The Search for Meaninglessness

I miss you allvery much and almost everyone else in the world.

Today I physically spoke with three people. The most important was my liquor store owner, Mr. Lee, but not to worry since most of my solitary existence has been devoted to the study of meaninglessness.

In vino veritas - Pliny the Elder

In magna vino oblivio - Peter Nolan Smith

Of course oblivion has always been easier to achieve than enlightenment.

The only man in the bar.

The Wonder of Wild Bears

 

As a young boy living across the harbor from Portland, Maine in the 1950s, my favorite book was THE LITTLEST BEAR by Inez Hogan. The Provincetown writer and illustrator elegantly told the story of a bear cub lost on an DownEast island. The small bear grows and grows until he's a powerful creature needing more space and the boy's father transports the big bear to the forests of the Allagash. There were no bears in Falmouth Foresides.

Still I have told countless friend about bears dining at a dump in Standish.

None of my family share my memory, but I recall the black bears politely noshing on refuse.

Bears were a major draw at Clark's Trading Post in North Woodstock, New Hampshire and I pleaded with my father to stop for our family to tour the vacation attraction. We were a large family of eight. He parked by the entrance and I stood staring at the black bear standing on a platform. We never went inside Clark's, although we once drove to the top of Mount Washington, the highest mountain in New England.

Two female grizzly bears from Montana inhabit the old polar bear cages in Manhattan's Central Park Zoo.

Betty and Veronica deserved better range than that old pit. I have seen a Grizzly south of Glacier Park.

"Damn that's a big dog," I said to Ms Carolina.

"Stupid, that t'aint no dog. That's a grizzly bear."

Later that trip along a river in Yellowstone Park, Ms. Carolina asked, "What you doing, fool?"

"Following these bear tracks."

"You really have a death wish. Grizzly bears can run 35 miles per hour, which is fastest than the fastest human and you're not even close to that fast. You have to put a tree between you and them. Grizzlies aren't great tree climber."

"Neither am I, but I bet I can outrun you and if a bear is after us, all I have to do is run faster than you."

"Not a chance you're faster than me or a bear."

Ms. Carolina didn't wait for 'ready, set, go'. She beat me back to the car by fifty feet and laughed, "Dead man."

"Not dead yet and ain't no bear going to kill me."

Sadly Ms. Carolina reached eternity in 2011 and today I read about a black bear attacking an Alpaca in an Anchorage Zoo. The Andean beast of burden had no tree to climb, but I do in Brooklyn and I smiled knowing Ms. Carolina would arrive there first.

Free Teddy Bears

For the GOP nothing should be free.

As a radical I differ with them.

There should be free Teddy Bears.

BEAR SEASON by Peter Nolan Smith

Hunting season along the Hudson River opens in mid-October. Bow and arrows only. Guns are allowed in November, so I feel relatively safe walking in the woods, especially wearing a neon-orange hooded sweatshirt. No animal in that color existed north or south of Troy, New York and during the shooting season non-hunters drape their bodies in orange to prevent any hunter from mistaking them for a deer.

“No one has ever been refused a hunting license because they’re color blind,” Floyd told me at the Green Acres Tavern. The drinking establishment on Rte. 29 is brightly lit all hours of the day, since the owner thinks people look more honest under 100-watt light.

“So someone might shoot me even if I’m wearing this.” The orange was hurtful to the eye.

“If drink was involved.” Belvin shrugged his shoulders. The 56 year-old farmer is a crack marksman. The previous weekend he scored 99 out of 100 with a bolt-action .308 Winchester. “People shoot at whatever they see come hunting season. One time I’m sitting here and this down-stater enters the tavern, telling everyone about the spike-horn deer he killed. None of us had ever heard about this species of deer and asked to see his kill. It was a billy goat.”

“That’s nothing. Them folks will shoot anything that moves.” A scrawny UPS driver diverted his attention from the NFL replays. People up here like talking about hunting season. “My uncle’s game warden down in Duchess County. One time he stops a truck on Route 44 and asks the driver what he has on the roof. The driver tells him a spotted deer. It was a St. Bernhard.”

“I lost a cow to a hunter three years ago.” A lady mournfully remembered with a Bud in her hand. “She was a good milker.”

“I’ve never hunted in my life.” My father was vehemently anti-gun, so the majority of my experience with weapons comes from shooting with my Dutch uncle Howie Hermann at the 20th Street Shooting Range in Manhattan. Every Monday night we would meet at the 2nd Avenue Deli and then drive over to shoot pistols; Lugers, Colts, S&W ad infinitum. Howie was real gun-nut. Sweet as pie, but liked his guns.

“Nothing wrong with not hunting.” Another drinker commented from the end of the bar. His voice betrayed his real feeling on the subject. Guns were sacred this far north of New York.

“I know that.” My youth had been spent in Maine. Deer and bear are strapped to cars during hunting season. Their blood dripping over the windows is a badge of manhood in the North. “Never really wanted to kill anything, but I’m not saying it’s not a good thing as long as it’s for eating.”

“Deer meat’s good.” Belvin had a side of deer in his freezer. “Bear not so good.”

“If you get them in the fall, you can grill them up as steaks.” A bearded beer-drinker added from his stool. Everyone here knew everyone. “But they cook up dry real quick.”

“But if you undercook it, you get trichinellosis.” I was the outsider, but was familiar with this problem thanks to reading about the disastrous polar expedition of the Franklin. The crew ate bear and died of trichinellosis.

“That’s deadly, ain’t it?” The beer-drinker was scratching his head, as if his fingers might jog lose the brain cells holding that information.

“Same as if you ate uncooked pig.” Belvin was a subsistence farmer. He could eat everything on his land, excepting the tree bark and his wife knew how to make teas from them. “You get nausea, heartburn, dyspepsia, and diarrhea. That’s why the Jews and Muslims don’t eat pork.”

“I’m not so sure that’s the reason. I have a lot of Jewish friends who are bacon Jews. They love pork. I think the real reason their religion prohibits pork is that it tastes so good.” At least to my palate. “I was in Sumatra once. A big island in Indonesia. Full of Muslims. Anyway I go up to the highlands and the people are Christians. Everyone of them. They even sing Christian prayer songs like BY THE RIVERS OF BABYLON. We were out in the forests and I asked them as we were cooking wild pig, why they didn’t become Muslims like everyone else. The elder explained that they loved the taste of pork too much to give it up for any god.”

“Not much tastes better than bacon.” The UPS driver smacks his lips.

“What about apple pie?” The woman eyed the dessert tray by the kitchen window. The food at the tavern was home-made.

“Apple pie pretty damn good, but it ain’t meat.” The bearded farmer’s statement granted him a bar of nodding heads.

“The pig that night on Sumatra was good. The hill people ate everything but the oink. Afterwards the headman asked, “You know why we like pig so much?” I shook my head and he answered by saying, “Because it tastes like man.”

“Cannibals.” Belvin’s hand reached for a gun at his waist. The .357 was in the truck.

“Supposedly not anymore, but I didn’t like the way they were looking at me. Sort of like a fat person after eating a salad.”

“What you do?” The UPS driver was on the edge of his seat.

“I thanked them for the dinner and headed home. Thought they were going to bushwhack me on the trail. I locked the door of the hotel and left the next day. Believe I was happy to be back with the Muslims.” They were a little grim about my beer-drinking. “I’ve never heard of any Muslim cannibals.”

“Me neither.” The bartender put a shot of whiskey in front of me.

“What’s that for?”

“You won the biggest bullshit story of the night award.” Belvin scanned the rest of the clientele. They were locals. “No one here can come up with better.”

“But it wasn’t bullshit.” My bone marrow trembled with the remembrance of the ex-cannibals’ faces.

“You should make it a double.” The UPS driver had returned his gaze to the Jets’ highlights. “He even believes his own bullshit.”

“Here’s to bullshit.” I drained the shot and ordered a round for the bar. It wasn’t painful. Buds in the Green Acres are only $2.50 and that’s everyone’s favorite beer. Mine was Labatt’s Blue. It was $3. Belvin drove me home before midnight. We both had long tomorrows ahead of us. He left me off at the end of my friend’s drive.

“That was sure some good story.” Belvin was smiling with the belief that I was the best bullshitter he had heard in some time.

“Thanks.” Sometimes it’s best not to disappoint the masses. I waved goodnight and Belvin disappeared over the crest of the hill. In the light of the moon my sweatshirt glowed orange. I made it home without a single shot coming in my direction. Next month would be another story.

Seven Months of Limbo

 

In 1977 I left Boston for New York.

I stayed until 1982.

Paris was my next stop.

I traveled the world over the next thirty years.

The Yucatan, the Luberon, Asia, Africa, South America.

Now due to the Covid-19 pandemic I am imprisoned in New York without any chance of escape by plane, train, car, foot, or ship like I have been sentenced to minimum-security prison without any parole in sight. I am not alone. Millions of us are locked down by a government without any solution to this crisis. I want to go to Europe. I want to see my children in Thailand. I want to be free.

None of are now.

Prisoners.

When will we see freedom again?

When we all dance together?

One day we will be able to say tomorrow.

Eleven Years After

Two week after 9/11 the wind shifted direction from a westerly to a southerly. The plume of smoke swung north to cloak the streets below Union Square with the BBQ fragrance of the massive funeral pyre. My apartment on East 10th Street filled with particles of dead people, asbestos, cindered paper, pulverized steel and ashes from known and unknown sources. It was time to flee New York and I caught the Fung Wah bus for Boston that afternoon. My younger sister was glad to see me.

"It's good to be here." My sister lived three hundred yards from 128, but the September air of her South Shore neighborhood was a welcome change from charnel house clouds blanketing Manhattan. "Tomorrow we're thinking about going down to the Newport Boast Show." Life was resuming normalcy faster farther from Ground Zero.

"Sounds good." I hadn't been to Newport since the 1969 Jazz Festival. Led Zeppelin had closed out the Sunday line-up of James Brown, Johnny Winter, Willie Bobo, and BB King with HOW MANY MORE TIMES. The weather report for the next day was for clear skies, the same conditions as on 9/11 and ever since I have remarked on cloudless days as 9/11 weather.

American presidents, politicians, media, and citizens had said that 9/11 was a day that changed this country forever, but we still drive SUVs, eat potato chips, and worry about the Oscars more than our troops overseas. Worse the Pentagon and its commanders in the field seemingly have a collective amnesia on the Islamic sensibility, for this month contract workers sifting through burning trash discovered the fire-damaged Korans. The NATO general in charge of the Bagram Prison had ordered their confiscation and destruction on the grounds that prisoners were using them to communicate between cells.

Reaction was swift from the Afghans. The Bagram base was under siege by protestors hurling stones and gas bombs. Rubber bullets struck countless demonstrators. Four Afghanis were killed during the outburst and then two US soldiers were fatally attacked within the secure confines of the Interior Ministry in Kabul. The military commander of the occupation called for the withdrawal of all non-essential foreign personnel throughout the country and apologized for the error by the NATO troops.

Twnety-one years into this conflict and the struggle to win the hearts and minds of the Afghan remains a challenge to the military, but strengthens the truth of the old adage, "Those who do not learn from history are doomed to repeat it."

FUCK ALL BELIEVERS IN THE NAILED GOD

 

The God/President has decreed that any Public University not financing Nailed God clubs might be shorn of their federal funding like Samson by the Philistines.

I so wish Jesus would come back and take all the God-suckers to heaven.

And leave us in peace.