Category Archives: Paffooney

Happy Doodle Day!

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Dippy Doodle Dave says, “Howdy!”

Still not feeling well, and still constantly being sabotaged by my fritzy computer, I decided to post a double doodle today.  I can post quick and drippy doodles and fulfill my obligation to posting every day while binge-watching TV.  A doodle, as I’m sure you know, is absent-minded drawing that starts without a plan and is sometimes done without even looking at the paper.  I did them in ink with no under-drawing in pencil… kinda like walking around in blue jeans with no underwear on.  Certain kinds of chafing and shifting can lead to unintended things putting a hitch in your stride.

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Doodleburg Castle on the banks of the Doodlestein River

Each of the doodles presented today was completed in about 15 minutes of constant pen-pushing.  So, there you have it.  Have a happy-daffy doodle day!

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Sick and Sad…

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Ant bites can cause an allergic reaction.  So can the ragweed pollen that floats in massive quantities through the Texas air right now.  So can reports that Donald Trump won the recent debate, despite the evidence presented before my very eyes that he was destroyed like a movie monster in the 1960’s at the end of the late night horror flick.  Whatever the cause, I am feeling poorly.  Another day of inaction and illness and sore throats and headaches.  My daughter, the Princess, is also home from school today ill.  She’s in slightly better shape than I am.  But we will recover.  The country, if it is truly as filled with ignorant racist people as the Trump presidential campaign has made it seem, will not.  Soon we will be forced to shout, “Seig heil!” at the cinnamon Hitler we have apparently chosen to put in charge.  How is he not polling negative percentages after that debate?  He should have to give back three quarters of those votes he got in the Republican primaries.

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Of Nightmares and Publishing

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Okay, I don’t mean to mislead you with the title.  My nightmares last night were not caused by publishing a book.  But there is a connection.  So be patient with me and let me explain.

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Last night I kept waking up to the smell of something burning… the smell of pine wood smouldering, the acrid smell of plastic on fire, the nose-offending smell of human hair on fire…  So I get up multiple times in the night, searching the house in my underwear, sniffing about to try to detect where in the walls or under the furniture the smell is coming from.  I scared my wife at least once in the kitchen… sometime around 2:00 a.m.  And the more awake I became the less I could smell the something that was burning.  It turns out that was because it was only in a nightmare that I smelled it.  The house was burning down around me in a dream, and the dream lingered after I awoke, even though I had forgotten about the dream entirely as I woke.   It was a classic anxiety dream.

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What, though, do I actually have going on that causes me this kind of nightmare?  I mean, besides Donald Trump being elected President of the United States, the impending end of life on Earth, and Bank of America suing me with hopes of wiping out my personal finances completely?

I am, foolishly, trying to publish another novel.

I promise to tell you a bit more about this novel in the near future.  But let me tell you first why publishing it is causing anxiety dreams.

Magical Miss Morgan is a novel about being a school teacher.  It is based on real experiences in my teaching life.  I used the time my teaching methods were opposed by a school board candidate.  I also used the time a principal told me that school shouldn’t teach kids to think because that didn’t turn them into good citizens.  I used real kids I once taught as characters.  I even used the time that fairies invaded my classroom.  Oh, but that last one might be slightly fictionalized.

So, even though the main character, Miss Francis Morgan, is not actually me, this novel is a distillation of my entire struggle to be a worthy teacher and accomplish something good as an educator.  My goal during my teaching career was to teach kids to think for themselves, to guide their own lifelong learning, and feel like they were valuable enough as individuals that somebody could actually care about them individually… even the hardest ones to like.  One would think there was nothing controversial at all in this goal.  But this novel tells how I fought that battle.  It is a story that I owe it to everyone I ever taught to tell.

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I have turned to Page Publishing to put this novel into print.  Not just digital, online copies, but into real print-on-pages books.  I have no talent or luck when it comes to marketing, but I am determined to make this book real even though this is a vanity press sort of publisher that makes their money by taking advantage of dewy-eyed writing fools like me.  Yes, I am buying the services of their editorial staff and design staff and there will be no money flowing my way any time soon.  This is the way publishing has been changing.  Publishers are still the farmers and writers have become the milk cows.  I just have to hope the milk won’t be sour.

So, I am having nightmares of burning the house down because I am following my dream of making a book.  But it is an important book… at least it is to me.

 

 

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Filed under dreaming, dreams, education, fairies, foolishness, humor, novel, NOVEL WRITING, Paffooney, publishing

Stardusters… Canto 13

Galtorr Primex 1

Canto Thirteen – The Plaza of Bones in the Ruined Palaces

Farbick couldn’t see Starbright, but he knew she was immediately to his left as they moved towards a large pile of skeletons and rotting corpses.  He could hear her soft footfalls.  He was fairly confident in her abilities, something he couldn’t say about most Tellerons.

“Look at these bodies, Mister Farbick,” Starbright whispered through the hostile environment suit comm.  “Some of them have been slain violently by the others in this plaza, but some, like this group of three armed lizard men have no visible wounds or other indications of death by violence.  The toxic atmosphere by itself is not sufficient to explain the deaths of three such otherwise healthy individuals.”

“Could they have died of disease?” Farbick guessed.

“I don’t know the difference between a healthy-looking lizard man and a sick one, I guess,” she responded.  “But I can see nothing wrong with them.”

Suddenly, without warning, a large, muscular lizard man with a full Galtorrian dragon crest on his scaly head leaped up onto a marble portico and glared directly at the invisible searchers.  He snorted and sniffed the air.

“Stay quiet,” whispered Biznap from somewhere to the right.  “If he can’t see us, he won’t know we’re here.”

But before Farbick could even doubt the reasoning behind the order, the naked Galtorrian warrior was on the back of an invisible Telleron, raking him with claws and biting at what was probably the throat.

“Skortch him!” cried Biznap, the voice coming from a direction that proved the lizard man’s victim was not Biznap.

Skortch rays are not in themselves visible, but as the beam slashed outward from where Biznap was obviously wielding his ray pistol, there was a visible line of sparkles and flashes as the disintegration effect acted on small particles the air was obviously laden with.  The shape of a Telleron  flared into view as Biznap’s ray connected with one of the cadets who had the misfortune to be standing between Biznap and the monster.  The cadet screamed as he dissolved.  The other cadet screamed as he died of his wounds and became visible in the clutches of the lizard man.  The invisibility cloak, like the hostile environment suit it was attached to, was shredded and shorted out.  It obviously had not stopped the predatory lizard man from knowing exactly where his prey was.

The lizard man lifted the cadet’s corpse to throw at either Biznap or one of the other two.  He was looking directly at Farbick as Farbick uttered a brief prayer to Charlie the Crocodile God that Biznap was not now between him and the target, and then squeezed off a vaporizing shot that disintegrated the lizard man and the cadet’s body as well.

Biznap immediately uncloaked.

“Well, that was unpleasant,” he said.

Starbright also uncloaked.  “Mister Farbick,” she said, “you may as well uncloak.  Invisibility is useless against creatures such as these.”

“What do you mean, cadet?” Farbick said as he uncloaked.

“They obviously have heat vision of some sort.  They can’t see us with visible light, but they sense us almost as if they can see us.  They may have developed some kind of natural thermal imaging in their eyes.  Or the creature could have had bionic eyes built in.  Didn’t you see the way his eyes flashed with the color red?”

“Yes,” said Biznap.  “I wish I had known that before accidentally skortching what’s-his- name.”

“The two cadets were Buckabuck and Whootney, Commander, sir,” said Starbright sadly.

“Oh, yes, well…. I have heard of them, of course,” said Biznap in what could only be interpreted as a guilty voice.

“I’m sure they regret your not knowing more about them than you do, Commander,” Farbick said.  He also believed those red shirts weren’t standard issue for a very good reason.

*****

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Brekka and the Man-eating Plant (version one)

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Brekka and the Man-eating Plant (version two)

 

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The Pinterest Problem

I suddenly find myself back on Pinterest for the first time since the Spring of 2014.  It is not that I have been forgiven by the powers behind Pinterest, rather that I have created a new email account which apparently wipes the slate clean of accusation and animosity.  But I have to explain what the problem is between me and Pinterest.

First, here are the good things;

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  • Pinterest is a way to make use of my insane hoarding-disorder urge to collect internet images of all kinds.
  • Pinterest is another place to promote my artwork and I can link covers of my books back to Amazon or I-Universe where crazy people might just be goofy enough to buy one.
  • I am hoping that in three months I will have another book to put on Pinterest.  Page Publishing was goofy enough to offer to publish Magical Miss Morgan, as long as I pay my way.
  • Pinterest allows me to organize my collections into “boards” which are actually free-flowing collages made up of the pictures I have collected.
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  • The Down-Side;
  • I was blocked from Pinterest back in 2014 for being a pornographer.  They had a lot of sexual content running rampant in their social media site in 2014, which, being a site created for women to share favorite recipes, they didn’t really know how to handle.
  • I am not shy about liking nudes and boobs in artwork.  I was not aware that some of the nude photography I was liking and even sometimes sharing had been added to Pinterest from porn sites.  My bad!
  • After being warned, I stopped liking and re-pinning nudes.  I even tried to remove what boobage I had on my boards.  (They were popular boards, and some of the bad stuff was among the most popular and re-pinned.)
  • I got kicked off for copying an artful nude off my list of recommended pins to my computer instead of any of the Pinterest boards.  I think it was a Waterhouse oil from the 1800’s, but I don’t know for sure what the problem item actually was.  Pinterest for a while was extremely sensitive to depictions of female breasts.

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But getting kicked off of Pinterest was a good thing for me.  Though embarrassing… at least a little bit… it did help me cure the problem I was having with Pinterest filling all my hours that should have been used for writing.  It also helped me self-censor a bit more effectively.  The last thing I want to do on social media is give offense.  I do not wish to promote my brand in any way similar to how Donald Trump does it on Twitter.  And it allows me to bring my artwork, with the appropriate link to WordPress to old ladies collecting recipes and Disney cartoons everywhere.  I am happy to back on Pinterest.  (And please don’t tell the Pinterest administrators how I did it.  I promise to behave.)

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Because Bankers Are Evil

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Yes, Bankers are evil, so I need pie.

My post today is just a bunch of old artwork because I had to spend the morning fixing a bank problem.  My mortgage payment got lost.  Yes, I had an Uncle Billy moment that turned out not to be my fault at all.  All the other payments went through the automatic bill pay system normally.  But the mortgage payment did not.  Even though it went through normally every month for the last three years.  The mortgage bankers apparently misplaced the electronic payment.  So I tracked down the proof of payment at my bank and printed it out.  The mortgage bankers, of course, will not accept it until I can get my wife’s signature on it.  And what will you bet that they are going to charge a late-payment fee?

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Unfinished Stag n snow

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900!

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I have reached 900 followers.  Who knew there were 900 people in the blogosphere goofy enough to follow a cartoony former school teacher who collects dolls because of raging hoarding disorder?  I am a loony conspiracy theory lover (though only a believer of a select few).  I have six incurable diseases and am a cancer survivor since 1983.  I am a writer goofy enough to believe I can write stuff that people want to read, and some of the comments seem to indicate that they really do.

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Here’s this morning’s dawn.  Every one of these I can photograph is something of a miracle.

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The day before yesterday I got sick from Texas heat and diabetes while driving to pick up my son from school.  I had to stop and dash into Toys-R-Us to throw up in their restroom.  Yeck!  Why did I have to talk about something as disgusting as that?  Well, I feel guilty about having to do that in a business’s public restroom.  So I felt compelled to buy something.  Wow!  PEZ dispensers!  And I found Rainbow Dash!  Um, yeah… every dark cloud has its own form of silver lining.

So, there is my goofy, disorganized post about 900.

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Stardusters… Canto 12

Galtorr Primex 1

Canto Twelve – The Alien Space Station, Site of the Tadpole Crash

One might expect a tadpole like George Jetson to be a little bit cooled on the subject of space exploration after having crashed and wrecked the very first Golden Wing he had ever flown.  Alden remembered crashing his father’s Pontiac the first time he drove by himself.  It had made him into more of a foot-bound youth than ever until he was a senior in high school and had to drive to get groceries when his dad had that broken leg.  But George was special.  George was also a rather slow learner.  George walked around the hole and laughed about it.

“We are so lucky!” George said.  “There is a hole in the side of the space station that should have catastrophically depressurized and maybe exploded it.  There is also a hole in the front of the Golden Wing that should have killed us all.  But the two holes match up like we intended to do it!”

“George, we can still die if this thing splits apart from our ship,” reminded Davalon.  Dav, unlike most of these tadpole brat-types was clear-thinking and resourceful.

“Do we have any way to weld them together to keep them from splitting apart?” Alden offered as a possible solution.

“Yes, but then we can’t separate and fly away,” said George.  His stupid grin finally faded.

“True,” said Davalon, “but we can’t fly away without dying in the process as it is.  We can use skortch pistols on heat mode to melt the metals together.  That would make a fairly strong seal against the vacuum.”

Tanith and Gracie were also looking at the holes and hopefully thinking about everything that was being said.  “Why don’t you boys fix that, and we girls will explore the station,” suggested Tanith.

“Isn’t that too dangerous for a girl to do?” asked Alden.  He could tell by the dark look on Gracie’s face that this was the absolutely worst thing he could’ve possibly said at that moment.  “Um… yeah.  You girls take care of that and we’ll do the repair work here.”  Maybe that saved both his twelve-year-old neck and his supposedly grown-up and forward-thinking dignity.

“Take skortch rays,” said Davalon.  “But remember, burning holes in things is a bad thing to do in the vacuum of space.  If you find anyone you have to skortch… don’t miss.”

Tanith smiled winningly.  “Don’t worry.  I was programmed in the egg to be the best shot with a skortch ray that Tellerons have ever seen.”

“Very reassuring,” said George frowning, “and hilariously funny.”

“I thought so,” said Tanith.

“Brekka, Menolly,” called Gracie, “bring skortch rays.  We are going exploring.”

An Earth year ago, Alden would never have believed that such an adventure would be possible, especially when you considered that this really was a life and death situation.

*****

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George Jetson, Telleron Tadpole

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Opinions Are Like Onions

The REAL Sarah

“Why does something always smell bad when I am talking?”

Opinions are like Onions.

All you have to do is subtract 3.141592 and they are exactly the same.

The people that like the way they taste like theirs a lot.

They want you to try them.

And if you don’t like the taste, then you just don’t know what’s good for you.

Onions are good for you.  They make you fart and they clear out the bad gasses made up of methane and other toxic waste from your colon and digestive tract.

Opinions are good for you too.  They make you fart out of the mouth, clearing bad gasses made up of stupidity and toxic ideas out of your little old brain.  You should not be holding that stuff in.  It is poisonous and it could potentially explode.  Not something you want to happen in either the colon or the brain.  Only stupid people hang on to them in the face of contradictory evidence.  (It makes me nervous that I don’t see people exploding more often, because I hold the opinion that there really are a lot of stupid people out there.  I, too, am probably in danger of exploding at some point.)

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And see, that’s the important point here.  Opinions are only as valuable as fart gas.  For the all-important progress of ideas to really happen, opinions have to be tested.  And I don’t mean opinions like whether or not you like the taste of onions.  I am talking about opinions that lead to policy.  Politics are crammed full of opinions.  (I got that right, didn’t I?  I didn’t say “onions” when I actually meant “opinions”, right?)

Hillary Clinton is apologizing now for the opinion-based fart-gas of saying that “half of Donald Trump’s supporters are deplorable people”.  The facts are that the KKK has voiced support for Trump, as have a number of immigrant-hating racists like Ann Coulter who will tell you in detail about all her onions concerning Mexicans and brown people.  People at Trump’s rallies have physically assaulted black people and protesters of any variety.  And to “deplore” someone is to speak out against their ideas or actions.  So the critical word that is not a fact, but rather an onion, must be “half”.  This is the word where Hillary went wrong.  I am sure that “half” is an under-estimation.

And Mr. Trump, as a connoisseur of truly stinky onions has said that Clinton and Obama are literally the founders of ISIS.  And in his onion, Vladimir Putin is a stronger leader than President (of this country) Obama.  One wonders why no one has really sliced and diced these particular onions.  One imagines that if Hillary were the chef serving these onions, no one would be willing to have them in the dining room, let alone eat them.  Onions need be tested for flavor and rightness long before they are served.

So, to close up this onion-smelling essay before it makes me fart again, let me just say, we need to not get stuck in the onion patch and mistakenly convince ourselves we are smelling roses.  Roses shouldn’t make you cry.

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Spitzen Sparken Compu-BOOM!

Yesterday I had to start a post over again that my computer wiped out completely just as I was finishing it.  I had intended to rewrite the post today, but found key parts of it that I really liked were gone from my diabetic old memory.  Life is like that.  We get old and we get all futzed up, and no… the computer did not malfunction and save me from using a bad word there.  I meant to say “futzed”.

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It is a Yiddish sort of word… so I guess you could argue it is not a real word.  Yiddish, after all is a language intended by God to provide Jewish comedians with words that sound like insults but really aren’t… and words that don’t sound like insults that really are.  (Have you ever looked up what “putz” actually means?)

But that is what the Mickian computer has been up to.  It mashes, mangles, impedes, and implodes my writing.  If it wasn’t so handy for coming up with a funny post about fighting with a computer, I might actually become aggravated enough to throw this old computer out the upstairs window and into the sickly, green, unused swimming pool below.

I have used my computer daily and put it through all sorts of contortions and convolutions in the past three years of ill health and bed-ridden retirement.  It is probably no wonder it is wearing out.  I not only write and turn drawings into jpegs on it, I use it to mess with photography, play Facebook games, and keep up with the international clown show that other people generally refer to as politics.  I shed beard hair on my keyboard.  I drop popcorn on it when I am trying to jam too much in my mouth at once.  And I occasionally baptize it with a juicy sneeze or projectile cough.  I confess that I probably deserve the revenge it wreaks upon me.

Besides randomly deleting my posts and instantly saving the changes, it will also shrink the view of the entire page so that I can’t even read what I type with a magnifying glass.  The only way to correct the problem is shift to a different browser for a while until Firefox or Chrome stops hating me long enough to reset.  I have also had problems with the computer blowing things up.  One time I was trying to write on WordPress when only three huge letters at a time would fit on the screen.  That can make it quite hard to pull the old train of thought out of the darker parts of the tunnel of stupid ideas.  (I also just now had to re-type the part in italics when the computer deleted it.  I am making a back-up copy on Microsoft Word, but sometimes I can’t copy and paste fast enough.)

Truthfully, something is seriously wrong with this laptop.  The mouse pad malfunctions and the control key sticks.  I may have to buy a new computer soon.  But this one has given me numerous goofy smiles, and I will miss it when it joins the pile of old dead computers in the garage.

If you haven’t quite figured it out, these are some of the numerous goofy smiles.

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