9.16.07 - It Ain't Easy Ridin'

Being a motor sports mascot is a lot harder than it looks. You’ve got to be on for every show, like each performance is your last, always smiling and growling and eating things that fans throw at you.
Not to brag or anything, but it got to be so that crowds would come out just to see me, never mind the guys riding around on motorcycles. It dawned on me that I had some leverage to negotiate a better contract for myself. I started hinting every chance I got about putting in a rider providing a certain number of personal days, fresh raspberries served in a Kensington pattern china bowl after every show, an expense account and a wardrobe advisor – the works.
The prospects were good until around the middle of August when it got really hot, and we were doing two or three shows a day, every day for a week and a half.
Something had to give, so being motorcyclists en route to New Orleans, they had a lot of drugs lying around. At one point, “Captain America” started slipping various substances into my Fish Sandwiches “to perk me up for the shows,” he said.
They made me feel groggy, so I ended up taking lots of naps at inopportune times, until one day I supposedly slept through a show. The ungrateful bastards forgot to wake me up is what happened. Imagine how stupid they had to be to loaf around while the crowds asked, “Where’s the bear? We want to see the bear!” and not even think to bang my cage a little bit.
This set the contract negotiations back, to put it bluntly, so we arranged a severance package: I got to keep my specially outfitted Harley-Davidson unicycle and my dignity.

8.26.07 - Kidnapped

When last I wrote, I was just about to leave for Tennessee. Not a day into the trip, as I was relieving myself, some gentlemen made me an offer no bear would pass up. On the promise of a bucket of blueberries, I followed them to their truck where they turned on me and forced me into a cage.

They kidnapped me because they thought I would make a perfect mascot for their traveling motor sports show. I would be lying to say I wasn’t a little bit flattered. I’ve always had at least one paw in show business. Hell, when I was in college I took a bit part I’m not very proud of in a Stanley Kubrick horror flick where I gave a butler a blow job.



Anyway, I spent the better part of a month with these guys. Things got off to a rough start, however. We pulled into a Wendy’s, and I was feelin’ some Jr. Bacon Cheeseburgers™, like maybe 400 of them. I don’t speak any English, and they didn’t understand Bear, so I ended up with 3 Fish Sandwiches™.

On top of that, everyone in the parking lot was taking my photo. And then half of the Wendy’s staff came out to get pictures with me, Abu Ghraib style. There I was, sitting naked in a cage, with this uniformed nincompoop grinning for a picture. I hope Dave Thomas’s ghost court-martials him.

7.21.07 - A Taste of Honey

I meant to leave a couple days ago for Tennessee, but as I was readying my unicycle, I received a most considerate offer from a chap across the pond named Heir Bear.

To make a long story short, his great uncle Sir Millionaire Bear was a honey magnate in England. Upon his death, through some legal fiddle-faddle, the Queen expropriated his apiaries.

I’m not sure how he found me of all bears, but Heir Bear offered to cut me in on a sizeable portion of the honey yield if I would help finance his lawsuit by transferring the deeds to a couple thousand acres of Warren County’s forests to his financial institution of choice, Bear Stearns.

Needless to say, I leapt at the opportunity. As I landed, my foot sunk into a groundhog hole, spraining my ankle.

I was not displeased because I knew this would warrant a visit from the very lovely Dr. Mary Bear. Now I’m not one to let my mouth run, though I must convey that Mary harvested a sweet batch of honey whilst I pollinated her flower.

Later on, as the orchestra swelled, she shed a few tears and promised to wait for me to return from my deployment to Tennessee so that we could be wed.

7.13.07 - If there is a bear

I read the letter from my dad today, and I am concerned about his mental health. Mom always said he was a right-wing bear – he was featured in a 1984 Reagan ad – but now he has become a paranoid conspiracy theorist too. He thinks the government is tracking him with ear tags and collars. This has gone too far.

"Harry,

"I haf’nt writen too you since I lefd 11 yers ago because I never really likked you, you wer an axident, but a few nites ago i was out carowsing with my possum frends eting mushrumes off the forest floor, past a point I ca’nt rememember anything but I woke up in a kettle of a streme filled with chunks of ice, the goverment stole my kidny to sell on the black marcket and now they’re funnelling money to Hillary Clinton Bear and the United Nations, the Black Helicopters are flying all around me, some spooks from the forest service are spying on me too, their monitering me with tags they put in my ear and a coller around my neck, i think they stuck some sort of device up my ass, i hate the government, and I’m warning you to be on the look out for forest servis assholes.

"Your dad,

"John Birch Bear"

I must go to Tennessee and get him into a nursing home before he hurts someone.

7.6.07 - There were fireworks

July 4th was a blast, a bust, and a bang. In that order.

Ralph has a lot of experience with fireworks, so I agreed to let him do the honors. On my count, he launched the first batch.

I should have realized that fireworks would also send me into the flashback of my childhood run-in with the hunters. In my dream, I felt the bullet hit my leg, but this time, I turned around and dove on top of the hunter and his gun. When I woke up, I had a big hole in my side where the fireworks had exploded.

To my delight, Dr. Mary Bear was tending to my wounds once again. I gazed deep into her eyes, as brown as nutrient-rich dirt.

“I’ve been seeing too much of you recently,” she quipped.

“Well, you can see a lot more if you’d like.”

She did. I’ll leave the rest to your imaginations, though I would like to add that some more fireworks went off, and again, I was blown away.

On another note, I received a letter from my estranged father today. After mom gave up her combination-diner-and-adult-video-store outside of Hackettstown and ran away, never to be heard from again, my father went off the deep end and moved down to Tennessee. This is the first time he has contacted me since he left eleven years ago.

7.3.07 - ... and the Pursuit of "Flash 'n Bash"

As you all know, tomorrow is the 4th of July, which can only mean one thing: EXPLOSIONS! I decided to get in on the festivities and hop a riverboat to PA to buy some illegal fireworks.

I stopped by The Rusty Rudder, a dingy watering hole where I knew I would find the master boatman, Ferry Bear. After some finagling, he agreed to get me across.

Once there, I walked into the fireworks store and asked for a “Fort Knox,” a “Dazzling Diamond Fountain,” and a “Flash ‘n Bash” before the guy behind the counter said, “Whoa there Chester. You’re a bear! I can’t sell fireworks to a bear. I don’t have that kind of license!”

Demoralized, I sauntered out to the parking lot where I lay despondent on the curb. Had everyone but me forgotten the true meaning of July 4th? The inalienable right to blow shit up?

NO! Just as I was about to give up all hope, an old drunk stumbled past. I accosted him, and without hesitation, he agreed to buy me my fireworks.

With a heart full of love and arms full of explosives, I crossed the Delaware to New Jersey, just as George Washington had done 230-and-a-half years earlier.

6.30.07 - Up Shit Creek

These past few days, I’ve been so bothered about my genealogy, I’ve been gorging on raspberries. These have yielded some unusual turds to say the least. Yesterday, it all started with one that was loose and full of seeds, sort of like raspberry jam. This morning, I woke up and excreted a pile of small dry nuggets. Later in the afternoon as I was laying a log, I happened to read in the newspaper that they were casting dancing bears for the circus.

Needless to say, I jumped at the opportunity and hightailed it to Hoboken. I waited for hours in a tent with other bears from all over the world. There were some seasoned pros, let me tell you. Most of the bears had managers and agents and lawyers and dieticians and spiritual advisors. All I had was my God-given talent and some gumption.

The audition piece they called was a personal favorite: the Macarena!

I danced it like I had never danced before. My big furry paws seemed to move as if guided by a divine force. And when it came to the part where I shook my hips, I really let ‘em fly. It was about that time when it became evident that I had been slowly leaking a sticky seed-filled substance down the backs of my legs.

For some reason, I didn’t get the job – the judges must have had shit for brains.

6.27.07 - Can't see the forest for the family trees

It’s not often that I seek advice, but when I do, I can always rely on good ol’ Ralph the Raccoon to offer some sage words. After all, he knows everything – he’s omnivorous.

I had become romantically entangled with a certain Ms. Mary Bear, but got to thinking one night and realized that we share the same last name. This presented an obvious problem.

“Hey man, if you go back far enough, everyone was incestuous,” replied Ralph. “Sometimes, it’s not even that far. My parents, Rudolph and Rae, were uncle and niece. I’m not sure where that puts me.”

At which point I interjected, “You’re a good guy, and that’s all that matters.” But really, I was not satisfied with his answer.

He continued, “Hell, every bear I’ve met in this forest has the same surname: Jerry Bear, Terry Bear, Gary Bear, Larry Bear, Queer Bear, Claire Bear, and of course the cute mentally challenged one, Teddy Bear.”

On that note, I left Ralph to take a long walk and contemplate everything I thought I knew. My world had become so complex. Was Paddington Bear, a British chap with a terrible sense of direction, really related to the Berenstien Bears, a nice Jewish family? And what about Corduroy Bear with his impeccable fashion sense? Could he really be related to that mangy toker Smokey the Bear?

6.24.07 - Falling in Love

I don’t know about you, but every so often, I get an urge to climb a tree. I found a big oak near the Delaware River that suited my purposes. About two-thirds the way up, the weight of my foot compromised a branch with a loud crack.

Suddenly, I was a cub again in the thick of bear season. Bullets whistled past my head as I galloped toward the den. I felt a sharp sting in my back right leg.

When I woke up, I was lying facedown on the forest floor under the care of Dr. Mary Bear. During my flashback, I had spun around to swipe at the hunters and lick at my wound. In doing this, I lost my balance and fell 20 feet to the ground.

Mary was a beautiful bear, with thick, hairy legs – the kind I wouldn’t mind hibernating with. Her front bear paws were callused and torn. Her mouth was full of jagged, gnarly teeth, and a slow steady stream of drool graced the right side of her angelic countenance. In short, she was perfect.

She ran her paws down my back to check my alignment. Next she inspected my dipstick and deemed it necessary to give me an oil change… but I don’t kiss and tell.

6.21.07

I ran into Ralph the Raccoon today by the creek. He and I happened to show up at the same time to get a drink. We both had the usual.

After a good many slurps of water, we were sufficiently lubricated that we got to talking. I asked him about his two black eyes, and he explained that he’d had gotten into trouble with some money-lending boxing bears. After much questioning, he admitted that he had borrowed money to fuel his gambling habit – he’s wild about the snail races. Well, as it happened the snail he had put all his money on was charged with a salt.

After a couple more rounds, I coaxed out of Ralph the names of the brutal bookie bears. I knew both of them well: Perry Bear puts on airs to peddle his wears: expensive bottled water. And Weary Bear is narcoleptic.

Ralph had gone to meet with them about some late payments. Weary Bear sat behind his desk with a big cigar in his mouth while Perry did the talking. Every couple of minutes, Weary’s head would drop to his chest, only to spring up again, shocked by the pain of the burning cigar in his fur. After a heated interchange, Perry lost it and clocked Ralph across the face with a big green bottle.

6.18.07

I was walking around in the forest this morning, whistling some happy tunes to myself, as black bears often do. First “Tiptoe Through the Tulips,” followed by a rousing rendition of “My Blue Heaven.” I’m known throughout the forests Warren County, New Jersey for this. Also for my ability to eat a whole tree when I set my mind to it.

You can do anything if you set your mind to it. My friend Ralph the Raccoon once stood in the path of a semi on route 80 and didn’t become road kill because he was meditating on not getting squished. That’s what he told me, and damn it, I believe him. He also told me his cousin is the Rocky Raccoon of Beatles fame. Ralph is the coolest guy I know. Bar none. But I digress.

I came upon some hikers. They had their big backpacks on, filled with granola bars and bear spray and all the usual accoutrements. Like usual, I went into this vivid fantasy where I get up on my back feet with my front paws stretched out so that I can put them on the fellow’s shoulders, and crush him into a quivering heap on the ground. Then I put my canines through his scull and let his warm salty blood flow down my tongue. I hear his companions scream like a bunch of little girls, and satisfied that the first hiker is incapacitated, I run after them, and with a swipe or two of my claws, bring them to the ground. They’re gasping for breath, but I just eat their stomachs whole. And damn, it feels good.

But I snapped out of it when they started ringing their bells in my face. I can’t stand those bells, so I ran away, and puked my guts out because I was so repulsed by what I had imagined. At the same time, I was ashamed of myself. Why couldn’t I eat a tourist? Just once. Of course I was hungry after the ordeal, so I walked toward town to find some garbage cans.

There’s one old couple that always shows me a fun time. They live in a little ranch house built on a slant so that the back deck is accessible by a staircase in the yard. I like climbing up on the deck just to see looks in the eyes of these geezers. Today they were banging on their windows and yelping and making fools of themselves... so I ate their bird feeder.

They were howling and making a fuss, so I took pity on them and wandered across the street and knocked over a garbage can. The contents spilled on the asphalt, among them an unopened bag of half-frozen pierogies. My kind of garbage can. I was clawing open the bag when the game warden came down the street in his big truck, at which point I took my leave.