It Ain’t No Musical

Life should be more like a musical, a joyous romp in a well scripted song and dance routine with a happy ending instead of this completely improvisational sketch comedy set in summers so hot that it feels like I’d spontaneously burst into flames, and winters so damned cold that I’m sure that if I go outside, my nuts would freeze and then simply fall off.

It should be more like River City, with Harold Hill warning of the trouble brewing and falling feet first into a parade led by 76 trombones that allows him to capture the heart of Marian The Librarian who, years later, would leave her position at the book depository and set off with five kids in a painted school bus sharing their ‘C’mon, Get Happy’ song with anyone who dared to listen. Or maybe a week or two in the small, sleepy town of Sweet Apple, Ohio, shaken awake by the swiveling hips of Conrad Birdie bumping and grinding his way into the sexual fantasy of Kim McAfee, as he prepares to ride off in his gold lame fatigues to serve his country, leaving the hapless failed songwriter, Albert Peterson, with his dreams of chemistry and having his way with the ravishing Rose Alvarez who, by the way, survived an unprovoked attack in her room at The Bates Motel.

Or maybe a trip through space and time as Erronius wanders around the seven hills of Ancient Rome, and Pseudolus, dodges gladiators and Centurions on his way to the Forum as he set out to obtain his freedom from servitude in exchange for the lovely Philia, a winsome virgin who lives next door in the house of Marcus Lycus, the flesh peddler who bears an uncanny resemblance to Sergeant Ernie Bilko who lived two thousand years in the future! Now that would be something peculiar, if not familiar. Life could be a turf war in New York’s west side between the Jets and the Sharks, all set in 6/8 time, or a mob war with The Rat Pack in 1920s Chicago, the battleground between Robbo and Guy Gisborne, who decades later emerged as a cigar smoking Los Angeles Police Lieutenant.

Life should take me through the world of my imagination, down the river of chocolate with a golden ticket and an everlasting gobstopper in hand, as Oompa Loompas sing and dance for Willy Wonka, who I am sure was one of the former Broadway producers incarcerated for fraud in the ‘Springtime For Hitler’ debacle. I may find myself in a Russian village at the height of the Bolshevik Revolution, with Tevye dancing down a dirt road, wondering what life would be like if he were a rich man while a violinist from the St. Petersburg Philharmonic plays the classics while precariously perched on the roof.

Life should be an eternal party on a stormy night, when madness takes its toll, and a jump to the left and then a step to the right would transform the world and drop me among the transsexual Transylvanians led by a sweet transvestite who, after his fall from grace, settles in Derry, Maine dragging unsuspecting passersby into the sewers where everything seems to float. Or at best, the dugout of the heartless Washington Senators, the worst team in baseball, spring to life with the arrival of Joe Hardy, who is talked into a deal that would change both the team’s fortunes, and his life, as arranged by the devil in the guise of Mr. Applegate, who interestingly enough arrives on Earth a second time as Tim O’Hara’s Martian uncle, Martin

It’s a far cry from sitting in the dark after the power goes out in the middle of another ice storm shoveling handfuls of dry Fruit Loops and Captain Crunch in your face knowing the neon lights are bright ‘On Broadway’. In any event, you always have a choice. You can either stand on the stage and belt out a verse or two of ‘Lullaby Of Broadway’, or any other ‘Broadway Melody’, or you can give your regards to Broadway and blame it on those ‘Nights On Broadway’. As for me, well, I don’t think life was meant to be lived as a carnival, a short stop in a field outside of a small town in rural America before it moves on to another locale. Life should be a musical, it was destined to be a musical, filled with chorus lines of women in short skirts and fish net stockings, bright lights, memorable melodies, and dance steps that are  perfectly choreographed, not to mention the perverse diversions that go on in the understudy dressing rooms following each night’s performance.

 

 

 

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.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Canadian Beaver

 

by Fielding Goodfellow

Every year, just before the sweltering summer heat enveloped the city, when the beaver emerge from their rural homes, and take up positions near the water’s edge, the frenzy for outdoor living permeates the collective mind of the Canadian middle class, and the pilgrimage to distant camp sites begins in earnest.

I had been seeing a woman, a bisexual, former professional escort who enjoyed such outdoor tomfoolery, and had requested that I attend a week long expedition into the wilderness with some mutual friends.  Despite my displeasure at being tossed in a canvass bag like a body found on the side of the train tracks, and the sordid tales of man eating, giant raccoons with machetes and gangster bears dressed in zoot suits carrying chain saws, the promise of as much sun, sex, and drugs as my aging mind and body could handle, I reluctantly agreed, and headed off with Wendy, Ray, and Kat to Lake Buckhorn.

We parked the cars near the boat rental and Ray, the self appointed expedition leader, rented us a boat. He was a weird little guy, with his Paul Bunyan utility belt strapped around his waist housing everything and anything he thought we might need at some point in time on our journey, but he had obviously done this sort of thing before. We headed off across the lake in search of an island paradise suitable for habitation. The clouds had lifted, and the heat from the sun was becoming intense, creating a mist on the water’s surface just ahead of us that sent an array of colored light dancing across the lake. And there, just beyond the mist, was an island. The island of all islands.

We tied up and unloaded the boat, and began the task of settling in to our new home away from home. Ray built a fire pit, while Wendy, Kat and I tackled the tents. Once completed, the 3 of us sat back and admired our handiwork as we enjoyed a hearty dose of peyote. I suspect it was the effects of the hallucinogenic, but there were swarms of black flies the size of geese, capable of carrying off a small child deep into the dense woodland that lined the shores of the lake, and there were mosquitoes wearing kamikaze helmets, as eager to drain my blood as the nurse at my doctor’s office, buzzing around like starving vampires.

As Ray finished with the fire pit, we secured the food, and listened to him explain the bathroom protocols. Apparently, there were no bathrooms, but there were shovels.  Ass wiping was courtesy of mother nature. Grab some leaves, and go to it. Be careful not to use poison ivy or poison oak. “But how do you know if its poison ivy or poison oak, Scout Master Ray?”, someone asked.  Some pictures were drawn in the sand identifying the leaves we were to avoid at all costs. Despite the effects of the hallucinogenics, I was acutely reminded as to why I did not participate in these kind of outdoor activities.

“So, nobody brought toilet paper?”, Kat asked. No they did not, we were informed. And so, with the toileting issue explained in more detail than I cared for, Ray and I went out in the boat to try and catch some fish. It was hot as hell out there on the lake in the blazing sun. The fish seemed reluctant to participate in our adventure, and  Ray popped opened the cooler and passed me a beer. In the time it took me to finish one, he had downed 5 or 6. He was a notorious drinker and had been known to empty a 12 pack on his own. “I think I’ve got something.”, Ray shouted as he grabbed hold of his fishing rod.

“Most likely liver disease.”, I proposed, as he struggled to reel in what he believed was one incredibly large fish. The battle waged for several minutes, back and forth, man versus fish. There was an inordinate amount of grunting and groaning, and when it was over, the drunken scout master had caught one hell of a big turtle. Tired, hot and unsuccessful in our attempts at outsmarting the fish, we headed back to the sanctuary of our island paradise.

Kat had managed to get a fire going, and adequately assessing our ability to catch some fish, had put hotdogs on the grill. I made a pot of mushroom tea, and we sat around the campfire, watching the flaming chorus line resurrect West Side Story. Kat brought out her guitar, and sat down on a rock near the fire pit and began one of those Kumbaya events, playing renditions of ‘Leaving On A Jet Plane’ and ‘Blowing In The Wind’. Despite my almost uncontrollable urge to toss that fucking guitar into the fire, I drank another cup of tea and set my focus on the fire chorus as they belted out ‘The Jet Song’.

I woke in the morning to find Ray, somewhat hung over, slaving over the fire, making bacon and eggs for us all. It was eerily quiet on the lake, and I thought I heard banjo music off in the distance. “I have to go to the marina.”, he told me. “I found some animal tracks around the food. We’ll have to get it off the ground and up in a tree. I need to get some rope.”

“Won’t the animals just climb the tree?”, I asked.

“Bears don’t climb.”, he answered.

“There are bears on this island?”, I asked him.

“I don’t know.”, he replied. “And I don’t want to find out. So we’ll put the food in the trees.” Ray left us to clean up after breakfast and disappeared on the lake, while I heated up the mushroom tea. Wendy, Kat and I sat by the water’s edge, totally messed up, watching the clouds turn into caricature’s of semi famous British rock stars. It had become hot and Kat pulled her top off, revealing two of the most  incredible breasts I had ever been fortunate enough to meet.

“I hope you don’t mind.”, she said, “but I’m so fucking hot. And besides, its no big deal. They’re only boobs.” As an outside observer, I can attest to the fact that, despite being just boobs, they were indeed a big deal.

“You’ve got great tits.”, Wendy stated as she pulled off her top as well. Not to be outdone, I removed my tee shirt. Kat & Wendy decided to strip and jump into the water. “Why don’t you come in and join us?”, Wendy asked as she and Kat stood in the water and began fondling each other’s breasts.

“You have no idea how much I would like to.”, I replied. “But there are turtles in there that could quite possibly cause irreparable damage. So, I think I’m going to have to pass.”

As I sat there, surrounded by the titty sisters, watching the girl on girl action unfolding, I was not the only one who realized that I was now fully locked and loaded.

“Someone’s excited.”, Kat stated, as she stared at bulge in my shorts evident from the water.

“Oh, he’s always excited.”, Wendy replied. “I think he needs a hand.”

“I’m sure we can offer more than just a hand.”, Kat answered.

They emerged from the lake, beautifully naked, moving in slow motion, as if time had stopped. Every step caused their breasts to heave, ever so slightly, and the water dripping down from their chests was following the curves of their bodies, and running down their thighs. As they arrived at my single gun salute they wasted no time in getting me naked, and we were rolling around on the towels we had placed on the beach like high school freshmen. Wendy’s talents were devastatingly exquisite, and Kat, well, she brought a whole new dimension to our sexcapades.

It started raining late that afternoon, and the temperature dropped significantly. I was cold and I was wet, and I fucking hated camping. When I woke the following morning, it was still cold, it was still raining, and I still hated camping. I had enough. I informed the others that I would be leaving, and Ray had agreed to take me back to where we left the cars. Wendy and I packed up our stuff, and in the driving rain, we headed out back across the lake. Wendy and Kat sat huddled under a tarp as we made the daring trip back to civilization, while I continued to absorb the brunt of the storm. The lake was choppy, and the small boat struggled to remain on course and conquer the swells. When we finally arrived at the car, I had had it. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”, I said.

“I think we should stop at that small hotel on the highway we saw when we came in.”, Wendy said. “I could really use a shower. And a bathroom.”

“Why not.”, I replied. “We’ve got nowhere else to go.”

“Thanks for giving it a shot.”, she said. “I appreciate it.”

“I only came for the sex.”, I reminded her.

“I know.”, she replied. “I hope it was worth it.”

“So far.”, I told her. “We’ll see what happens at the hotel. We’ve got 5 more days to go, and I’ve got enough mushrooms here to last twice that long.”

“So, what are you waiting for?”, she asked. “Let’s go get totally fucked.” And we did. Over and over again.

I never saw Ray and Kat again, which was a shame, really, I mean she was wonderfully fearless. I stopped seeing Wendy sometime that fall. To be honest, I don’t think I ever really had feelings for her. She was just a wonderful diversion in an attempt to expand my hedonistic boundaries. As for camping, well, I have not been since those 2 days I spent on Lake Buckhorn stalking wild Canadian Beaver.