| The following column appeared in The River Reporter on July 16, 1998. |
By Bert S. Feldman
The Recusant Reporter
Thursday, July 16, 1998
Last night, as I lay slumbering in my bed, I awakened to hear the sound of harps, and I turned to see two angels clad in white beckoning unto me. And, as I watched, they drew back a curtain of cloth, of gold, revealing to my eyes a vision of the Land of the Upper Delaware as it will appear in the middle of the first century of the new millennium.
And the air was clean and pure, and the sun shone upon the crystal pure waters of the rivers, streams, and lakes.
And in the waters of the Upper Delaware and the Beaverkill, all the trout and shad weighed at least 18 pounds and leapt into my net when called.
On the emerald fields of Holy Woodstock, pilgrims gathered around the shrine of the eternal flame, and a trickle of cannabis smoke arose to the sky.
Newspapers everywhere proclaimed this to be "1949B," because the problem of how to advance the computers had not been resolved as yet, and all electronic equipment such as television programs had been stilled.
Tourists from the Land of the Big Apple (a prehistoric fruit) kept arriving on rocket ships at regular intervals. Actually this was the third rocket/airport within Sullivan County. After the first International Airport collapsed under the weight of migrating Canada geese, the then-legislators, in emulation of the earlier county board of supervisors, had listened to the entreaties of the Save-the-Trees group, the Bambi Party, and other like conservationists and built a (second) airport — underground.
Off to one side sat the members of the tribe of Tomsin, and their leader, Tonni II, was reading to his followers from the "Golden Book of the Bobbsey Twins," with all the words pure and free of naughtiness.
To the other side crouched the children of the skools of Narsbug, Kellywar, and Jeffyung huddled beneath tattered tents, counting their fingers and toes. Sadly, the citizens of that area thought schools should not be too fancy, with things like computers, books, buildings, and teachers, so the youngsters were learning to count by using their toes and fingers.
In the midst of everything, beneath statues of Wisdom and Justice, dressed in white togas, sat the county legislators. As they spoke, attendants scurried about the grounds collecting every word of wisdom as they fell from their lips and set these precious jewels in rings of gold.
And, Lo! And Behold! Towering into the skies so that it could be seen from any part of the county were the resplendent white towers of the casino, surmounted by a white marble statue of the god Mammon.
And, three times a day, all the people would genuflect three times to the shining sculptured idol.
Decorating the entrance to the casino was another statuary group: the great Indian Sitting Bull with his arm raised to the sky with one finger extended in an ancient Indian blessing, with his brother and sister, Sitting Shiva and Sitting Pretty standing at his sides. On the base of this statue were these immortal words: "You robbed us and stole our lands, Paleface — Now it is your turn, sucker!"
As we approached through an avenue of slot machines, two lines of penitents stood at the casino. The first line was composed of those who had been cleansed at the casino; they held out chamberpots as they beseeched those entering for alms.
On the opposite side stood rows of the Acolytes of Cockeyed Jenny, murmuring their sacred mantra, over and over again: "Wanna a good time, Johnny?"
And, as the angels dropped the golden curtain, I wept, and vowed never again to eat Dagwood sandwiches before bedtime.
