It occurs to me, (usually suddenly in the middle of the night making me leap out of bed with a light bulb over my head that tends to evaporate if I don’t write it down), that you may not be able to make much sense of the order of my posts, or the way that I leap from one pond frond paragraph of ideas to another with nary a bridge over troubled water between them. The phrase, “Crazier than a bedbug” may have just leaped into your head. If it didn’t, then I didn’t do a very good job of planting it there just now with this loony opening paragraph and my witlessly wired title for today’s post.
The problem probably begins with seeing the world as I see it. As in, “Nobody sees the world the way you do, Mickey!” For example, look closely as this picture of me cooking breakfast and pointlessly taking a picture of it. See the star I am cooking?

Really? You don’t? How about now?

Still don’t see it? Well, let me try once more with my artsy-craftsy weird Pythagorean math religion skills to make you see it so you know what the heck I am talking about.

Still don’t understand about me cooking stars in the morning for breakfast? Well of course you don’t. You don’t think like a bedbug. I read an article about needing protein for the first meal of the day to help diabetes and your thinking parts work like a well-oiled machine. Err… well, like a well-oiled sausage, then. And I see stars while I am cooking, because my mind works like that.

So, what does the expression “Crazy as a bedbug” mean, anyway? Well, if you have ever seen a bedbug crawling on your quilts at night… first of all, poor you! I hope it didn’t bite you more than once… but the bedbug seems to travel on all sixes in totally random directions, suddenly stopping, backing up, and then curly-cuing onward in its bizarre little paisley-patterned way. It is unpredictable.
My writing journey has been more or less like that. The first novel I completed was Superchicken, set in the year 1974, in my hometown, Spring and Summer. Then the first hometown novel I published, Catch a Falling Star, was set in 1990, Summer, in my hometown and on Mars. Then I finished the novel Snow Babies, set in 1984, December, in my hometown during a blizzard. I went back to the future… um, a past future… with Magical Miss Morgan, set in the 1989-90 school year in the little town where I went to junior high and high school. It will soon be published by Page Publishing. I published Stardusters and Space Lizards, set in 1991, entirely in outer space, but with characters from my hometown on board the space ship, on Amazon Kindle Publishing this last November, followed closely by Snow Babies, published in the same place with the same publisher. I am now working on The Baby Werewolf, set in Fall of 1974 in my home town again. So my writing journeys through time in total bedbug fashion.
What, then, am I planning to write this weekend and during the holiday? I can promise you, I won’t know until tomorrow… if then.



























I Love to Laugh
“Mickey, why can’t you be more serious the way smart people are?”
“Well, now, my dear, I think I take humor very seriously.”
“How can you say that? You never seem to be serious for more than a few seconds in a row.”
“I can say it in a high, squeaky, falsetto voice so I sound like Mickey Mouse.”
“You know that’s not what I mean.”
“I can also burp it… well, maybe not so much since I was in junior high.”
“I distinctly remember getting in trouble in Mrs. Mennenga’s third grade class in school for pantomiming pulling my beating heart out of my chest and accidentally dropping it on the floor. She lectured me about being more studious. But I made Alicia sitting in the row beside me laugh. It was all worth it. And the teacher was right. I don’t remember anything from the lesson on adding fractions we were supposed to be doing. But I remember that laugh. It is one precious piece of the golden treasure I put in the treasure chest of memories I keep stored in my heart.”
“I always listened to the words Groucho Marx was saying, even though he said them awfully fast and sneaky-like. I listened to the words. Other characters didn’t seem to listen to him. He didn’t seem to listen to them. Yet, how could he respond like he did if he really wasn’t listening? In his answers were always golden bits of wisdom. Other people laughed at his jokes when the laugh track told them to. I laughed when I understood the wisdom.”
“Laughing is a way of showing understanding. Laughing is a way of making yourself feel good. Laughing is good for your brain and your heart and your soul. So, I want to laugh more. I need to laugh more. I love to laugh.”
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Filed under autobiography, comedians, commentary, goofiness, goofy thoughts, humor, irony, Paffooney, strange and wonderful ideas about life, wisdom
Tagged as Ed Wynn, Groucho Marx, Moe Howard