Category Archives: colored pencil

Coloring Part 3 (Mickey Watches TV and Colors)

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So, here is what it looks like now after watching The West Wing.  I love that show.  They do such a wonderful job of weaving story, theme, and relevant political issues together into a compelling series.  It is like the very best and most poetic of the novel series.  I have read two books of John Galsworthy’s Forsythe Saga, and I think the TV show is better.  Of course, I realize the novels are quite old and fusty in temperment.

I now have all three main characters colored in.  Dr. Elefun on the left in his pinstripe shirt, Astro in the middle, and Mr. Pompous on the right in the back seat.  I have most of the cockpit of the flying car done, and must start pondering how to make it fly in this drawing.  I put a piece of cardboard under the drawing and that gives it a funky ribbed effect with the colored pencil rubbed over large areas.  I am enjoying this homemade coloring-book art project.  I have also added 173 words.

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Coloring Part 2 (Mickey and His Crayons)

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Here’s coloring step #1.  I was watching Supernatural, the one where Sam and Dean go to Folsom Prison to fight an old ghost who is killing prisoners.  I could’ve done more, but the episode was good and drew my attention.  I had to do less than I planned because arthritis can make my coloring-knuckles hurt.  I also needed to write a much shorter post today because I had to spend considerable time taking people to the airport and to doctors’ offices.  Yes, it was my family and my in-laws… and yes, I did it gladly without complaint.  And though I did not get to put the usual purple-paisley spin on today’s paragraphs, and I only got a little over 100 words… I did get a post for today, and my post-for-every-day-of-2015 goal is still intact.

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Stupid People

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It is generally considered an insult to call someone “stupid”.

Okay, I get that.  I am not without feelings on the subject.   Stupid people have feelings just like I do.  But if I have to live with “nerd”, “geekazoid”, “brainiac”, and “four-eyes”, I am thinking they don’t have to be more sensitive than I am.

Truthfully, life as a mentally gifted person of no color is a bit of trial even if people don’t generally understand that.    I have an I.Q. in the range of 155, (calculated from my ACT and SAT scores using standard statistical analysis, give or take 5% for margin of error due to the nature of the calculation… am I scaring you yet?)  I had trouble fitting in with my peers as a child.  I related better to older people rather than my appropriate age group, and until my best friend, a preacher’s kid, moved to town when I was nine, I really had no friends and was routinely picked on and preyed upon by other kids.  It was so bad that I was making C’s and D’s in school primarily because I didn’t want to be identified as smart.  Once the eye doctor hung black horn-rimmed glasses on my face, my fate as a socially doomed uber-nerd was sealed.  And my friend Mark, who would grow up to become an actuary with mathematical gifts, moved away when I was a freshman in high school.  I had to help stupid people with homework and class work… I was required to endure threats, bribes, and tearful pleas to help athletes cheat on tests.  Bullies made me tie their shoes and endure endless jokes about the size of my private parts.  Life was terrible until I decided to go out for high school football.  I was small and thin and probably doomed as I made the team, but I had a secret weapon.  I understood almost instinctually that angles, trajectories, and leverage can make the difference over sheer muscle power.  During one football drill where we had to pick up and carry our partner for five yards, I was matched with the big offensive tight end, George Merlock, who outweighed me by almost a hundred pounds and was literally Incredible Hulk-like in football pads.  I simply used my shoulder on the proper spot under his armpit and lifted with my legs.  I picked him up and carried him for twenty yards when some of the other players who were bigger and stronger than me couldn’t even lift him.  After that moment, I was never bullied again.  For one thing, I impressed George so much that he would’ve killed them for even looking at me cross-eyed.  Life got better.  A cheerleader asked me out on a date (though I said no because I thought they were still making fun of me… which I later learned I was mistaken about and I had accidentally hurt her feelings).

So what does that whole long-winded whiffle-story of my misspent youth have to do with stupid people?  Well, I am one.  (Doesn’t the cheerleader thing prove that?)  Smart people can be stupid more often than your average ordinary Joe.   A character like Sheldon Cooper on Big Bang Theory is funny because his intelligence and his social abilities are so wildly mismatched that he often makes totally stupid geekazoid mistakes.

Harker

But there are also stupid people who are actually not smart.  Writing humor has taught me to draw upon the experiences of people I have known who were less than knowledgeable.  People with lower than normal I.Q.’s.  Life has taught me to value and even love people like that.  In my novel Snow Babies, at least one of the clown characters is a stupid person.   Harker Dawes is an inept businessman in the process of destroying a successful business that he bought from one of the town’s most beloved and respected elders.  He immobilizes himself with super glue.   He gets nailed to a poster board with a nail gun.  Accidents and near-fatal pratfalls are his trademark.  And yet, he is a sympathetic and loveable character.  He is generous to a fault.  He has a simple, good heart.  Practically everything he does is a mistake, and yet, people grow fond of him and help him out because they appreciate his innate goodness and value as a person.

So, I really think calling someone stupid can be a sort of compliment.  Forrest Gump calls himself stupid, but that character from Winston Groom’s novels and the award-winning movie of the same name is really a very wise and lovely man, though he is not smart.  I have to say that I really no longer resent being called stupid, because no matter how smart I actually am, stupid is sort of a compliment.  (But how about climate-change deniers, Texas politicians, and anybody who believes what they say on Fox News, you say?  They are not stupid.  That is willful ignorance.  It may take a whole other post to make that difference clear.)

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Beast Men

I recently broke out my old Talislanta Dungeons and Dragons book.  It contains drawings from the late 80’s and early 90’s in which the never-ending adventure went to the world of Talislanta where there are no elves or dwarves or goblins.  The primary enemy were the beast men.  They inhabited the great plains in the middle of the world.  They were ravenous, and mostly evil… but a few were adopted as heroes and heroes’ companions.  Here’s a look at the good guys and bad guys I found in the Plains of the Beastmen of Golarin.

Beast Man Blood Brothers Dar Wolverin Hal Vas Pahluks

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My Own Race of Aliens

In Catch a Falling Star, the only good novel I have actually in print so far, I have a race of aliens called the Tellerons.  They are an unusual sort of green men from Mars.   They are green,and they have a base on Mars, but they are from a distant star system in the local group and the swampy world called Telleri that orbits that far star.  The ones in my book come from the space station their empire established in the Barnard’s Star system, where the characters in my stories were all born.  They are also not men.  They are amphibianoid beings, frog people.  They have never set foot on the home planet.  Here are two aliens who are crucial characters in Catch a Falling Star.

My Art 2 of Davalon

These two are Farbick the Navigator and young Davalon the tadpole.  Farbick is a very wise and loving male Telleron who gets foully treated for his racial differences.  I know you and I can’t really tell by looking, but his race is Sindalusian Fmoog.  You can tell by the yellowish cast to his amphibian face.  Oh, and there’s something funny with his ears.  Davalon is the son of the Telleron captain, Xiar.  He loves Farbick who has been more of a father figure to him than Xiar has.  Dav is unusually bright for a Telleron, just as Farbick is recognizably more competent than others of the Fmoogish race.  You might actually think, if they were the only two Tellerons you ever met, that their people are highly inquisitive, intelligent, and have no racial prejudices at all.  Of course you would be highly incorrect and most sincerely wrong.

I have started work on a sequel to Catch a Falling Star.  I am calling it Stardusters and Lizard Men.  It follows the crew of Xiar the Slightly Irregular’s Base Ship in their adventures following the invasion of Earth.  They accidentally fix the on-board computer systems by correcting a math error in navigation that had been present for more than 100 years of star travel in the Telleron Empire.  Of course this means that all of their space coordinates for every destination they know are wrong.  And so, without hope of ever returning anywhere else in the universe, they arrive at Galtorr Prime, the planet of the infamous carnivorous  reptile people.  They will have to colonize or die.  And the Galtorrians are just like Earthers, except, they have a society that is even more corrupt, greedy, prejudiced, and hateful (if such a thing is even possible).  I hope to show in this story what human society may become on the path we are currently following, so it will be a kind of post-apocalyptic bit of science fiction set on a world that is not Earth.

My Art

These two female Telleron tadpoles are Brekka and Menolly.  They are dancing to Mickey Mouse Club music because Tellerons, quite naturally, have been totally corrupted by Earther television shows.  Galactic English, the language all Tellerons speak, is based on the language of old I Love Lucy television episodes, the favorite show on the home-worlds of the entire empire.

George Jetson

Meet George Jetson.  He is named after one of his father’s favorite shows from the 1960’s.  He is one of the Telleron tadpoles that will take the lead in exploring the dark and dangerous planet of the lizard-guys.

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My Tinfoil Hat for UFO’s

I have been a conspiracy-theory nut for some time.  Back in the 1970’s, my father and I went to a movie called Chariots of the Gods.  It presented the insane theories of Erich von Daniken as if they were fact.  It mentioned the Nazca Lines, Stonehenge, the Great Pyramid, and other ancient wonders and seemed to show depictions of ancient aliens in the art of those cultures.  My father and I were convinced by his arguments and thought there really must be something to it.  I went to college with a real hunger to learn more.Erich von Däniken

I was disappointed to learn later that the man was a completely unprofessional, untrained archeologist, and that he may have actually stolen his main thesis for the Chariots book from Carl Sagan and  I. S. Shklovskii in their book, Intelligent Life in the Universe.  Sagan would go on to say;

“That writing as careless as von Däniken’s, whose principal thesis is that our ancestors were dummies, should be so popular is a sober commentary on the credulousness and despair of our times.  I also hope for the continuing popularity of books like Chariots of the Gods? in high school and college logic courses, as object lessons in sloppy thinking. I know of no recent books so riddled with logical and factual errors as the works of von Däniken.”

—Carl Sagan, Foreword to The Space Gods Revealed (quote and citation borrowed from Wikipedia)

So I went through a number of Sagan-influenced years of my life saying that there was no sound reason to believe that out of an infinity of places to visit, interstellar tourists would want to come and visit here.  Does a normal, sane tourist want to go to an island full of cannibals?  Our movies, after all, always depict us killing, dissecting, or taking advantage of alien visitors.

But then I discovered the whole story of the Roswell, New Mexico crash in 1947.  Convinced at one point that the crash really was a Project Mogul weather balloon, I began to discover the work of another alien-visitor-obsessed gentleman by the name of Stanton Friedman.  This man is much harder to dismiss.  He has a master’s degree in physics and spent fourteen years as a nuclear physicist “for such companies as General Electric (1956–1959), Aerojet General Nucleonics (1959–1963), General Motors (1963–1966), Westinghouse (1966–1968), TRW Systems (1969–1970), and McDonnell Douglas, where he worked on advanced, classified programs on nuclear aircraft, fission and fusion rockets, and compact nuclear power plants for space applications.[2] Since the 1980s, he has done related consultant work in the radon-detection industry. Friedman’s professional affiliations have included the American Nuclear Society, the American Physical Society, the American Institute of Aeronautics and Astronautics, and AFTRA.” (quoted from Wikipedia… I know, I know… but this is all verifiable information, not made up or imaginary like von Däniken’s.)  He is also the first civilian to investigate the Roswell crash.  He began by interviewing the air-base’s intelligence officer during the incident, Major Jesse Marcel.

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More and more I became interested in the phenomenon and the people who research it.  I have a pretty good list of liars and clowns who talk about aliens, and I will use some of that in a future post.  There is comedy gold in that topic.

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But I do believe that aliens are real and have visited our planet.  I began researching the topic again for my novel, Catch a Falling Star, because it centers on an alien invasion and a clash between incompetent space travelers and single-minded Midwesterners who can’t possibly believe.  There are just too many people surfacing with stories to tell about alien encounters, UFO sightings, and government cover-ups.  People like Nick Pope, a former Minister from the British government, Paul Hellyer , a former Defense Minister from Canada, Edgar Mitchell, an Apollo astronaut,  and numerous technicians and inventors from McDonnell-Douglas and other aircraft manufacturers are coming forward in legions to testify that things like this are very real.

My Art 2 of Davalon

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My Imagination has Wings

DSCN4453  I am certainly not bragging.  I have a too-vivid imagination, and sometimes lose track of what is real and what is fantasy.  In my current novel-in-progress, I just wrote about kids believing they have used fairy magic to turn a favorite teacher into a swan.  (I told you I would work that German Schwan thing into my book.)  So here is a brief Canto to show you how that went.

Canto Twenty-Six – In Miss Schwanneke’s Music Class

Miss Swan was busy in the gym, so it was no surprise to Blueberry and the other Norwall kids in her first period class that she was running late.  Blueberry decided to use the time to work on the goal of making students believe in fairies.  She was armed with a folder filled with colored pencil drawings of fairies.  She had carefully crafted them from the descriptions Garriss had given her during those long nights when she was too excited to sleep anyway.  Working on the fairy project helped take her mind off the terrible conflict brewing with Tim Kellogg.  He had been so mean since his best friend, Tommy Bircher, had moved to Chicago.  She was sure the only reason he was being that way was because she was so deeply in love with Mike Murphy, and Mike was Tim’s replacement best friend.

“Those are neat pictures, Blue,” said Bobby Niland, a Norwall farm kid.

“Thanks.  Share them around.  It will help people believe in fairies.” 

“Aw, you Pirates have such weird ideas.  Nobody is gonna believe in dumb old fairies!”

“Bobby, you are a Pirate, and you’ve seen Garriss, the fire wisp.  How can you not believe in fairies?”

“You guys get me all worked up, talking to the empty air, and I start to see things that aren’t really there.  Tim just made up the little fire guy.  You know he is always making up all kinds of elaborate lies, and making us believe them.”

“Well, yeah, but…”

“Hey!  I like this one with the pretty naked lady with the white wings!”  Bobby showed the drawing to its creator.

“Garriss says that one is a storybook named Odette.  She’s an immortal fairy princess because of the tale of the Swan Princess.”

“Huh?”

“The story of a princess cursed to turn into a swan by day, and can only be a woman at night.”

“Oh, that’s a neat story.  Too bad it isn’t true.  I’d like to see a naked lady turn into a swan.”

“Well…  Garriss did teach me Odette’s spell.  He claims it can turn somebody into a swan.”

“Oh, neat!  Who can we change?”

“But, Bobby, you don’t believe in the fairy stuff.  You just said so.”

“Yeah, well…  How about Miss Swan?  Her name makes her perfect for the spell!”

It was obvious that Bobby was hot to see Miss Swan naked.  He was secretly in love with her, but he drooled over her so openly that everyone from Norwall who really knew him, knew that secret too.

“You know her name is actually Schwanneke, right?  Swan is just a nickname.”

“Ah, come on.  You said you want me to believe.”

“Well, I don’t want to hurt Miss Swan or anything.  She’s a nice teacher.”

There was general restless talking in the classroom.  No one was trying to sing any of the pieces they had been learning in class.  And no one was paying attention to Bobby and Blue.  Blue pulled out the white feather.

“What’s that?” asked Bobby.  “Is that part of the spell?”

“It’s the focus item.  You have to give it to her and say,  Möchten Sie einen Schwan zu werden?”

“What’s that?  Pig Latin?”

“German, I think,” Blue answered.  “The fairies seem to use German more than other languages.”

“Cool.”

Bobby made Blueberry teach him the words again and again until he could say them correctly.  In the meantime, Miss Swan came in with something of a cold.  She was sniffling and sneezing.  Bobby, excited beyond measure, ran up to her, holding out the white feather.

“Möchten Sie einen Schwan zu werden?” he chanted.

“What?”  Miss Schwanneke, the vocal music teacher, took the feather.  She suddenly looked ill, as if a cold wind had blown in and frozen her very soul.  She put a hand over her mouth and ran out of the room.

Everyone began asking each other what was happening, and of course, nobody knew.  But two Norwall kids, Bobby Niland and Blueberry Bates, stood staring at each other with white faces.  Thirty minutes of rampant speculation, rumors of the teacher’s death in the bathroom, and the eventual arrival in the classroom of a substitute had Bobby looking whiter than a ghost.  Blue didn’t feel very well herself.

“Well, class, the period is almost shot,” said Mrs. Thompson the all-purpose substitute teacher. “We will just kinda sit here and wait for the bell.  Sit down and be good for a few minutes more.  At about that time, they began to hear a ticking sound at the window.  Meghan Baumgartner was the first to see it.

“Miss, miss!  There’s a big white bird pecking at the window wanting to get in out of the snow!”

Blueberry and Bobby looked at the same moment.  It was a huge, white… swan.

Bobby’s pants were immediately soaked, and he, too ran out of the room.

*****

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Mickey Gets Older… and Older… and, well, you know…

5.0.2 http://disneyparks.disney.go.com/

Mickey Mouse was born on November 18, 1928 in the film “Steamboat Willie”.  Yesterday was his 86th Birthday.  He’s still pretty spry for such an old guy.  My own father is pretty close to the same age, born in about 1932.

And I… I was born in a blizzard in 1956, on November 17th, the day before his 28th birthday.  Don’t do the math.  I don’t really want to know how old I am.  I have six incurable diseases, and I may be adding a seventh to that, depending on what my cardiologist finds out.  I survived malignant melanoma in 1983.  I am deeply grateful for every day of the 31 years I have lived since.

This post started out as something about birthdays.  Mickey’s and mine (who am also Mickey)…  But I think it is really about numbers.  There are still important numbers to consider.  I have published two novels, Aeroquest and Catch a Falling Star.  I have one more novel that I signed a contract with PDMI Publishing for, Snow Babies.  It is the best story I ever wrote.  I have a finished manuscript, The Bicycle-Wheel Genius, that I am polishing to submit to the publisher in the spring.  I submitted a finished novel, Superchicken, that I am still waiting for word on, whether they will publish it, pass on it, or burn it and wave chicken feet over the ashes.  So I potentially have four books that could be in print soon.  I am feverishly trying to finish my novel The Magical Miss Morgan in draft form.  Why am I so feverishly trying to turn four books into five?  And then maybe five into six?  It is a question of time.  How much time do I really have left?  I confess to having at least twelve novel length stories that are only written in my head and outlined on paper.  The clock is ticking.  I want to share all of these stories, but I know I probably do not have 86+ years.  I truly believe that both this Mickey and that Mickey are capable of speaking to the ages, but it can only happen if I get my words shared so that somebody I do not know will read them, smile a little, laugh a little, maybe cry a little, and understand what I tried to say.

So here’s a self portrait of what Mickey once looked like (before the beard and long hair) along with Valerie Clarke, the main character of Snow Babies, and the most beautiful little girl ever born in Norwall, Iowa.

SnowyPortrait

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In the Mind’s Eye

horse3So, why do I write what I write, and why do I draw what I draw?  The answer to those questions is critical to why I am me and not you, or some other goofy-stupid-crazy-intellectual-boring-weird-nutty person.  The answer is somewhere out in left field right now, lost in the tall grass where the left fielder will never find it.  What makes us unique?  What makes us individual?  Why is my brother not a photo-copy of me?  Why is my son so separate, different, and unique from me?  Will I ever stop asking these damned questions?

I am the knight of the white rose.  I am that because of my philosophical links to Rosicrucians, choosing empiricism over dogma, science over faith, and being willing to heal the world without payment.  We’re talking secret society stuff here, because when the world stumbles across real Rosicrucians, it tends to kill them.  Oh, and I’m not a real one, by the way.  Please don’t immediately start planning my tortured death. But I do believe that stories about love and forgiveness can change the world for the better.  Look at what the carpenter from Galilee was able to do.

And I tend to treat the fantasy elements, the Pegasus and unicorns from my daydreams, as real.  Not because I am loopy enough to actually believe in nonsense.  I said before, “empiricism over dogma” and “science over faith”.  But belief in human imagination and its magical power is not heresy.

So, here it is… the answer that you seek; I am infected seriously with Disney-itis in my artwork.  A strong layering of Norman Rockwell and Maxfield Parrish over a Dr. Seuss base.  In my fiction, my prose, and my poetry, I am Mark Twain and Thomas Hardy, Charles Dickens and the Bard, and a dash of Kurt Vonnegut mixed in for taste.  Put in the oven and baked for six hours at 350 degrees, and then frosted with a thick, creamy covering of Robert Frost and sequins.

Did I make you laugh?  Make you smile, at least?  Make you angry?  Make you want to hire Opus Dei hit men to track me down and kill me with holy hand grenades?  If you pick any of those answers, then my work here is done.  I have explained myself… and that’s all I’m gonna say about that.

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