Don't know if you've heard, but there is an anniversary of some consequence coming up. This coming Saturday marks the two-hundred-fiftieth anniversary of the Declaration of Independence. It is marked as the birthday for the nation, though if we're being entirely accurate, it is actually the anniversary of conception. It is likely impossible to forge any agreement on this, in a nation where there is already such antipathy surrounding any discussion which weighs the question of conception vs. birth. Thus, we shall simply stipulate to the birth side of the argument. Happy Birthday (?), America!
The last time there was this much hyperbole attached to the 4th celebration, was fifty years ago, then the occasion of the bicentennial. Some of you may still have some of the commemorative glasses or mugs that were commissioned for the occasion. If one examines their change with any regularity, it will be seen that there are yet a fair number of the bicentennial quarters in circulation. That summer was an orgy of red, white and blue. As a nation still sorting out Watergate and it's repercussions, it might easily have been an ambivalent celebration. It came at a time when the wounds of the Vietnam War were not yet fully healed, and in the shadow of the humiliating fall of Saigon only a year before. The occasion was not without some tarnish, but as a nation we remained naïve enough to indulge in some patriotic fervor.
I can still recall this in great detail. I was a gawky and impressionable young lad of almost fourteen, that summer between eighth grade and freshman year. Still a boy, discovering a man's appetites. As a child I had been raised on GI Joe and The Ballad of the Green Berets. Between Walter Cronkite's nightly broadcast of the war scores and local television late night theater of the day, I had been fed a steady diet of war. Is it any wonder then, that I developed an appetite for it? A veritable library of war stories, military histories and other tales of courage lined the bookshelves of my room. Other shelves were filled with models, completed in painstaking detail, of fighter planes, bombers, battleships and aircraft carriers.
I was from an age we now know as Generation Jones. I'm not sure I like the moniker, but appreciate the phenomenon at least being acknowledged. We are the children of another "Silent Generation"; the last generation of Americans to remain convinced of the myth that we, these United States of America, were the bastion of freedom and the world's arsenal against tyranny. In that world, if you did not believe these things then you were not a patriot. In that world the lessons of the Vietnam War still had not been fully absorbed. It was still alright to indulge the soldier fantasies of your adolescent sons. Especially since we still lived under the threat of the Reds.
I had begun reading Ernie Pyle's Brave Men at the start of the summer break. In one of the chapters chronicling the Italian campaign, there was a very detailed account of how soldiers had built a dugout, complete with timber shoring. Not a mere foxhole, but a full-sized dugout that the average man could stand in without stooping. I read this convinced, "Hell! I could build that!" Out the back door of our house there was a short yard within a fence. Beyond the fence was brush and a hill that dropped into a gulley, running all the way down to the creek below. I found a spot I considered perfect. Far enough down the hill so as not to present any profile, and with a full, unobstructed field of fire down the hill. Also, a view of the span across the creek. From my very limited study of the subject, I was convinced that this was an excellent defensive position. With a solid dugout and some sandbags, I'd be damn near invincible. At least that's what all of those war movies seemed to indicate.
I would imagine that most in this audience are well acquainted with the diligence and follow through of your typical thirteen- or fourteen-year-old boy. This is a quality that is timeless and will apply equally in any era. So it was, that for a period of about two weeks, armed with shovel, pick and spud bar, I toiled under a warm June sun. After two days I learned the value of work gloves. After a week I had a hole about four feet square and nearly as deep. I had battled off deerflies and ticks; I was blistered, battered, but not yet beaten. For part of the second week, I enlisted the help of a couple other boys from up the ridge. I then learned that two extra bodies and shovels trying to operate in that space was not actually that much help. It did reduce a lot of the physical strain. At the end of two weeks my "dugout" was a six-foot-deep hole carved out of a hillside. That is as far as it ever got. And, as it turned out, that was good enough for the purpose of having a cool place to smoke undetected. And storing cigarettes. And skin mags. Come on! You were fourteen once!
Alright, now comes the weird part. Is it already weird? I don't know, I lived it, so who am I to say? The completion of this magnificent work occurred about a week before the 4th. The time spent digging it, the inspiration for it and the time spent in that hole, are all more memorable to me than the actual day of the bicentennial. The fourth of July 1976, the occasion of our nation's bicentennial, I spent out in my foxhole with a pack of Salems, a transistor radio, and the unsettling conviction that the Soviets, detecting our defenses compromised due to our celebrations, were going to launch a massive first-strike. I was a weird kid. And this was before drugs!
I find myself looking back at that time and seizing upon that one aspect. That maddening paranoia induced by the Cold War. My lonely foxhole vigil fifty years ago seems comical now, but however extreme, however irrational, that fear was a real thing. Thankfully, I outgrew this. The world can be grateful for 1970s girls and shitty, brown dirtweed for showing me the error of my ways. We should all shudder to think at what might have happened, if that martial mania had continued along with the subsequent amphetamine and hallucinogen abuse. That was a time when it was widely considered that the Soviet Union was the direst threat that we faced as a people.
So, what about today? What has changed in fifty years? Well, the names have changed. There are different players on the board. I have to say that I believe the only thing that has really changed is the perception. Today there are a growing number of Americans who believe that the greatest threat that we face as a people, comes from within. From our own government. It may actually be a majority of Americans by now. I will assert that the exact same case was true fifty years ago. It's just that fifty years ago, there was only a minute fringe who believed it. Today, this passes for common knowledge.
I feel like we need to have the same conversation around the 4th, as we often need to have about Christmas: do you actually know what you are celebrating? Just as Christmas means more than just presents and fancy feasts, the 4th should mean more than fireworks, a long weekend and grilling in the back yard. The death of any republic is an ill-informed populace. At the very least, Americans should be informed that July 4 marks a declaration, a beginning of a new idea, a conception which was ultimately borne into a Republic.
July 4 announced to the world that we would manage our own affairs, no longer a collection of vassal states bound to a British Empire. This Declaration of Independence is the founding document of a nation, stating that we would govern ourselves. What this document was missing was the how; what form of government was to take shape? What kind of country would we be? It would require a five-year war and another eight years of wrangling before we arrived at, what Franklin aptly opined, "a Republic. If you can keep it." It seems now that, two-hundred-fifty years later, we are still trying to sort this out.
There is one ubiquitous symbol for the holiday: the American flag. Whether flown, waved or affixed to soda cans, it is everywhere. This flag is meant to be the label; the symbol of a sovereign people united in an ideal. Fifty years ago, it could be said that the vast majority of Americans at least had some sense of what this ideal was. The ideal had already been perverted; we just didn't know it yet. Whether we had it right or wrong, there was a general consensus of what this flag symbolized. I, for one, no longer believe this consensus exists. I could, of course, be wrong. But I don't think I am.
Today there are growing numbers who seem to believe that this symbol alone does not speak to their understanding of America. It is not enough for the red, white and blue to be hoisted up the flagpole. To their thinking, this flag is not inclusive enough. To their thinking, this flag must cohabit the flagpole with a pride flag. And a Palestinian flag. Hell, in some cases even a fucking Somali flag. I wouldn't use a Somali flag to wipe my ass. You'll catch dysentary doing that!
Flags are everywhere. Everyone has their own banner now, part of the virtue signaler's accessory package. Like laws and currency, their numbers inflated to a degree that whatever value they may have once had, that value has been greatly diminished. For most, any expression of patriotism is limited to one week a year, around the 4th, when they display and wave that flag. They don't know what it means, can't even define what a Republic is. But hey! I'm waving the flag, see! That makes me a patriot. No, it does not. Not all are huntsmen, who can blow the huntsman's horn.
It is difficult to change people. It can't always be done, and when it is successful it requires a great deal of time and effort. Most sensible people consider that there is too little reward for that much effort. Most sensible people are right. Something we could do, in less time and very little effort, is change the flag. If mayors can arbitrarily declare which flags are to be displayed over city hall, then I see no reason why this should be difficult. Let's change that flag so it is an accurate depiction of the thing it is meant to symbolize. I propose a field of white (a symbol of innocence). In the center of the field there shall be a lone sheep, being spit-roasted by a red elephant on one end and a blue donkey at the other. I figure the donkey is best suited for the ass end, but that could go either way. In either case, the imagery would still be more accurate.
So, enjoy your long weekend. I hope you all have a great time. Gorge yourself on char-grilled burgers, wieners and brats. Eat up all the baked beans, potato salad and slaw you can cram onto the Chinette plate. Swill down all the Pepsi, sweet tea or adult beverages that your bladder will permit. Hell, have a giant pig roast, if that is your want. Just be sure to save enough room to choke down a generous portion of the flag. Suck it down hard to be sure you get it all. In subsequent days, if you start dropping star-spangled turds, then you'll know that you are cured.
Well, here it is. The last day of pride month. Another year passed, and despite all of their best efforts, the vast majority of the world is still straight. For those of you with a dog in this hunt, don't worry. They'll keep trying. There was pride day, then pride week. Then it was a month. I believe their ultimate goal is a Buttigieg regime, officially declaring Year of the Queer. Okay, that's not serious... just low hanging fruit, but know this: there are some who actually entertain these fantasies.
Full disclosure now. I really don't care enough about this to devote a great deal of time to the topic. I'll say what I have to say about it and be done. I have little doubt that there will be some who may be offended, as is their right. As it is my right to say "too bad. sucks to be you." YOU are offended? Huh...that sounds like... a YOU problem. Why are you telling me?
Regarding just the pride month, not the broader LGBT alphabet in all of it's permutations, there is a glaring implication inherent in the whole concept. This implication is really the crux of the whole matter. The implication is this: if you have all of this "pride" for a whole month, what are you doing the other eleven months of the year? Are you able to see that others might conclude that the rest of the year is spent in abject shame? I am not suggesting that this is the case, nor that it should be. It's just that much of the behavior that is passed as a celebration of this pride, is so over the top that it seems to be an overcompensation. Like an atonement, or a penance. Pride could only be an atonement for? Shame?
Worth noting... as it is dealt with in the classical realm, pride is NOT celebrated as a virtue; rather, it is eschewed as a vice. Is pride a quality inherent in the human condition, or is it instilled in our upbringing? Like...shame. How can we know shame inherently? Our factory default setting at birth is Ignorance 1.0. Where can one derive shame from ignorance? It must be taught.
Shame surrounding our sexuality comes from established social norms. These are perpetuated and reinforced by such institutions as family and church. Yet even absent these institutions, these lessons of shame due to the reaction of others will come, nonetheless. In any population where well over 90% are heterosexual, the exhibition of homosexual behavior can NOT be redefined and accepted as the norm. Because it just isn't. No moral judgement, no hand wringing. It is just a statement of truth, no matter how inconvenient it may be.
I understand that the impetus for the whole pride movement is to escape the stigma of shame, and that is not a bad thing. One should be able to be comfortable in one's own skin. No one is stopping you. Really. NO ONE. You do you. Just follow the same respectful traditions of the hetero community: time and place. We don't need your flags in our face all the time. For most of you, the flag is as redundant as Kevin Hart reminding you that he is black, when introduced. We all have eyes, we can see. Your flag doesn't belong on any goverment institution and certainly not in any public schools. At this point, you are doing nothing to help your cause. You are no longer victims. Now you're just one more pathetic attention whore.
Never had Bear ever seen so much red clover. It was a sea of the stuff, waving gently in a growing breeze like green and purple waves. This sun-kissed meadow was new ground, a place just beyond the boundaries of his known domain. It was a plateau resting upon the shoulder of a ridge, jutting out from the spine of the main range. Like a bridge to nowhere, it terminated at a promontory of rock that stared into the dark chasm beyond. Across that space the forest resumed and spread away to fill the horizon. This was as far north as Bear had ever been, two solid days above the falls.
Very subtly, just beneath the whispering winds, a hum filled the meadow. It was something as much felt as heard; the feathery rush of tens of thousands of wings beating in unison. The bees floated like a gossamer veil above the waving stalks of clover, their wings glistening copper when captured in sunlight. Bear was much traveled about the Great Forest and it's endless spill of ridges. Within his lifespan he had ever widened his range and still, there were ever more spiny ridges to crawl to the distant horizon. Each new ground he stalked yielded it's own treasures. Where there could be this much clover and this many bees, there were surely many hives to mine. The nights had already grown cool. A great hoard of honey could not have come at a better time.
The Summer had been abundant, in ways never before imagined. The season had come early and lingered late. The days were long and hot, sometimes weeks passing with unabated sun and nary a drop of rain. Rain or no, every seed, every vine, every leafy thing under the sun is imbued with the Gnosis: grow when it is time to grow. And grow it did, thick and lush in forest and meadow alike. Bear had seen some bountiful seasons in his many years, but not like this. This season, for all of it's splendor, did what every season does. It passed.
By the third week after Summer Solstice the land had grown parched. Where weeks before there had been thick, green tangle underfoot, there became crispy, yellowed grasses, fast turning brown. The berry thickets were full, but where they should have been dense with plump fruit, there were instead stunted berries, often dried and shriveled before even having the chance to ripen. The water level in the pool below the falls slowly dropped, exposing parts of the cavern long unseen. By the very late Summer the waters spilling over the falls had become a mere trickle, the gravel beds beyond were exposed shore to shore, their rocks bleached dry from the sun.
The tribute rendered to Bear by the hairless creatures had continued. While the waters had remained fruitful, Bear had frequently enjoyed taking his share, but the sour smelling brutes had appeared more and more often. Each time they left their offering for Bear and each time he had taken it. This had, in a very short time, become the expectation. When the waters had slowed enough, there were no more fish for Bear to take and no more left skewered upon the riverbank. There were no more of those peculiar, long-toed tracks in the mud at water's edge. A couple of weeks before the Autumnal equinox, Bear abandoned the pool altogether, visiting it for the final time that year.
There were clear signs that the land had begun to suffer the ill effect of the prolonged drought. Despite this, Nature continued to offer a bounty of nuts and small game. And honey, of course, had come into season. The late Summer and Autumn in Bear's life had always been a season of frenetic feeding, that last massive intake to put on before the inevitable retreat into his den. Absent the normal staples of fish and berries, Bear had continued to press his range further north, moving ever more up the river. Which had brought him here, to this remote meadow.
The Sun was brilliant, the skies a cloudless blue, the air dry and crisp. Clear, cold nights had already delivered their kiss of death to the highest leaves, showing their first tinge of color. Bear sniffed at the air from the edge of the meadow. Somewhere in this ring of woods, there was honey. The smell was strong. And there was something else on the air, a familiar scent yet one he'd not encountered in some time. A female. It had probably been four years since he had planted his seed. This place had become a true honey trap in an instant.
Bear followed his nose into the wood, slowly circling around the meadow. Along the way he looked for the hollowed trees or rotting logs upon the forest floor, always sniffing. At about one-hundred yards in he was nearly one third of the way around the great circle. Within the wood the air had grown close. Nothing stirred on the ground, and it seemed that even the air had paused; the limbs high above were still, the leaves flat. Still, Bear could tell that he was headed the right way. The scent of honey was still strong, seeming to come from many directions at once. Overpowering that sweet bouquet was that witches brew of female pheromones. She was closer now.
Bear was driven on now purely by his most base instinct, that which dwells within every mortal being. There is the need to feed and a need to breed. In most circumstances the need for sustenance is overriding, while the urge to breed is secondary. When the opportunity for procreation is presented, this becomes acute and other appetites may be forgotten. Such has Nature ordained.
He plodded onward through the brush, no longer making any attempt at stealth. There was no need for that. He wanted her to know that he was there, that he was coming for her. Bear's glands grew inflamed, sending out his own potent stew of pheromones. He had traveled almost as far again into this circle when the moment struck. He could see her and she him. They were no more than twenty yards apart. The exchange of pheromones between them filled the space with a static, like a charged field before a bolt of lightning.
He stalked deliberately toward her with a low, rumbling growl. She backed away coyly at first. He rose up on his hind legs to display his dominance, towering over her with his engorged member throbbing. She cowered in submission, turned to offer herself to him. There was no persuasion required. It became immediately understood that this was going to happen. In a crash Bear was upon her, mounting her with ease, though not gently. She offered no resistance, grinding her haunches against him, matching his hunger with each thrust. It was fast and furious. And then it was over. To the casual observer it might be seen as a savage attack. It was savage. It was savage and it was beautiful.
It was not long after the consummation of this pairing, that Bear was to discover what she had been doing at this particular spot. A short distance away, deeper into the brush, there lay a rotting log amid the ferns and vines. There were bees buzzing in and out of it. She had uncovered a hive. Maybe the hive. Without even a further thought of her he lumbered toward the log. She trailed after him eagerly, still entranced by his scent. She was young and fertile, still hungering for more of his seed.
Bear arrived at the log, could see her claw marks where she had ripped at it's rotting shell. He immediately dug in deeper until extracting a large segment of the honeycomb. It was quite a cache. She came to nuzzle at his side and thrust her snout into the expanded cavity. Bear was not generally disposed to sharing his meals, but he tolerated her intrusion. She had sated his lust yet still stirred the desire in his loins. Bears are not generally disposed to monogamy either. In fact, most bears do not breed every year. Still, there remained that irresistible attraction between these two. They remained there at the log for some time, gorging themselves on all the honey they could scrape out of it.
The two met as random strangers left this scene as mates. Not forever, but for a time. Such as Nature ordains. She led him away to a steep path down the far side of the promontory rock. The exposed cliff face stared down at them as they descended into the treetops below, into the shadows beneath the setting sun far beyond. They would travel on westward for some hours, moving off far from the river. It was all unfamiliar to Bear, but the young sow appeared confident of her way. Even after total darkness they forged on, until she brought him to a bed of mossy stones, where they would rest until dawn.
She was taking him to her home ground, a very different world from the one Bear had ever known. Bears have a highly efficient communication system when it comes to really important matters, like "I'm ready to breed", or "Hey! Those are my berries, bitch!". Beyond this there is no nuance, no abstraction to a bear's speech. She had no way to express to Bear that she had grown up, and still lived, in a place shared with humans. Well, actually dominated by humans, those smelly, two-legged mongrels. She could not describe to him the splendor of the great silver lake that glistened in the light and never ran dry. Or the city that humans had built around it. A city so great that it encircled her forest. But none of that would have mattered to Bear anyway. She had a set of female glands screaming for him to breed her. He would have followed her into fire.
Neither of them understood Nature's grand purpose. These are not things for a bear to know. She was the strongest, fertile female of her population. It was a population of bear in perilous circumstance, facing extinction, or worse, imprisonment. If this colony of bear were to survive, they needed an infusion of new blood. Strong stock with a talent for adaptability. Bear was a boar that fit this need. He was aging and needed to spread his remaining seed. She was meant to bear that seed to the bear that would deliver all of Bearkind.
They traveled on, another day to the west, then coming upon a place where the forest thinned and the land fell gradually away into a broad plain. Bear was stunned at the sight. He had never seen a horizon so long. In the center of this vista there was the great shining lake, water as he had never seen, stretching away for miles. He began to salivate thinking of all those fish! They bedded down at the edge of the tree line as the sun sank into the lake, casting pink, violet and crimson shadows across sky and water alike. That night Bear dreamt of sunny skies and waters teeming with fish, the entire lake to himself and his sow.
An hour before dawn they were awakened by a cold, persistent rain. The air had grown cold enough for steam to form from their breath. Bear knew this rain. This was a November rain. They did not have much longer to prepare for Winter. In the grey, wet darkness of pre-dawn they scaled down the length of a long slope. In that early hour they passed unnoticed, arriving at a small stream at the bottom. The rain had increased, causing the stream to swell rapidly. Bear instinctively knew to look for a way across, up to the bare embankment of earth on the opposite side, but the sow had another plan. She padded along the narrow bank, heading further downstream.
Bear paused there at that spot, astride the growing current. He sniffed at the air and found that, even in the rain, it was fouled with the stench of those two-legged abominations. He glanced at the sow as she serenely picked her way. Then he glanced back up the long slope they had traveled. In the slowly rising light of day, through the screen of the rain, he saw the fading splendor of gold, crimson, orange melting away. It was all falling down to become shades of brown and grey with the soil. This was the final edge of the Great Forest, the very end of it all. Somehow, he knew that he was never going back. With a loud grunt, he turned and began to follow her downstream.
She led him to a place where there were more trees, but it was not the Great Forest. There were young redbuds and poplar here, smaller trees that could only survive on the margins. Their low limbs drooped heavy with the pelting rain, their golden and burnished leaves shedding in a pool below. She nosed her way under this canopy, turning back at one shoulder to grunt at him. He followed and found nestled within the strangest cave opening he had ever seen. It was perfectly round, the stream flowing into it. He could see light from somewhere at the other end and... somewhere there beyond, the sound of falls splashing down. He could not help but feel a little wary but followed all the same. Such a strange cave this was! The walls smooth and curved, a perfect round for it's entire length.
Bear followed the full length, then joined her at the exit. It was just enough space for the two of them to fit there together at the end. The water fell away from the mouth of the tunnel, only dropping about ten feet into a broader stream the rushed off into a thick stand of woods to the right. In that space ahead there were things Bear had never seen. They were perched above the fenced in yard at the rear of a heavy construction company. There were all manner of machines stored here; giant shovels and earthmovers; boring rigs; graders and steamrollers; pallets of pipe and stone. Bear had no idea what these things were or what this place was, but he could tell that it all bore the scent of that mongrel race. Before this he had considered them a minor nuisance. It had never, in the limited imagination that a bear can conjure, occurred to him that bears might live among them. Or that there had grown to be so many of them, only a few days travel from lands he had roamed for all of his years.
Despite the unease caused by this alien place, Bear could see that the sow knew her way and seemed unbothered by it all. She was taking him to something; some place that she knew. He continued to trust her lead. To the left of the tunnel end there was a small shoulder of earth that would lead down into the yard. It was a tight maneuver, complicated further by the slick, muddy surface. She went first, to show him the way. It was less than graceful, at first climbing about the ledge, then sliding through the mud to the bottom. He tried to mimic her steps, but being quite larger than she, the ledge gave way beneath his tread, and he rolled over sideways into the slope. He made one and a half turns through the mud and then quickly gathered his feet back under himself at the bottom.
Bear snorted loudly, blowing a plume of steam into the chill air. He shook himself all over in a giant shudder, throwing off the worst of the mud. Morning light grew from the east and mists rose from the earth as the steady rain hissed all around them. He looked about, for the first time at ground level with the rows of machinery. This appeared to him as a scene from some deep winter dream; some frozen nightmare of giant, misshapen monsters in a cave of ice. The sow seemed to somehow sense that he was disoriented, allowing him a moment to absorb the surroundings before gently prodding him on. There was still more to show.
She led him through the columns of machines, work trailers and materials, back deeper into the yard. All the way across, to the far fence where only materials were stored. She was aware that humans used all of these things. She was also aware that there were very long periods when humans would not even set foot back here. This sprawling construction yard was on the edges of the great city. It was uniquely situated, in a manner that provided one of the few secretive paths from the outer edges of the city, into the remaining woodland to survive within it's borders. That woodland was her home ground. Though much younger, she too knew that Winter approached. She meant to show him her lair.
The far fence of the yard was bordered by a thick stand of trees on the other side. In one darkened corner, sheltered by overhanging boughs, there sat a pile of large, pre-cast concrete forms. They were about a ten-foot diameter, the sort as might be used in building a storm culvert. They were stacked two high, so that most of the second level rose to a height above the fence. Bear looked at them, ten in total. He saw that same perfect round opening, like the tunnel they had passed through to arrive here. All stacked together as they were, they reminded him of the comb he had pulled out of that hive. He did not understand what he was seeing, wondering if perhaps this was another cave to pass through? He could only stand there in the rain, awaiting her next cue.
Now expecting that he would still follow her lead, she deftly scaled one end of the stack and slipped into the opening of the first pipe on the second level. Once in she turned about to poke her head out, calling him to climb up. Again, Bear had a flash of the beehive. He did not understand why. There was no scent of honey. It alarmed something in him, but he was unable to process it. He climbed up into the pipes to join her anyway.
After Bear had joined her inside the concrete she nuzzled against him affectionately. She was proud of herself, having brought him all the way here, to her lair. Within moments of joining her, Bear could not be mistaken that this was her space. Well over and above the strong pheromones she was throwing off, this space was heavily marked with her scent. He nosed about, continually sniffing, finding other strange scents present. Overall, he found this to be a quite suitable lair, a great advantage in having two entrances. He went to the opposite end and saw out into the thick wood. Yes. This was a good den. Perhaps part of him could sense that his cubs would be birthed here. That is, if a boar ever thought of such things. It is generally agreed that they don't.
It was good to be in from the rain, good to have the shared body heat in this enclosed and dry space. Bear was convinced that he could certainly winter here. Just one season, then he would return to the Great Forest, with or without the sow. Of course, that could change. Spring was months away. By evening the rain ended, and the skies grew clear, the night turned cold and crisp.
The next morning everything outside was coated in a hoarfrost, the crystalline forms captured in a bright morning sun. The day would be warmer and dry, though still with a crisp in the air. A perfect day to forage. There were several such days to follow and forage they did. Bear learned the path into the wood from their pipe, expecting to find food like that to which he'd grown accustomed. While there was a bit of it, he found that there was hardly enough here to sustain them. He was to learn that her idea of foraging was quite different.
Working the perimeter of the limited woodland, she led him to the rear of grocers and restaurants. Sometimes private homes. He learned that there were all manner of vessels at these places. Some were huge metal boxes painted in bright colors, as foreign to him as the machines back at the construction yard. Some were smaller boxes in a dull brown; still others were only plastic cans on wheels. Sometimes in the early morning hours, sometimes at night, but every day there were new things loaded into these containers. There for the taking. A lot of it was inedible, but there was always something to pick out. The sow seemed to know which things were best, which places had the most and when to look.
He would share in the hunt, share in each take, learning her strange ways. These foods smelled good, they tasted good, but they were like nothing he had known before. He could not tell what they were or what they came from. But it was all there and there in abundance. It was not like the dead of Winter, wandering for hours for no more than a hare for the trouble. He could not help but be tempted by the ease of it. But there was something that kept bothering him, like the odd sensation experienced when he had that flash of the beehive. Some itch that he couldn't scratch, a persistent nagging without any known source.
He was munching on something sweet. Like honey but not honey. It was chewy yet soft...sticky, with some crinkly, red wrapping of some kind (which was not so tasty). He found it filling, not unpleasant to the palate, yet somehow unsatisfying. He chewed and chewed, spitting out the red wrapping when he could. Some of it he just swallowed. It didn't seem to matter. The sow was still rooting about inside of one of those big boxes. He just kept eating. Whatever it was.
Bear's memories drifted through his consciousness. The events of the past year proceeded, in order. The end of the bitter winter. The first encounter with the mongrels, chasing them off into the snows. And then springtime. More of them. Taking his fish. Then leaving him their tribute. A fresh fish, eaten right from the water was best. A freshly killed fish was ok. It was still good. Even if it had the mongrel taint about it. Then there were ever more of them. They seemed to have grown in around him. He found more of their tracks, more signs all around that their numbers were growing, yet he could not see that they had slowly surrounded his world. Now he found himself living in their midst, eating their...garbage.
He had found that itch, that thing that was troubling him. He finally saw that this little woodland, this mock world of his young mate, was just that. This was not a real forest. This was not a home for a bear. Everything that she had here, though it was more than adequate, was dependent on one thing: the mongrels. They were in control. Of everything. That is not a home for a bear. He had changed his mind. Freshly dead fish were no longer okay. Garbage was not okay. He wanted only fish, fish snared in his own fangs, straight from the icy cold water.
Bear wandered off. The sow did not even take notice. By the time she emerged from that bright green dumpster, he was already long gone. He was following his nose. To the lake, that great, shiny, silvery lake! He tread across gravel service lanes and grassy lots. He followed another fenceline at one point, wandering through a suburban neighborhood. Some of the mongrels were out, rushing to sweep up their young from the "mad bear". They jeered and shouted, pointing after him, but Bear paid them no mind. He was taking the shortest path to the lake. That was the only thing that mattered.
In his single-minded quest Bear was oblivious to the fact that he had indeed caused quite a stir. He plodded onward, blind to all else. The final obstacle before reaching the shores of the lake lay in front of him now. A busy, four-lane avenue that ran the length of the shoreline. Bear saw that there were many shiny boxes, like the garbage containers, but moving very rapidly across his path. They moved as fast as a hawk can fly, in both directions. He thought that he could try to dart across.
In the first lane that Bear stepped into there was enough room for the driver to stop. The brake lights and the sudden stop caused a chain reaction of screeching brakes and horns to erupt from behind. Bear narrowly escaped being struck in the second lane before landing at the grassy center strip. This caused enough commotion for traffic to slow to a stop in both directions. Bear had grown disoriented from the blaring car horns. He paced up and down the grassy strip, horrified to see the mongrels crawling out of those little boxes on both sides of the road. He glimpsed a path across between cars and bolted. At the other side he did not stop. He could smell the lake. He could see the water. If he could have just one more fish.
He was almost there when he felt the rounds enter his neck, like fire being shot through his flesh, breaking bone like a boulder. They hit at almost the same time, knocking the wind out of him and nearly taking him off his feet. He groaned in pain and roared against the booming report from the rifles. He never saw them. Bear stopped there, swaying slightly as he felt the blood pouring across his fur. It was only a few more yards to the water's edge. He struggled through those few last steps and collapsed at the shore, his muzzle resting on the water. He felt his heart slow, the blood leaving him. He was growing cold. Bear knew instinctively that he was dying. With his final breath it became clear to him where he had gone wrong. He never should have taken that trout.
It was a savage death. It was savage, but there was nothing beautiful about it. More than savage, it was sad. It was sad and it was ugly. This is how most things end. Triumphs are few and fleeting. A poet once said that "fond affections are never said, they're only sung in song". The same may be true for our lamentations.
You ever notice how certain scripts just keep repeating? I recently happened upon an old newscast from the CBS Evening News (with Dan Rather), from early 1983. There was no particular reason that prompted me to watch this. There was nothing about the date of the program that was memorable for any reason. I just decided, "what the hell? Let's see what was in the news back then." I know I was alive at the time, though I am quite confident that I was not watching when this originally aired. Given the year, I can say that time was devoted to the destruction of brain cells.
For those who can recall Dan Rather, and really from any stage of his career, there were certain signature inflections in his delivery which meant that, at least in his mind, what he was telling you was very important. True to form, in this 1983 broadcast, Dan delivers that sickly-sweet scent of mock gravitas at about one minute in. The central theme of this entire report was simply this: Because we are telling you this, you must be concerned that these events may "touch off a dangerous new round of complications in the Middle East". Just think how many times we have all heard that exact phrase in the last forty-three years. In this story, the characters were Qaddafi, Mubarak; the principles Libya, Egypt and Sudan. The Nimitz carrier group was dispatched to sit upon the Gulf of Sidra. Other than these distinctions, the story remains the same today. We are still in the Middle East up to our asses. Maybe higher.
The whys and wherefores for this may be debated ad infinitum, but not here, not today. We seek not those answers, only a recognition of the pattern. Because once you recognize the pattern, the whys and wherefores are meaningless. Knowledge of the culprit only satisfies the public curiosity, provided there is any. Knowledge of the culprit does not correct the condition or the damage done. Recognition of the pattern prepares you for the next iteration.
Our regular readers are most likely familiar with the reference in our title today. For any new readers, or others who may not know, the Clan of Fudd is a reference to The Fall of Otto, King of the Carnivorous Rabbits, a short story originally published here 6 August, 2024. You can find it in our August '24 archive.
Without telling the whole story, The Fall of Otto chronicles the final collapse of a corrupt and moribund line of rulers, the House of Otto. It is the personal tale of it's final Monarch, King Otto the Just, the seventeenth of his line. Otto the Just was thrust upon the throne with little preparation, in much the same fashion as Tsar Nicholas II. He was meant for the throne someday, just not when his ticket came up. But Otto the Just, in his idle days before being burdened by a crown, had learned some things about the House of Otto's statecraft. At the age of fourteen, five years before taking the throne, it was accidentally revealed to him that their nemesis, an alien band of monkey creatures called the Clan of Fudd, was in fact a fraud. The Clan of Fudd were imperial soldiers disguised in monkey suits. After this startling revelation the young prince began to avail himself of the family's vast archives. He discovered many more skeletons in the family closet and thus assumed the throne with a mind toward reform.
The point in this narrative is, of course, to shine the light upon the conjuring of bogeymen. The ridiculous lengths that some will go to in order to maintain the long con. One is cautioned to remain incredulous at this exposure, yet there it is, plain to see time and again. As the world continues to shrink, it's growing more difficult to sell the script. When villains are everywhere there are none to be found, except in some vague and unsettling suggestion.
There is a movie coming out soon, maybe you've heard about. Disclosure Day, a Spielberg feature. I have heard some chatter around this, tagging it with what has become a cliche du jour: psyop. I'll not use that term, other than to make this mention. Is the movie part of a psyop? Maybe? It could be, I guess, but think about this. How many times, especially in the last ten years let's say, has this term been assigned as a means of discrediting any critics of something which does not desire scrutiny? Don't be too quick to embrace that term. Now, that having been said...
If there is to be a real disclosure event surrounding alien life visiting this planet, then I suspect that it will come in a fashion akin to the young Otto's enlightenment to the fraud of their rule. We'll be sold half-truths and hype, designed to scare or distract us. Probably both. Don't be a dumb rabbit. Don't be fooled by fools in monkey suits.
It is the Janus hour; it looks back at the day done, and forward to the day anew. It is an end and a beginning. It is zero, the start and finish. Midnight.
I remembered an olden tale, in which we were instructed that the "beasties" come out after midnight. Well, beastie is rather arcane, isn't it? Or maybe Scottish... Yeah. Could definitely be Scottish. Anyway...
So, I thought about it. Not real hard, but for a bit of a while. It occurred to me that if the beasts (it's just easier than beastie) come out after midnight, and midnight is zero hour, then the beasts never really leave us. Right? Tell me I'm wrong.
In that olden tale, the determining factor may have been more about daylight and darkness. But then why "after midnight"? Why not "the beasties only come out after dark"?
While we're around topic, another thing about midnight. Clocks that chime the hour. The only time a clock should chime twelve is at noon. It announces the beginning of the twelfth hour of the AM. But it isn't. It's the beginning of the PM. So, shouldn't the clock strike one time at that hour? And just remain mute at midnight? Because midnight is the zero hour. I still contend that no one knows what the time really is.
So basically, Midnight and other beasts just means this: this is zero hour and all the beast(ie)s that float around it. We start at zero and spin the dial. Clockwise, counter-clockwise... doesn't matter. It's just where we are.
I know this still doesn't actually define what Midnight and other beasts is. It just tells you what the name means. Or at least it's origins. That's the closest you'll come. Some say "you know, it would be nice if you just produced one cohesive statement, something that pins down the site's whole ethos". Or words to the effect. That would be a... manifesto? Oooh... bad connotation, that. Best to stay away from them.
Alright then. Enough of that. Were you around in 1992? Did you know that was the year that cool died? Yeah, it happened. In case you missed it, from The Death of Cool, 1992, Kitchens of Distinction...
It is Sunday morning. Well, it is here. It's whatever time it is where you are, and we hope that your day/night is going well. Seems like a good time to dive into the vault...
Today we travel back to 1987. Not literally, of course, but... if only we could. I have invoked Thomas Wolfe's title because it dovetails nicely with the message Verlaine is sending with the song A Town Called Walker. It's the same message, just with a different flavor.
Some in our audience may be familiar with Tom Verlaine and his work. I suspect that many of you may not be. 1987 was a year that saw a veritable plethora of film and music releases. Not all of it was good, in fact much of it was dreadful, but at least there were a lot of choices available. Among these was Verlaine's Flashlight LP, a release that was sadly lost within that great volume of material. Released a decade after Verlaine's debut with the band Television (1977's Marquee Moon), Flashlight garnered little commercial success or critical acclaim. Others are free to argue the contrary, but it is often true that popularity and critical approval have no bearing at all on artistic merit.
As the front man for Television, Verlaine solidly established his bona fides within the burgeoning music scene of late '70s New York. There was a legacy forged there by The Velvet Underground, and later Lou Reed as a solo artist. The family of artists to carry that tradition forward, were among others, Talking Heads, Patti Smith, Blondie and Television. They were considered the darlings of CBGB, the club that was the hub for the punk scene of the time.
Television distinguished themselves in this environment with their punk inspired energy, while demonstrating an artistry atypical of the genre. Lyrically they were literate and prosaic. They were a unique sort of art-punk; not the quirky, rhythm driven variety as Talking Heads, but something all it's own. Both of these qualities were driven by Tom Verlaine. With their 1977 debut, the band received much critical acclaim and the admiration of their peers. They followed with a disappointing sophomore release in 1978, then proceeded to disband. Verlaine's solo career that followed was sporadic; thus, he never became a household name. He nevertheless continued to hold a widely respected status from fellow guitarists.
I once owned a copy of the album, on a cassette tape I picked up out of a bargain bin, only about a year after it's release. At the time I recognized the name, and almost wondered aloud, "what has Mr. Verlaine been doing since Marquee Moon?" At that moment in time, I had to honestly say that I had no idea. So, for the paltry sum of $3.99 or thereabouts, I decided there was no harm in checking it out. I ended up doing, as I've often done, playing it to death for a while. Then losing it into a pile of forgotten media. And dust.
There were three or four songs from Flashlight that I had particularly liked, A Town Called Walker being the foremost of those. I would recommend that you find the album, by whatever medium, and give it a listen. Other tracks to recommend are Annie's Telling Me and the almost bluesy, At 4:00 AM. The album bears Verlaine's distinct vocal and guitar signature in every note. If you are someone who appreciated Marquee Moon, I could not imagine not liking this album. If it is new to you, let us know what you think.
When I learned of Tom's passing a few years ago, I went back and revisited Flashlight for the first time in a number of years. As it had years ago, this particular song, A Town Called Walker, stood out from the others. Well, the long-term consequence of this is that the song now shows up in playlist rotation. You know, the friendly algorithm at work. And listening to it with greater attention, for reasons I do not understand, I gained what is perhaps a deeper understanding of the story related in the song.
The song opens:
Janey's going back to Walker, says folks There are happy bees. I said you remember Walker You lookin for some misery? It's not their Tricks that I mind... it's just the way they say "we" all the time. That town's not a number, it's simply gone numb. They'll finish you off there before you've begun.
I don't know who Janey is. Maybe a sister, maybe an ex. Maybe an old classmate. She says that she is going back to Walker and paints a happy face on it. "Folks there are happy bees". The party that replies has a familiarity with the place. "...you remember Walker. You lookin' for some misery?" It's like he is saying, "Happy bees!? Are we talking about the same place?"
Now, if this was purely a case of friendly advice, the person might have said something like, "Gee, Janey. Are you sure going back to Walker is a good idea? Let's talk about it." Instead, this person cites a memory of misery. Maybe it's the kind of friendly advice that is more urgent. You know. More like, "What the fuck is wrong with you!"
"You can't go home again", as an idea, is thoroughly explored in Thomas Wolfe's work. It's a gentle admonition. It's a piece of advice offered to someone who maybe doesn't want to hear it but needs to. It's a polite way of telling someone that they are looking for something that just isn't there. From the book: "Make your mistakes, take your chances, look silly, but keep on going. Don't freeze up." We know what happens to George Webber at Libya Hill. Are Janey's circumstances with the town of Walker really so different? Her friend seems to think so.
People such as I, who grew up in a rural setting, may be asked where we are from. Typically, the response given will be to reference the nearest town, even if one did not actually live in the town. In these cases that town is usually a small town. A place, I suspect, that is rather like Walker. In the song, Janey's friend offers his short and somewhat biting critique of the town. It makes me want to say that I am from Walker, and in a sense, I suppose I am.
Small towns have their charm, but with that they also have their baggage. "It's not their tricks that I mind...it's just the way they say "we" all the time". The scolds. You know the type. "Well, here in Walker WE don't approve of that sort of thing!", or "WE won't put up with that!" There are the Karens who all seem to think that they are empowered to speak on behalf of everyone: WE. Sometimes it's just some grump. Sometimes it's the nosey bitch with a liberal arts degree from fifty years ago who still thinks she knows everything.
Folks there in Walker they've got their fun. They'll count you out there before you've begun. Expecting exciting and new lights to be shining On anyone who can find someone else there to blame, Folks there in Walker are falling in love with their Shame.
Walker is the kind of place where accomplishment is resented rather than rewarded. It's the kind of place pervaded by a "drink culture". Nobody there cares about your honor student, but did you hear? Lonnie just got his first DUI! These are people wallowing in so much shame that they can not help but project this onto others. Folks there in Walker are falling in love with their shame.
If home is a time and place captured in warm, fuzzy memories, then no. You can't go home again. That part of "home" no longer exists and can only be recreated in your own mind. There are, however, those parts of home that still exist. Especially if you are from Walker. They are there to remind you why you left in the first place.
Wednesday, May 20, 2026
What is the cost of convenience? Not a price tag; though they are related, price and cost are not the same thing. What is the cost of convenience? Most have no idea of the answer, nor even of the question.
Here at Midnight and other beasts, we have been visiting a recurring theme of "How did the world get so ugly?" Today posts the third part of an allegory, The Bear, in which we continue our attempt to answer this question. The Bear is presented in four parts; the four seasons of a bear's life, if you will. The concluding installment, Autumn, will post in June.
