I have recently joined a doodle-group on Facebook where amateur and professional artists are invited to compete for the fun of it doing doodle shapes and 4-minute doodles.
So let me share a few of the doodles I have shared with them.
I have been enjoying the doodle challenges as it helps to doodle when the world is dropping poopy bombs on your head through misfortunes of many kinds.
Here’s my doodle shape that hasn’t made a video yet.
Internet memes apply to me. It says it in the name. In fact, it says it twice. “Me+me = meme”.
This one is uncanny. I revere Mark Twain. Apparently I walk in his shoes enough that I am imitating everything he did except becoming wealthy and famous.
And maybe I am not as good of a writer as he was. Maybe. But I am heck at living an unhappy life and going bankrupt in the process.
And this is not the only meme that uncannily defines my life.
They put a stupid, orange-faced man in charge of the government because they wanted to tell Mickey, “F*** You! You are not better than me just because you are smarter than me. We are going to burn it all down to get revenge for your superiority!” And they are laughing and enjoying it now as the flames get hotter, even though their houses are on fire too. But stupid people aren’t really winning the game. There are evil people lurking in the background waiting to exploit and make money. They are winning. They hate Mickey too.
Of course, I never said anything about being better than them. Mickey is smart, but humble. I suffer from the wildfires anyway.
But if you know where to find it, there is helpful wisdom in memes. Short, pithy wisdom, but wisdom never the less.
The “Me”” of the memes can be hurtful at times, saying things out of anger or fear. But he can also be uplifting, making hearts sing and soar. There is magic and power in words… if they are the right words, delivered in the right way.
Sometimes people need be appreciated and built up rather than torn down. Some groups have been hurting more than others. Having been a teacher, I know this is particularly true. Teachers need to hear thank yous.
And I find memes to be a useful way to gain that temporary feel-good nugget of wisdom. I think it is probably a chicken nugget of wisdom. You know, bite-sized pieces of white meat protein to fortify you against the cold and the darkness. And it is important to turn away from the angry and the fearful memes. Going positive instead of negative is a bit of an antidote to the illnesses that infect social media. And I know Facebook is evil, but we are sorta stuck with it, so we might as well use it for good as it uses us and our data for evil.
So, I have shared several memes with you today because that is me…me. I do stuff like that. And you can’t tell me I am doing it wrong.
Canto 22 – Flying by Pinwheel
The Conference Room onboard the corsair flagship was spacious. It was one of the largest in Tron’s fleet. The most famous corsairs in the Imperial Rim Worlds were gathering there for a meeting.
“I missed you, Uncle Goofy,” said a cherub-faced little boy to Trav Dalgoda.
“I missed you too, Artran. I wouldn’t have left, but two of my very best friends from Questor needed my help.”
“The Aero Brothers?” asked Artran, eyes opening wide like brown blooms in a sunny field.
“Yes,” Trav nodded. “And your father got rather mad at me too.”
“He’s always like that. He always forgives me, though.”
Trav nodded at the boy. Artran was no more than seven years old. He was a very open-faced, trusting little man. It was difficult to believe his parents were two of the most infamous space pirates in known space.
The sour-faced pirate known as the King of Killers came into the room and sat down opposite Trav. He was a thin, bitter man with no sense of humor. Trav liked him anyway.
“How’s the pirate business, King, old Jester?”
“Shut up, Goofy, or I’ll rip your head off and stuff it in your… er…” He looked at Artran, “mouth.”
“That’s not very nice, Mr. Killer,” muttered Artran softly.
“Oh, I know, boy. I don’t mean it. It’s just that this clown and thief has caused us too much trouble.”
“I apologize, King. I had to help my friends, didn’t I?”
“I respect Ged Aero,” shot back the King. “If you’da said that he needed the artifact, I’da voted to give it to him. You don’t just steal stuff from Tron. Where’s your sense of honor?”
“I’m not sure I ever had one. If I did, I probably sold it and forgot about it.”
“The Aero Brothers are colonizing a planet?” King asked for conformation.
“No. It already had a really cool civilization on it when we found it. They are merely taking ownership.”
Just then, Elvis the Cruel walked into the room, his guitar slung over his back. He walked with a swagger and wore a dirty white muscle shirt. He was combing his greasy black pompadour with a practically toothless comb. Beside him walked the gorgeous lady pirate called Sheherazade. She wore a Princess Leia-style bronze slave bikini, though no one remembered why the heck such clothing was called that. It had something to do with a former emperor’s favorite comic book or something. Her skin, and she was showing practically all of it, was a deep ebony color. She sat down next to Artran and motioned Elvis to sit beside her.
“Thank you, thank you very much,” said Elvis.
“So, Trav,” said the sultry Sheherazade, “How did you get Tron to let you live?”
“Oh, Sheherry-baby, you know I’m Tron’s best buddy. The old Jester could never kill me.”
The beautiful lady laughed with a charm made more elegant by her tawdry companions. She seemed a regal Egyptian goddess. The King of Killers watched her longingly.
Elvis took out a cigarette butt and lit it, letting it hang on the slack part of his lower lip.
Pirates from other corsair fleets began to arrive. Razor Conn of the Black Hawk fleet showed up wearing a white cowboy hat and sunglasses with his second in command, the mysterious oriental, Shad Blackstone, by his side. The Degenerate, one-eyed Captain of the Corsair Frigate Palace of Foul Odors showed up in his crusty Lancer Battle Suit. The dwarf that traveled with him was named Stinky because of his unique ability to produce overpowering flatulence on cue. Several other Lancer Corsair captains were also there. Fez Amin of the dreaded Monopoly Brigade was there. His bald, tattooed head was skull-like and menacing. Arkin Cloudstalker was there with seven of his beautiful Lady Knights, captains of the White Sword Corsairs.
Tron came in with both his beautiful wife Maggie the Knife and Dana Cole. They both sat with him at the head of the conference table.
Tron held up a hand for silence and attention. All eyes fixed on the man with the scar. He had a commanding presence above and beyond the many forceful personalities gathered on the ship.
“You’ve heard the word circulated already,” began Tron. “News travels fast among the Corsair Brotherhood of Gentlemen Adventurers.” Everyone laughed at the high-tone name for the scum of the universe. “I have come here to declare war. We have been double-crossed by the smuggler prince and planetary duke of the planet White Palm. Count Nefaria tried to take us all out by acquiring ancient artifacts of incredible power. The Pinwheel Corsairs intend to take him on in his own system and take him out. I am not asking you to help me, though help is welcome. I am asking you to refuse any call for help he might make.”
“And what happens if we decide we like Count Nefaria more than we like you?” growled Fez Amin.
Elvis stood up and glared across the table at Amin. “Then we bust you up like a bunch of Louisiana hound dawgs!”
Fez Amin laughed. “What does that mean?”
Tron stared at the Monopoly Brigade’s tattooed leader. “Are you taking me on?”
“Naw,” said Fez Amin. “I’m just asking what if? Goober there gave me a funny enough answer to satisfy my need to laugh.”
There was a lot of nervous laughter. Everyone feared Fez Amin. He was dangerously insane and full of bloodlust. They feared Tron and his ace pilots as well. Few openly laughed at the eccentric behavior of a pilot like Elvis the Cruel. The possible consequences of such disrespect made everyone with a sane brain nervous.
“You tell me now,” said Tron to the group, “Who has a contract with Count Nefaria?”
No one raised a hand.
“Who is against my plan?”
Again, no hands went up.
“We hear you met a group of Corsairs called the Wraiths,” said Razor Conn. “You know much about them?”
“No,” said Tron. “But we beat them hard.”
“Let me give you this to help your cause,” said Conn, tossing a computer log core onto the table. “That is proof that the Wraith Corsairs work for both Nefaria and Syn Corporation.”
Everyone gasped but Tron and Maggie.
“Robots?” asked Tron.
“That’s my guess,” said Conn, smiling beneath his mirrored sunglasses and white cowboy hat. “It cost me forty fighters and one Black Hawk Frigate to get that bit of evidence. I’m not gonna help you kill Nefaria, but I mean to bet on you and the Pinwheels to succeed.”
“I thank you for that,” said Tron with a gracious nod.
Arkin Cloudstalker spoke up then. “We hear you helped Ged Aero escape the Imperium in return for your so-called Crown of Stars ancient artifact. And we hear Ged now owns a planet.”
“I won’t deny it,” said Tron.
“What part does that Crown play in all of this?” asked Cloudstalker. “That’s what I’d like to know.”
“You know the Crown has the power of the Ancients,” said Tron. “If we knew how to use it, we would tell you what we plan, but we need to research it more.”
“So, if we throw in with you, does that mean we are also supporting Ged Aero?” Cloudstalker’s face was grim as he got to the crucial question.
“I haven’t negotiated with the Aero Brothers yet. You can see I have their friend Trav Dalgoda as a member of my team already,” said Tron, indicating Goofy who was playing with Artran and oblivious to all around him. “I think it’s safe to say we respect Ged Aero and intend to throw our support behind him as he opens new systems in unknown space.”
“Well,” said Cloudstalker, “I believe Ged Aero is the one man who can solve our problems with the Imperium. I believe only true integrity can undo the Gordian Knots of Galtorr. I’m adding the White Swords to the Pinwheel Corsairs in this attack on Nefaria. I say one less nasty old spider in the Galtorr Imperium is a good thing!”
Most of the corsairs applauded Cloudstalker. Fez Amin growled.
“Ged Aero is a Werewolf!” shouted Amin’s tattooed second in command.
“Your foolishness is good for business!” mocked Fez Amin. He jabbed a large polished knife intao the conference table. “If you kill or capture Nefaria, Admiral Brona Tang will be hunting you down like the dogs you are. The Imperial Navy hasn’t paid any attention to you before now. That will change. I’ll be the only corsair still operating with a reasonably valid Letter of Marque. I’ll be laughing at your cold, dead corpses floating in endless space!”
Fez Amin and the Monopoly Brigade stormed out of the conference as if in anger. Tron frowned. It was more likely a tactical retreat. Amin was now part of the enemy.
Trav reached across the table to retrieve the fancy toad-sticker. “Sorry about the table, Maggie,” he said sweetly to Artran’s fierce mother. “I’ll just keep this cool knife.”
Filed under aliens, humor, novel, NOVEL WRITING, Paffooney, pen and ink paffoonies, science fiction
“If it weren’t fer bad luck, I’d have no luck at all… Gloom! Despair! And Agony on Me!” I often think of that old Hee-Haw! song when bad luck continues to pile up on me in waves… err… waves of bad luck crest over me in piles… or some other gol’ danged mixed
Some of my tip money, artfully backlit so you might not notice they are all ones.
metaphor.
After the tax man took all my spare change and dollars I didn’t have to spare, we woke up Monday morning to the Princess still down with flu and me with no more doctor-bill money. Fortunately there are a few things I can still do about it. I mean besides eat chocolate and play with dolls.
I have been able to earn extra money by driving for Uber. I have been mostly delivering meals for restaurants who use Uber Eats, but I have also delivered folks to the airport, taken non-car-owners to work, and occasionally delivered drinkers to liquor stores. (You wouldn’t believe some of the rationalizations and excuses and made-up stories I have heard from people who regret being sober.) This last week I made $102 on 11 fares plus the cash you can see in my hand. It may not seem like a lot to you, but for someone who feels sick 95% of the time, it is miraculously helpful to have a job that won’t fire you if you are repeatedly too sick to work. And I don’t drive if there’s any hint of not being well enough. I can’t afford an accident caused for any reason. And you get to talk to people. Most of them just want to quietly ride and look at their phones. But some of them ask me questions and strike up story-telling liars’ duels. (Yes, I know I don’t have to lie to come up with a funny story about being a teacher, but lying, especially exaggerating, is a required part of a teacher’s job. And that goes for any other kind of story-teller too, so they lie to me more than I lie to them.) Three straight weeks I have made $100 or more a week. (Not a lie OR an exaggeration). And that helps.
I had some necessary yard work to do where the pool used to be. I had thistles growing that needed to be cut down. So I pitched in and got that done… in the nude. Be glad I didn’t take any pictures of me doing the actual work. Thistle cutting naked? I am not a nudist in order to offend people. It was just a way of working off stress without working up a sweat. It was a cool morning. And the yard in question is in the middle of the city, but fenced in on all sides. And no one can see in without climbing the outside of the fence or locating an un-patched hole. That would be their bad, not mine.
And of course, I have been working on my humor writing. What other excuse is there for the last paragraph? And I just published a humor novel, Superchicken, and started working on publishing another, The Bicycle-Wheel Genius.
There are many more ways to heal the mind of dark depression than you might imagine. Of course, I did also buy chocolate covered peanuts again, and played with dolls again this morning. Old nudist fools with their Cirque du Soleil clown noses rarely learn new tricks.
Mickey is hopelessly addicted to writing. He keeps writing and publishing these story-things we refer to as novels. We are searching for some kind of five-step program to cure Mickey, but we have been forced to conclude the disease is probably incurable.
The book has now gone live on Amazon in its Kindle e-book form. The paperback version is still pending.
Here’s a link to the book on Amazon.
In an attempt to understand Mickey’s addiction problem from a diagnostic perspective, we intend to present evidence here to arrive at a conclusion about what’s fundamentally wrong with Mickey.
Superchicken, the main character of the book, bears the same nickname that Mickey himself was called repeatedly and without mercy when he was in junior high school and high school. Mickey claims that Edward-Andrew Campbell is not him in fictional form, but we find that generally hard to believe, and we can point to considerable evidence that the character has many of Mickey’s own characteristics. It is disturbing to note that on the cover picture, the derby-hatted character called Milt Morgan in the book, is a self-portrait of Mickey himself drawn from an old school photo. Milt Morgan in the book is highly imaginative, obsessed with magic, and a creator of truly insane and somewhat wicked plans. It is disturbingly reminiscent of Mickey himself.
And then there is the whole nudism connection. The Cobble Sisters in the book are dedicated nudists and manage to talk the Superchicken into going to a nudist camp with their nudist family, though he didn’t know what they were signing him up for until he gets to the campground and sees all the naked people.
It is not a coincidence that Mickey had a girlfriend whose sister lived in a nudist apartment complex, and he was himself taken by surprise when she took him to visit there. Besides, Mickey has even confessed in his goofy blog to visiting a nudist camp himself in recent times.
So, as you can plainly see, we now have new evidence that Mickey is in need of some kind of intervention to help him get over this sinister malady of the mind. One thing we can do is suggest you find the book on Amazon and read it for yourself. Maybe, just maybe, you will be the one who comes up with the solution to Mickey’s endless novel-writing nonsense. This is a problem that may well turn out to be terminal if something is not done about it soon.
Filed under foolishness, humor, magic, novel, NOVEL WRITING, nudes, Paffooney, publishing
An author can’t resist portraying himself somewhere in his fiction. Even though the entire work of fiction is actually a map of the inside of the author’s self, there will be a character who is the self-portrait of the author buried somewhere within. It may be the first person narrator of the story. Or it may be a background character lurking at the periphery of the plot.
In the ongoing work of fiction that is my family D&D game, that me-character is the wizard in red, Eli Tragedy. Yes, bumbling, doddering, and constantly babbling Eli Tragedy, aged half-elf with a little more than half a wit, is basically me. His two apprentices, Bob and Mickey the Were-rat, are constantly at his side to open doors for him, set off booby traps stupidly before he gets there, and generally demonstrate the level of his teaching ability by their lazy incompetence and general inability to learn anything.
Now, lest you think I might really be exactly like this exaggeratedly foolish fool of a character armed with way too much magical ability and arcane knowledge to be safe wandering around freely in public, let me assure you, we are very different, Eli and I. He’s at least a centimeter taller than I am when he stands up straight. I have, however, aimed more than a few metaphorical fireballs at my own image in the hallway mirror. And I may have burned my own eyebrows off more than once. But Eli’s real purpose is mainly to poke fun at myself and create a few laughs, along with a few D&D style world-ending crisis-es, as when Mickey the Were-rat stole and misused Eli’s magic hat. Dang, those toe-dancing pink rhinoceroses with the nitroglycerin in their over-sized backpacks were heck to herd back into the King’s Royal Zoo!
But now, I am finally ready to admit it. Eli Tragedy is my alter ego. I like the color red. I am fond of random explosions and acts of inexplicable transformation. Eli Tragedy is me. And I promise, I won’t really blow the world up. It is only a role-playing game after all.
Filed under Dungeons and Dragons, goofiness, humor, Paffooney, wizards
I am a writer because I write.
I write because I have to.
I have to because somebody has to control the words.
People are made of words. Their identity, their inner self, their reason for existence… all made of words. The very thoughts in their heads are… words.
If I want to control the words I am made of, then I must be the writer who writes his own story.
I don’t want anyone else to write the words that essentially become me. Do you?
Of course, authors create characters. Even autobiographers create characters. Carl Sandburg could no more make his words into Lincoln than a bird can make its tweets into a cat. Sandburg can, however, help us to understand Lincoln as Carl Sandburg understands the words that are Lincoln.
Lincoln probably did not have the words for “bikini girls” in his head when he wrote those words in the second quote. But somebody thought that the picture would help us understand the words. By all accounts, Lincoln was not a particularly happy man leading a particularly happy life. But he showed us the meaning of his words when he stood firm against the strong winds of harsh words and bad ideas in a terrible time. And he was as happy about it as he made up his mind to be.
I, too, have not lived a particularly happy life. But I was always the “teacher with a sense of humor” in the classroom, and students loved me for it. Funny people are often not happy people. But they make themselves out of funny words because laughter heals pain, and jokes are effective medicine. And so I choose to write comedy novels. Novels that are funny even though they are about hard things like freezing to death, losing loved ones, being humiliated, being molested, and fear of death. Magical purple words can bring light to any darkness. I am the words I choose to write in my own story. The words not only reveal me, they make me who I am. And it is up to me to write those words. Other people might wish to do it for me. But they really can’t. The words are for me alone to write.
And so it is imperative that I write my words in the form of my novels, my essays, and this goofy blog post. I am writing myself to life, even if no one ever reads my writing.
Filed under humor, Paffooney, wordplay, writing, writing humor
I am the first to admit, I don’t know diddly-sqwoot about effective cover design. But now, with self-publishing as the only option left to me, I am learning things about publishing that I only ever scratched the surface of in my few college forays into publication design and layouts. I had some experience publishing junior high yearbooks, (and losing money on something that most teachers lose money on). And I have gotten a lot of serious criticism from sources that matter to me, like my daughter, the Princess.
With the novel I have been working on with Kindle Publishing on Amazon in view, I came up with this. I like it. But it will not cut the mustard with the Princess. (She uses a knife on mustard, but lately has given up on eating mustard all together). So I had to work the idea out further.
I tried this;
The design is a little better. But Rowan has become so ratty and run down that I hesitate to use the background which is not much like the Rowan of 1974 when the novel was set. So I decided to focus on character instead.
Still needs work, right? You can no longer see the post office sign in the background. Sherry is still a small head growing out of Superchicken’s neck. And Milt Morgan is a good addition, but the purple paisley shirt looks terrible. And besides, this will not fit the whole cover of the Kindle paperback.
It will end up looking something like this;
Or not. Because I am still learning how to do it right, and I still have many more mistakes to make. But as I finish editing and formatting, the time will come soon to see the proof in the pudding. (And you better hope I don’t put uncut mustard in the pudding. That would taste terrible.)
Filed under art editing, artwork, humor, novel, novel plans, NOVEL WRITING, Paffooney, publishing
Canto 21 – Blue Boy
The entire group of adventurers went aboard the Leaping Shadowcat to work out their problems. The Hammer, an ancient device of incredible power, was now actually in their possession. Junior Aero had detected it hidden within the Synthezoid’s body cavity.
“How was this boy able to read the robot’s mind?” Ged asked Tkriashav.
The almond-eyed Psion Master looked at Ged through narrowed eyes. “He has a Psionic power I’ve never encountered before. His mind reads as a telepath, but he can read artificial minds. He can manipulate computers and robots in the same way Tara and I can bend human minds.”
“Will you teach him to use this power?” Ham asked.
“No,” said Tkriashav, closing his eyes. “I believe he is meant to be Ged’s first student. I can’t touch his mind properly. Neither can Tara. He might prove dangerous to us.”
“But…” began Ged, “I don’t know how to teach! …Not Psion power!”
“You know more than you realize,” said Tkriashav. “You are a master of the inner eye. You do it so well. It is an instinct with you. From what we saw today, the child is nearly there himself. All he really needs from you is moral guidance, positive support, and, well… love.”
Ged looked at the blue-skinned boy. He hadn’t really paid much attention to him before. He looked like a blue version of Ham when he was young. He was small and thin. He hardly ever smiled, but he had dimples when he did smile. He was nine years old, but looked more the size of a six-year-old. It was his Nebulonin curse to be forever small and child-like. Ged nodded. He could learn to love this boy.
“Lend me a hand, Ged,” said Ham as he hoisted the inert body of the Synthezoid onto the game-skinning table. The Madonna had gone to the galley to cook. Tara and Sinbadh had gone to help. That left Bam-Bam, Ged, Tkriashav, and Ham to do the surgery on the Synthezoid.
Ged helped Ham stretch the body out on the table. They pierced the wrists and ankles with skinning hooks. The flesh oozed green juice as if it were blood, but there the similarity to human anatomy ended. There were layers of circuit-weave mesh under the skin and titanium bones at the bottom of it. On the outside, Sorcerer 4 was made like a human. He even had the naughty bits. But under the skin, he was all robot with fiber optic wires and blinking lights everywhere. Ham easily peeled away synthetic flesh to reveal the metal man underneath.
In the hollow of the Synthezoid’s chest cavity, they uncovered the device itself. Ged almost laughed at Junior’s big-eyed facial expression when the boy first saw the Hammer of God. Everyone had been pretty much expecting a Thor’s Hammer type of thing. What they got was an undecorated tube with two right-angled handles on one end. You would never know it was an ancient artifact without the eerie purple glow coming out the open end. It looked like an ordinary plumber’s tool.
“There are no buttons to use the dang thing!” swore Ham, disappointed.
“No,” said Junior in a small voice, “but the thing is telepathic.”
“He’s right,” confirmed Tkriashav. “I can sense that to use the device, you must be a telepath.”
“Oh, great!” moaned Ham.
“It’s workable,” said Ged. “We have to use these things carefully. We will ask Frieda about it, and we have telepaths that might be willing to help us.”
“You do,” confirmed Tkriashav. “I know I haven’t earned your trust yet, but from here on out, our destinies are all intertwined.”
“Even mine?” asked the little blue boy.
“Especially yours,” said Tkriashav.
Ged couldn’t help but be a little spooked by the Psion Master. He didn’t like knowing so many riddles about the future, and he was not comfortable around someone who did.
Tkriashav picked up the Hammer. “It makes things according to mental directions. It uses some kind of organizing power that can rearrange molecules and energy flows. It is light years beyond any technology on Don’t Go Here.”
“What will we use it for?” asked Bam-Bam.
“This planet,” said Ham. “We can bring space-travel technology here with the thingy. We’ll build downports and dry-docks and spacecraft. We can make this world high tech overnight.”
“Don’t be surprised if they insist on staying cave men,” warned Tkriashav.
“Yeah,” said Bam-Bam. “Most of us grew up in Fredsuits and riding dino-back.”
“If we’re going to make this world home, we need to dress it up a little bit,” sighed Ged.
“Yes,” said Tkriashav. “But this world may not turn out to be home in the long run.”
“Why would that be?” asked Ham.
“I see other places on both of your horizons.”
Ged shivered. “Don’t tell me that. I don’t want to know.”
Filed under aliens, humor, novel, NOVEL WRITING, Paffooney, science fiction
2017 was not a good year for me financially. And nuclear winter could also be referred to as, “an unfortunate change in the weather”. I was sued by Bank of America because I had the audacity to try to reduce my debt with the aid of a debt reduction company. The lawyer originally assured me that I would probably get a reduced settlement bill. Instead, I lost the case and had to declare bankruptcy. The city was objecting to the swimming pool needing repair and forced us to have it removed at our own expense at the same time the BoA lawyers were eating my whole pie. And then, when so many were getting at least some tax relief from Trump’s tax cut for rich folk, I had to pay over a thousand dollars because of retroactive accounting errors.
I also got a week’s vacation in the hospital that cost lots of money because it was a an emergency room visit under heart attack conditions, but determined that I wasn’t actually having a heart attack without the added benefit of telling me what went wrong that put me in the hospital in the first place. I am now suffering numerous warning signs of heart attack or stroke without the confidence that I can go to the doctor without another hospital vacation I can’t pay for.
I deal with it by biting the bullets, paying the bills, and buying myself bargain toys. The Astronaut Barbie play set came from the Walmart post-Christmas Clearance Sale shelves. It cost me less than half of its original price.
Filed under angry rant, collecting, doll collecting, feeling sorry for myself, humor, photo paffoonies, photos
Catch a Falling Star 