I had achieved what God had wanted for me. I was happy. I was truly happy. I was certain that I could be happy all of the time provided that I was high and getting laid. For about 18 months Mei-ling ensured that I was happy. I continued to correspond with Bishop Marino, who left the church after defrocking himself in the rectory, playing ‘hide the rabbit in the habit’ with Sister Beatrice and Sister Teresa to run Papal Radio, an international radio network broadcasting rock ‘n’ religion where he interviewed such legendary holy folksters as Peter, Paul & Mary, and notorious, hardcore Loggerhead drummer, Francis Glick, Jr., of the PolkaJacks. As for me, well, I was as determined as ever to be happy, and found myself involved in years of meaningless sex with a variety of equally meaningless women. And everytime, they would drop to their knees, I believed that I had found God, or at least happiness in the overwhelming pleasure.

 

Lost With A Moral Compass

 

by Fielding Goodfellow

Following my expulsion from a private, religious school which my parents truly believed would set me on a clear and direct path to a cabana on a pristine beach in the after life, I entered high school as a free man, and left as one incredibly fucked up high school graduate. Over the course of four years, I am almost certain that I was wasted every day. As a result, most of my high school memories have dissipated, much like a fog bank settling over the shore line.

While the regular cast of thousands roamed the bleak, concrete hallways, engaging in self deprecating mating rituals with assorted cheerleaders in short skirts and knee high socks, who brushed them off with a flip of their hair and a turn of their head, I was  engaged in a psychedelic lunch break with draft dodger turned English teacher and drug dealer, Mr. N., or some bizarre sex ritual in the back of a Jeep Wrangler with Madame S., the French teacher who I am certain worked part time as a stripper at The Algonquin Tavern.

I suppose it was just my good fortune to have entered the corridor at the exact moment head cheerleader and dating expert Marilyn Garland, bent over and displayed her upper middle class, wonder bread ass to Fitzroy Simmons, a science nerds who had stopped to gawk. “You can keep looking.”, she said, “but you’re never gonna get this.” After a cursory glance, it occurred to me that nobody around wanted to get that.

“Don’t flatter yourself.”, I told her as I walked by. “No one wants that pasty white, bony ass. Put it away.” Fitzroy laughed. Marilyn stormed off with her band of mindless, professional virgins who I have been led to believe went on to find success as frigid wives of suburban accountants, and I was once again in the office of school Vice-Principal, Mr. Brackett.

It was the usual exchange of ideas, one that we seemed to continually rehearse. Mr. Brackett sat behind his desk, tapping his hand with a yard stick, pointing out that I was  disrespectful, immoral, and destined for a lifetime of failure. I disagreed, and expressed my concern that he was ignorant, belittling, and an asshole. I was suspended for three days, and the customary call to my parents was made. As I went to retrieve my belongings from my locker, I ran into Madame S., and I told her what had happened. “You’re just so adorable.”, she told me. “Let me give you a ride home.” I met her at the Jeep. “You drive.”, she said as she tossed me the keys. Now, if you have never had a blow job while driving a manual transmission Jeep with the top down, I suggest you try it at least once. It was wonderfully fulfilling.

My father’s only concern was that he had been called by the school. It didn’t matter to him what I had or had not done. He really didn’t care. He just did not want to be called. “I don’t understand why you keep getting caught.”, he said.

“I don’t get caught.”, I informed him. “I just choose not to run away.”

“Well”, he advised, “that’s getting caught.”

“Not really.”, I replied. “That’s surrendering. I am trying to make a point.”

“Which is?”, he asked.

“That I am right, and they are full of shit.”, I told him. We never understood each other. He neither shared my sense of justice or responsibility. The battle was fought over many years, with his frequent reminders that he just didn’t understand me. I let him know that it was alright, I wasn’t really looking for understanding, anyway. What I was really seeking was the freedom to think my own thoughts, and to live my own life. His only request was that I lived a moral life.

Many years later, following a night out, when the paranoid delusions invade the deepest recesses of my thoughts as I attempt to sleep, I realized that I had very matter of factly pissed away most of my life. Wallowing in the effects of years and years of uninhibited hallucinogenic consumption and random acts of various erotic mayhem, I realized that I was plagued with a sense of melancholy. I had discovered, much to my father’s chagrin that morality is a sham. Behind a facade of transparency, it has been driven into the shadows under a veil of secrecy and deceit. It manifests itself as the law of the land, but in reality it is merely the masturbatory fantasies of those who sit on the far right. I have participated in enough protests to have discovered that those liberal, left wing social democrats who take to the streets and gather in the squares to voice their disapproval, wind up being corralled like cattle and detained in the name of decency and public safety. I have come to understand that morality is a word used to dupe us into conformity. It is used to stifle self expression, and entice the masses to join in and march in the great military parades. Morality is insanely immoral.

We are, after all, human beings with the freedom of choice. So whose morality are we being asked to accept? Morality does not stop us from hurting others, but in fact encourages it, provided those we wish to harm are without morals. It is not morality that should prevade our existence, but responsibility. Responsibility to ourselves, and to our fellow man. We all have a responsibility to take care of each other, that is the essence of being human. Morality gives us the option to fuck up those who are less fortunate and marginalized, once we convince ourselves that they are immoral. The white shirt, suit and tie bufoons who reign supreme by virtue of their ability to make promises that they have no intention to keep, dictate what is moral as they shove the poor and destitute deeper into the holes that have been dug in an attempt to bury all of the unwanted refuse this society has created.

Where is the responsibility we have towards our fellow man? Where is the sense of duty to help those in need? These qualities, an integral part of what makes us human beings has been relegated to land fills across the planet in order that the rich and powerful may continue to be rich and powerful. I  don’t profess to have all of the answers, but I do know that I do not screw others because it is immoral, but rather because I have an obligation to help, not hinder, to enlighten, not confuse. I don’t want what others have, nor do I need it, but the constraints of morality force even the meekest of men to become sinners. The new found morality will not lead to happiness, or peace of mind. Happiness will be found in doing what you love, and being who you really are, without seeking acceptance from anyone other than yourself. Those who expound morality are immoral.

I regret nothing, although there are times when I wish I could have said something a little more appropriate than “Go to hell, you fucking whore.”, at the settlement hearing with my first wife, but it was said and done. I have tried to spend my life as a champion of the underdog, the guardian of those who are unable to help themselves. When no one wanted to hang out with Fitzroy Simmons, who was taunted, teased and bullied his entire academic life, I looked out for him, and offered my friendship. Madame S., well, she needed to feel love, and I desperately wanted to be the one to give it to her. My refusal to knuckle under to the intimidation tactics of Mr. Brackett served to demonstrate to others that authority exists only because we give it permission to.

I went on, after University, to work with children and adolescents with mental health and behavioral issues, guiding them to a life of self reliance and self acceptance. Not bad for a disrespectful, immoral, failure. Recognize your responsibility and your duty to give back, and stop listening to the moral right. They’re all just fucktards.

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.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Clown Of Fenlon Falls

 

by Fielding Goodfellow

I met Neanne sometime in the late 1970s or early 1980s, but I can’t be certain of anything any longer.  I was caught somewhere between the excessive drugs and a a chronic reluctance to accept and adapt to the bullshit that was falling around me in the guise of manna from heaven. When both  joy and despair  danced around my head like Fred & Ginger, tugging at my sanity to a degree that would make any bipolar disorder envious. The effects of the copious amounts of hallucinogenics I had been dabbling in were wonderfully bizarre. Every now and again there would be a flying burrito doing figure eights above the kitchen sink,  or the chameleon who lived next door would bring home a penguin he had recently started dating. And when it all seemed about to implode, she wandered into my world.  She was tall, blonde, and exactly what I needed at the time.

Neanne came from a small town north of the city, and she was a prostitute trying to get out of the life. She was the perfect distraction at a time when I longed to be distracted. We became friends, and when she left the business a short time later, we began a relationship based entirely on each one of us getting their needs met. She needed someone to love her, and I needed someone to keep me safe from the Blue Meanies. She turned me on to all kinds of weird ass sex, and I got her into all kinds of weird ass drugs. Our entire existence as a couple revolved around sex and drugs. In retrospect we were the Sid and Nancy of the bagel crowd. We were either getting high or getting laid, or more often than naught, getting both.

I was working for a small, local record label in those days, working on projects with some larger Independent labels, scouring the land for marketable talent. Neanne went with me to a small community just North East of the big smoke, where we rented a cottage on the lake. We traveled around the area, catching shows at various bars while insanely stoned, and returned to our rented rooms to engage in coitus stupendous. On the third day of our talent search, we ran into an older gentleman, dressed in a suit, looking like a lawyer, or perhaps a bank employee. And while neither Neanne nor I had any idea of who he was, he was certain that he knew Neanne. It seems that during one of his sojourns to the big city, he had enlisted the services of a sex trade worker, and he was sure it was Neanne. Before long, the entire bar was looking over at her, and she was being propositioned by most of the men present, with the server delivering notes and drinks to her. It was becoming overwhelming for her. I on the other hand, was devising a plan to send the giant lizard men who were standing by the car in to eat the little bastards. “I want to leave.”, she told me.

“Okay.”, I said.

As we drove back to the cottage, she had asked if I would take her to her parent’s home, about an hour or so away. I agreed. She talked the entire time, relaying tales of how this sort of thing happens regularly. There was always an ex client who recognized or remembered her and was seeking something now. She had had enough of it, and wasn’t sure if she could stay around the city. Even out here, in cottage country, she was being recognized. I felt bad for her, but man did I want to take her now. It occurred to me that I was getting for free what everyone else had to pay for, and that seemed pretty cool, with a cloud of opium sifting through my brain.

We spent 24 hours at her parents’ home, giving Neanne time to settle down, talk with her parents, and try to come up with a plan to move on with her life. She had decided, with the help of her father, who went off to work each day with a lunch pail in on hand, and a bible in the other, that she was going to find God, and devout her life to helping others. A noble quest, indeed. But the only thing my drug soaked brain could focus on was how would this interfere in my getting laid.

I understood her need to find something more. I myself, had traveled down that road on more than one occasion, seeking God, or a reasonable facsimile. I searched everywhere I could think of, at the beach, in the mountains, at the bottom of a box of Fruit Loops, but found nothing. But Neanne was determined, and I was certain her father had the address to some secret location where God could indeed be found.

I stayed with Neanne until she figured out that she wanted to be a  clown. “Are you serious?”, I asked her.

“Yes,”, she said. “Its perfect. I would make people happy.”

“It seems to me that your previous occupation made people happy too.”, I replied.

“I can’t do that anymore.”, she said. “It didn’t make me happy. And besides, I think I love you.”

The sarcastic laughter and comments from the giant lizard men sitting in the back seat of the car, startled me at first. “I really need to stay straight long enough to know what the hell I’m doing.”, I thought.

We parted ways shortly after, I mean I didn’t love her. I loved the sex. And while, at the time, I didn’t know there was a difference, I figured it out. Neanne did indeed venture into the world of clowning. She got pretty good at it, and eventually started her own business providing floppy shoes, baggy pants, and big, red noses, to parties, school events, and children’s hospital visits. I saw her a few years later, and she was happy. I was happy for her. I traveled on, discovering new ways to antagonize the universe, and simplify my life.  I moved on to new worlds, discovering that while there was no need to search any longer, it was still wonderfully exciting to look for the prize in the box of Fruit Loops.

 

 

Power & Control

 

I had sneaked into the bedroom. After being awake for 3 hours, while my wife slept, I went to retrieve a cigarette. I moved as quietly as humanly possible, maneuvering around a chair, a lamp, and assorted collectibles. Just as I reached the pack that sat atop the dresser, she spoke. “Did you have coffee already?”

“Ya.”, I replied. “I’ve been up since 2 o’clock.”

“Did you make me any?”, she asked.

“No.”, I told her. “You were asleep.”

“I’m awake now.”, she stated.

“Would you like me to make you coffee?”, I asked.

“No.”, she said. “Its okay. I’m awake now. I can do it myself.”

“Then why are we having this conversation?, I replied.

“I was just asking.”, she stated.

“Its quite aggravating.”, I informed her.

“I know.”, she replied. “But its my job.”

“I wish you’d find another line of work.”, I responded.

“No you don’t.”, she said. “You wouldn’t know what to do with yourself without me aggravating you.”

“I suppose you’re right.”, I told her. “All of these years of having a pain in my ass, I suppose I would miss it if it were gone.”

“Oh, don’t start that sweet talking now.”, she stated. “Its far too early, Let me at least have my coffee first.”

I remember the way things used to be. I don’t know what happened to change it all, but it was different. It had been for over 20 years. Somewhere along this long, strange trip, everything shifted. It was like a parallel universe, with things reversed.

“I used to be in charge.”, I told her, although it sounded a lot more like a question than a statement of fact.

“Yes you were.”, she replied.

“Well.”, I continued, “When did all of that change?”

“It never changed.”, she replied.

“Well. it seems to me”, I added, “that I have very little input into things that go on here.”

“That’s because that’s the way you want it.”, she responded.

“That’s not what I want.”, I told her.

“Sit down.”, she said. “We need to talk.”

“Listen carefully.”, she told me. “And please don’t get upset. You were never really in charge.”

“No , I was.”, I said. I remember making every decision.”

“Well”, she continued. “You really didn’t. You felt that you were in charge because I wanted you to feel that you were in charge.”

“What are you talking about?”, I asked,

“Ah, honey”, she said as she moved the hair off of my forehead. “You never stood a chance. None of you do. Everything that has gone on in our lives was because I was in charge. And look where we are today? Beautiful children, and a  happy marriage. What more could you have wanted?”

“The children, while beautiful, are out of their fucking minds.”, I replied. “And as for a happy marriage, we’re not happy, you’re happy. There’s a difference.”

“Is there?”, she asked. “Could you be happy if I was unhappy?”

“Well, no.”, I said.

“And why is that?”, she asked.

“Because I love you?”, I guessed.

“Hell no.”, she answered. “We both know its because I wouldn’t let you.”

“You tricked me.”, I said. She stood up and sat beside me, hugging me as she rubbed my shoulders.

“What can I do to make it better for you?”, she asked. “Whatever you want.”

“I’d like sex .”, I said.

“Okay.”, she said. “Anything else?”

“Do you think you could make me that brisket again?”, I queried. “The one with the roasted potatoes and carrots?”

“Of course.”, she replied.

“Great.”, I said. “That would be great.”

“Is there anything else?”, she asked, as she stood up.

“No I think that covers it.”, I told her.

“I’m glad.”, she remarked. “And honey.”, she said as I began to walk away. “I like it when you put your foot down and try to take control.”

“I know.”, I said. “That’s why you fell in love with me. Right?”

“No.”, she answered. “But don’t stop. Its really very cute.”

She was good. She was very good. She had confused and confounded me, again. It was precisely at that moment that I realized that she was right. I was never really in charge, and I never would be. But it  didn’t matter anyway. The brisket was good, the sex was even better, and I didn’t really want anything else.

 

 

 

Bitch Toss

 

I have a habit, although my wife refers to it as a disorder, of arriving at work in the wee hours of the morning, and completing all of my paper work. For me, it works. I then have the day to deal with arising issues, and can devout my time to resolving them, un-distracted by looming bureaucratic deadlines. Some mornings, if I am diligent enough, I find myself with time to have a nap in my office before any one else arrives. I suppose I enjoy the solitude, the tranquility of a world unencumbered by the persistent bullshit of asshats and fucktards.

It began when I was still in University, staying up all night to study, or write essays in the silence, while everyone else was asleep. I would often go to Mr. Donut, buy a pack of cigarettes from the machine, and sit at a table all night, drinking coffee and working on my assignments unfettered by the world that slumbered. It bothers my wife. Even though I am not at home, I seem to be responsible for her waking early, not sleeping properly, bad coffee, and a seemingly never ending list of issues that arise in my home between 2am and 6am. At one time, my wife suggested we get separate beds. My counter proposal was that we get separate homes. Needless to say, we still have the one bed.

At my wife’s urging, or rather badgering, I went to the doctor. After a series of intrusive tests, some of which made me feel quite violated, I was advised that my body clock was off.  It could be reset I was told, and I was given a list of things to do, and not to do in order to correct the problem. Surprisingly, I didn’t see it as a problem. My wife however, who takes great joy in complicating and micromanaging my life, insisted that it was. “You need to sleep!”, she told me. “Everybody needs to sleep!”

“You mean, you need to sleep.”, I corrected her.

“Yes.”, she fired back, “I need to sleep. So you need to fix the problem.”

Now, to be truthful, there have been times when I have wanted to suggest things that she needed to fix. Things like get cable back, have more sex, and give me some of the fucking blanket. But there always seems to be a round or two of the game known as bitch and catch. It works like this. No matter what is going on, no matter who is responsible, my wife hurls her bitch at me. My role in this game is to catch it, and hang on to it. If I drop it, the bitches that follow will be harder and more erratic, making it almost impossible to catch and hang on to. The only way this can be won by me, is to catch and hang on to each and every bitch, and at an opportune moment, to throw one back and force her into the catching role. Not surprisingly, she is very weak in this part of the game. I am, and I say this with all modesty, the Provincial Champion, three years in a row, and the reigning Silver Medalist at the World Championship.

Let me assure you that this is no easy feat. The training involved is unprecedented in modern sport. It requires stamina, patience, inner strength, and quick reflexes. It demands a calm interior and a hardened exterior, much like an emotionally charged M & M. Years ago, I secured a trainer and a coach, who work with me several times a week, and I attribute much of my success to their dedication and knowledge in deflecting bitches, the most difficult part of this event. In its simplest terms, it weakens the bitch, slowing it down and minimizing its impact, so that it it falls into your hands like a feather drifting on a warm summer breeze, landing right in the palm of you outstretched and open hand. The idea is to stand perfectly still, don’t even blink, and look at her. And just as she is about to release, lowering your eyes to the ground, and mumbling “I’m sorry, honey.”, creates a disturbance in the atmosphere, causing time to almost stand still. When this is employed correctly, and you have caught the bitch, this is the moment to throw it back. It is unsuspected, and applies a devastating blow to your combatant, one from which they struggle to overcome. The bitches stop.It gets eerily quiet, as she thinks about her next move. Don’t move, and don’t say a word. Anything you say or do at this point will only serve to provide with additional bitches. There is an old saying ‘the one who speaks next, is the one who loses.’. Don’t speak. Through my coach and trainer, I have mastered this by imagining my wife naked. Yep. There she is, standing in front of me, naked, and my mind is occupied in thoughts of sexual fantasy. “What the hell are you doing?”, she asks me, being the first one to speak.

“Nothing.”, I reply. “Just thinking.”

“About what?”. she pries.

“About you.”, I say. “About us.”, as I lower my gaze to the ground again.  

“I’m sorry.”, she says, as she comes towards me, totally bitchless. “I don’t mean to give you a hard time.”

“Well”, I said.  “Seems like you already did.”

“Oh, so it does.”, she remarked, looking at my crotch. “Well, I suppose we should take care of that.”, she continued, as she led me into the bedroom.

Game, set, and match!!!

Bubbie Has A Boyfriend

 

There was quite a furor in my house. The kids were upset, my wife was uncharacteristically quiet, and once again I found myself in the role of therapist for this band of brooding, yet quite lovable barbarians. As innocent as it appeared to me, there was much anxiety over the news that my 80 year old mother-in-law had a boyfriend.

“Who is this man?”, one of my daughters asked.

“What does Bubbie need a boyfriend for?”, another one shouted out.

“We need to check this guy out.”, a son chimed in. “What if he’s after her money or something?” I sat listening to this diatribe, wondering what he hell had happened to what I thought was a reasonably sensible family.

“I don’t know who he is.”, my wife said. “Except that he’s younger than her, and he’s French.”

“He’s a gigolo.”, another son entered the fray.

“Are they, like dating?”, a daughter asked.

“It appears that way.”, my wife responded. “He just moved into her building.”

“Oh my God!”, a daughter quipped. “Are they living together?”

“No.”, my wife said. “He has his own apartment. A few floors above hers.”

“Well, that’s convenient.”, I said. Its probably not even furnished..”

“What is that supposed to mean?”, my wife asked, with arms folded.

“It means they are probably living together.”, a son replied. “He just rented his own apartment to make it look good.”

“They are not living together.”, my wife stated. “And please”, she added as she looked directly at me, “If you’re not going to help, then just say nothing.”

“I just don’t think there’s anything to get so upset about.”, I said. “The woman has been a widow for almost 40 years. She spent all of that time alone. I think its good for her to meet someone and try to be happy.”

“Well, it’s not your mother, is it?”, my wife reminded me. And true enough, it wasn’t.

“We need to meet this guy.”, a son said. “We need to check him out and make sure he’s okay for Bubbie.”

“We should just put him in the trunk of his car and leave him in the parking lot at the Airport.”, someone said.

“This isn’t a Mafia hit.”, I interjected.

“What if they’re having sex?”, a daughter asked.

“They’re not having sex.”, my wife answered.

“How do you know?”, I asked.

“Because they’re not.”, she said. “You’re still not helping.”, she said to me.

“Well”, I offered.”Why don’t we ask your mother and her friend to join us for lunch. We’ll all go. We can meet him, and see what’s going on. Maybe then you can all stop talking about it.” There are times when I have wonderfully brilliant solutions to all of my families troubles, but not one of them will ever let me know. This was one of those times.

“Okay.”, my wife said. “I call my mother and make arrangements for this weekend.”

“I’m going to grill him.”, a daughter said. “No one messes with my Bubbie.”

“We could take him outside and threaten him.”, a son said. “You know, scare the crap out of him.”

“Who are you?”, I asked him. “We’re not the Sopranos!”

“We will all behave.”, my wife said. “It will be a nice getting to know you, and welcome to the family lunch.”

“He’s not in my family.”, a daughter said.

“Does he even speak English?”, a daughter asked.

“He speaks English.”, I assured her. “But like a Frenchman. Just mumble, close your eyes and move your head around a bit when you speak to him. He’ll understand perfectly.”

As the day of the luncheon rolled around, everyone was working on their own agendas. There were those who had plans to batter the man with incessant questioning, while others were planning on intimidating and threatening. My wife wasn’t sure how she would react. She hoped that she would like him, for her mother’s sake, but she already had issue with him. Me, well, it made no difference to me whatsoever. I was pretty far removed from the emotional turbulence that had overwhelmed my family. If he was alright, then I was alright. All of the kids and their significant others met at the restaurant about 20 minutes before we arranged for them to come. We were an intimidating site for a newcomer, all 10 of us, seated at the table, some with a scornful demeanor, and visible uneasiness. “Please make sure your children behave.”, my wife whispered to me.

“Why are they suddenly mine?”, I asked.

“Because you taught them to be rude and disrespectful.”, she said.

“Okay.”, I said to my kids. “You really need to tone it down, and behave yourselves. Be nice. Be polite. We’re hear for your grandmother. Let’s try to make her happy.”

When they arrived, we all sat there talking, introducing ourselves, and trying to get to know the Frenchman. I’m sure he knew the scrutiny he was under. I’m sure my mother-in-law warned him about our family. But he was alright. He held his own. One of my daughters kept giving him the ‘stink eye’, and I had to glare at her to get her to stop. It turned out that the Frenchman had a crap load of money, owned several properties across Canada, including a beach house in Nova Scotia, and a Condo in Vancouver. I could see my daughter’s eyes light up,  with dollar signs floating around her face. My mother-in-law seemed happy, the happiest I had seen her in many, many years. My wife, struggling a little to let go of the ghost of her father, also saw her mother’s happiness. We finished lunch, and said our goodbyes, as they had a long drive back to Windsor. As the rest of us walked towards our cars, there was much chatter about the Frenchman.

“He seems okay.”, a son said.

“I still don’t like him.”, a daughter said.

“Do you think I could get him to pay off my student loan?”, another daughter asked.

“I hate the French.”, someone stated.

In the car, heading home, my wife asked me what I thought of him. “I don’t know.”, I told her. “He seems nice enough, and your mother is very happy.”

“I don’t want her to get hurt.”, she said.

“Ah, honey.”, I said. “They’re 80 years old. He can’t get her money because we have signing authority. What’s left for him to take? Her virtue? That ship sailed a long, long time ago. Let her have fun. We will take care of her, but she needs to live.”

“I know.”, she said. “I just worry that he’ll leave or something, and then she’ll have nothing.”

“She’ll have us.”, I reminded her.

“Thank you for looking out for my mother.”, she told me.

“And besides”, I stated. “If he hurts her, we can always have him stuffed into the trunk of a car parked at the airport. Your gangster son would gladly do the job.”

“Oh, so now he’s my son.”, she exclaimed.

“Yes.”, I explained. “The crazy shit they get from you. The kids and I refer to it as ‘getting Moroccan’.”

“Well”, she said, “We have some time without any kids. Interested in some crazy Moroccan sex?”

“It so happens that’s my favorite kind.”, I told her. Man, I love this woman..

 

 

 

 

School Of Hard Rocks

 

For as long as I can remember, I have lived my life in a blaze of psychedelic pornography. I suspect that it began with Mr. Norton, an American draft evader who came to Canada and wound up teaching English at my High School. We would spend many a lunch time, discussing music and literature, as we smoked a joint, and occasionally dropped a hit of acid in his car.

I first laid eyes on Wendy Glass in Mr. Norton’s English class. She sat directly across from me. Long blonde hair, tight sweater, and short skirt, that gave me alternating views of her wonderfully contoured thighs and pink panties, every time she crossed and uncrossed her legs. I painfully sat through discussions of ‘Brave New World’ and  ‘Heart Of Darkness’, with my eyes fixed on what lay beneath her skirt, and an erection that never seemed to go away. My days were filled with thoughts of her, and my nights were a series of cinemascopic dreams that rivaled any masturbatory imagery I had ever experienced.

She was wonderfully coy every time I spoke to her, with a flip of her hair over her right shoulder, a tilt of her head, and a giggle, that made me want to take her right there in the school hallway. By the following school year, we would sit in a stairwell and smoke a joint,  and she would talk about the other girls in our grade who ignored or disliked her. I listened intently, my erection straining the fabric of my jeans, wondering if now was the  right time to kiss her. Not just any kiss, but a kiss to end all kisses, full on mouth to mouth, with tongues dancing in synchronized rhythm for what seemed like eternity. When she stopped talking, I convinced her to join my friends and I for a day of cutting school and wandering around Centre Island. There was already talk around the school, since we had been seen together, that I was a drugged out sex maniac, and she was nothing more than a common whore. Now, to set the record straight, I was indeed a drugged out, sex maniac, but Wendy was far from common.

While I was trying to gain access to the uncharted, wonderful world of Wendy, I had also been busy dipping into the warm womanhood of Ms. Sherman, the young French teacher. I seemed to have a knack for languages, and while she praised my oral skills, I must confess that her own particular oral technique was incredibly developed. We would meet in the French room after school, and with the doors locked, begin our pas de deux, which we would move to her car, parked in the back of the parking lot, and complete our horizontal tango. We followed this up with smoking a joint, and then parted ways until the next time. I was quite proud of this achievement, but more than Ms. Sherman, I wanted Wendy Glass.

I had imagined her naked many, many times. I had decided our trip to Centre Island was my opportunity for a rousing bout of carnal calisthenics. As we boarded the ferry, she hung on tightly to my shirt. She sat close beside me, so close that I could feel her skin touch mine. The blood was coursing through my veins,  and ended up, as it always did, south of my belt. What was it about this girl that keep me in a state of perpetual erection? As the boat docked, and the all clear was given, she stood up, waiting for me to stand as well. It took me a minute, as I thought about baseball, Leo Gorcey, and Huntz Hall before I was able to stand up without looking like Pinocchio was stuffed down the front of my pants.

While my friends decided to take paddle boats for a ride, Wendy and I simply walked the island, crossing pedestrian bridges that spanned the inlets that separated the islands from each other. We walked, talking about music, books, and things existential, and I felt her take my hand. I turned to look at her, and I was completely taken by her beauty. It was as if I was seeing her for the first time. Without hesitation, I kissed her, long and deep. I would have been content with just that, but Pinocchio had other ideas, and I laid her right there and then, on the grass. We stayed there for what seemed like forever afterward, eating some peyote, and watching the soft early summer clouds explode in purples and blues and greens. They danced across the sky smiling, expanding and contracting, taking on weird shapes as they came closer, as if trying to swallow us.

As the school year drew to a close, I lost touch with Wendy Glass. We had classes, developed different friendships, and drifted apart. I would often see her in the hallways of  Newton High School, and we would smile, and say hello, as we continued on our separate paths. Ms. Sherman remained at the school for one more semester, before accepting a position at a French Immersion school outside the city. Mr. Norton stayed on for my entire high school career, and we continued to visit his car, getting wasted, and discussing my emerging interests in Kafka, Vonnegut, and existential nihilism.  Following graduation, I never saw him again.

I ran into Wendy many, many years later.  She was working as a veterinarian nurse at an animal clinic where I had taken my dog for his annual shots. . She looked the same,  long blond hair, tight sweater, and short skirt. We talked for a while, and fondly reminisced about that day at the island. I told her how I was constantly getting hardons every time she crossed her legs. She said that she knew, and that was why she kept crossing and uncrossing her legs. We both laughed.   It was nice to be able to look back with the clarity of retrospection, and to realize that time doesn’t change us unless we want it to, I mean she was still an uncommon whore, and I was still a drugged out sex maniac.

Rules Of Engagement

 

“I can’t sleep.”, my wife informed me as I was finally drifting off. “The atmosphere has been weird for the past two weeks. Do you know what I mean?”

“I understand the words.”, I replied. “But I have no idea what you mean.”

“Its like things are out of whack.” she continued. “It just doesn’t feel right. And its making me very uneasy.  Does that make any sense?”

“Not really.”, I told her. “But I don’t share your Moroccan sensitivity.”

“Do you think that’s what it is?”, she asked.

“Well”, I answered, “Either that or you’ve lost your mind.”

“We’ll go with the Moroccan sensitivity.”, she said.

“Either way.”, I informed her, “Its okay with me.” Several minutes of silence passed, and I could feel myself drifting off to sleep, once again.

“So what do you want to do now?”, my wife asked.

“What?”, I inquired, both surprised and agitated.

“Well, we can’t sleep.”, she stated, “did you want to talk, or watch tv or something?”

“We could fool around.”, I said.

“No.” , she answered, “I’m not in the mood for that.”

“Well.”, I said, “I think I’ll just go to sleep.”

“That’s it?”, she asked angrily. “You’re only willing to stay awake for sex?”

“Pretty much.”, I told her.

“You’re an ass.”, she said.

“Look.”, I told her, as I turned to face her. “There are only two reasons I have ever been prepared to stay awake. If you need medical attention, or sex. If you don’t need either of those, I have to get some sleep. I’m exhausted”

“Well, I’m over exhausted.” she said. “But this feeling is freaking me out.”

“You can’t be over exhausted.”, I informed her. “Exhausted is finite. There are degrees of tired, and exhausted is the ultimate. You can be over tired, but there is nothing beyond exhausted. You could use an adjective, like totally exhausted, but its redundant. Exhausted implies that you are the most tired you could be.”

“Shut up.”, she said, as she turned her back to me.

“You don’t have to be angry about it.”, I told her.

“Yes I do.”, she stated. “The rules are if I can’t sleep, you stay up with me.”

“Really?”, I inquired. “And if I can’t sleep, do you have to stay up with me?”

“No.”, she informed me. “Only if you’re very sick, or hurt.”

“Who made these rules.”, I asked.

“I did.”, she answered.

“It must be nice to just make up any rule you want.”, I stated sarcastically, sitting up in bed now, realizing that I was completely awake.

“It is.”, she said.

“Well, I’m awake now.”, I told her. “What do you want to do?”

“I’m feeling sleepy now.”, she said. “I think I’m going to go to sleep.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me!”, I stated with some indignance. “You’ve kept me awake, and now that I can’t sleep, you decide that you’re going to sleep?”

“Those are the rules.”, she said.

“What the hell am I supposed to do now?”, I asked.

“Well”, she said. “Medical attention or sex. You decide.”

“You know you make me crazy.”, I told her.

“I know.”, she replied. “That’s also one of the rules.”