Category Archives: Paffooney

Stardusters… Canto 20

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Canto Twenty – Wing One Airborne Once More

The two lizardmen were both secured in the passenger seats in the cargo area of the wing.  The fat one was causing the anti-gravity compensators to work seventy-five percent harder, but Biznap and Farbick had always kept Wing One in tip-top shape.  It flew like an agile glide-wing aerial beast through the toxic fog of the Galtorrian skies.

“Why is there so little life left on this planet?” asked Farbick.

“I think a better question is why there is any life left at all?” said the fat one.

“What has happened to your planet?” asked Biznap.

“Great warriors rose up to do battle and win at all costs,” said the fat one.

“And while they did it, corporate parasites like Bahbahr here grew wealthy and horded all the best food, all the best technology… the best of everything,” said the little one.

“And warriors like Stabharh here destroyed the towns and cities and society that they claimed to be fighting for,” said the fat one.  “This one would not be alive if I hadn’t persuaded him to work for me and protect my interests instead of continuing the carnage.”

“It is possible to get tired of killing,” said Stabharh.  “I rather enjoyed it once, but when Grakknarh and I escaped from the scabbies I realized that there were really no more mountains to climb, or cities to burn.  A Galtorrian can’t live without something to strive for.”

Looking out the front viewing portal of Wing One, the crew and the two visitors could look down on the scarred and pitted landscape.  There were buildings of concrete and steel everywhere, but none were wholly intact.  Many were on fire, slow-burning fires that produced long dark plumes of greasy smoke and bits of burning rubbish.  No green was visible anywhere.  The colors of the landscape were brick-red from rubble, burnt orange from open flame and firelight, black from soot and cinders, and filthy brown from dirt and sewage.   It was a sad and basically repulsive landscape.

“If you’ve stopped destroying things,” Starbright thoughtfully asked Stabharh, “then what keeps you alive?  What do you live for now?”

“Keeping Bahbahr alive and carrying out my assignments in spite of scabbies, fires, and loss of will has become a game.  It keeps getting harder, especially now that Grakknarh is dead.  I don’t want to do it forever, but it only ends when the scabbies kill and eat me.  I’m not particularly looking forward to that.”

“I don’t know why you are so gloomy,” said Bahbahr.  “I couldn’t be any happier.  With most of the population of Galtorr gone, look at all the resources lying around ready for me to claim them as my own.  I may already be the richest man on the planet.”

“You may be the only man on the planet soon enough,” said Stabharh.

“I can live with that,” said Bahbahr with a grin that chilled Farbick to the bone.

*****

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Farbick

 

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What Mickey is Really Up to Now

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I have not been well.   Six incurable diseases combined with colder, wetter weather will do that.

But Mickey has been busy.  Yes, my goofy writer alter ego has been pecking away at a novel that pushes the boundaries of “strange” into a purple dimension where having a president that looks like a racist sour-lemon-flavored cookie dipped repeatedly in Orange Fanta with fingers covering the eye holes almost makes sense.

The novel is called Rezepte für Lebkuchen-Kinder which translates to Recipes for Gingerbread Children.  The more I let Mickey work on it, the stranger it gets.  It currently is about an old German lady who lives in a little Iowa town where she likes to bake gingerbread for children.  But it is also a fairy tale where the fairies of Tellosia are still fighting their never-ending war against darkness.  And in this story with a magical fairy war in it, there are gingerbread men who magically come to life.  There are also teenage nudists, evil Nazis from the past, fairy tales that can solve life’s problems, and a lurking possibility of werewolves.  (This is a companion novel to The Baby Werewolf and happens simultaneously to that story.)  It has hit the 20,000 word mark.  And you know how novel writing works.  Too many words all put together into the same thing will magically merge and metastasize into book form.  I know this is true, because I’ve seen Mickey do it before.

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Grandma Gretel Stein talking with fairy General Tuffaney Swift.

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Trolls, Wish-niks, and Garden Gnomes

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(From left to right)  My green-haired Wish-nik from 1966, my teacher troll from 1990, Poppy, and the wizard troll from 1992 (with the garden gnome in the background)

Okay, here is some bad news for a guy who suffers from hoarding disorder, especially when it comes to things like dolls and toys that he can play with while he’s supposed to be trying to be a writer in his burned-out sick-bed retirement.  They are making a movie about Trolls at Dreamworks… and there are dolls already on sale.

The city is after me to repair the house and yard on the outside, especially the cracked swimming pool that now only seems to hold bug-water for brewing the next generation of West Nile and Zika squeetoes to bite me and immediately die from the toxic chemicals already in my sick old blood.  I need to do more than just put mosquito poison in the water.  They say I must have the filter operating and it must be clear enough to see the drain in the bottom of the deep end.  Pool repair guy says the crack repair is in the neighborhood of $14,000, which is $16,000 more than I have to spend right now.  I’m already not buying medicine any more for my six incurable diseases.  I’m also not going to the doctor any more because he will just yell at me for not taking medication anymore… even though I actually feel better not having taken the blood pressure medicine for over a year now.  So the plan is to clean and repair the pool myself.  This apparently will satisfy the trolls at the city inspector’s office, at least until I die from the cold and rain we seem to be getting now.

But those aren’t the trolls I meant to write about today.  I am writing about the little troll doll named Poppy that I bought for $5 yesterday at Walmart.  She’s the pink one in the middle of my photo-paffooney.  The one that’s not a nudist like the rest of my remaining troll collection.  (My daughter, the Princess, played with my troll collection of over 20 troll dolls when she was smaller and decided they all needed hair cuts and make-overs that completely altered them and eventually murdered them when she learned to cut and melt plastic.)

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A troll corpse from the garage, murdered by make-up and partially eaten by rats.

So, the movie will feature a number of different trolls, the corresponding toys for which are already on sale in places where I will not be able to help myself from collecting the entire goofy little crew.  And I do not have any place for them to live.  I had to remove a section of Booggloopenstein Castle just to display the old trolls for a photo-paffooney.  They will take over the house.  And I know I should be out working on the pool instead of plotting where to put more trolls.  But I just can’t help it.  There is something irresistible about collecting ugly and goofy toys.

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Stardusters… Canto 19

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Canto Nineteen – Back Aboard Xiar’s Base Ship

Harmony Castille had been searching for an hour for little Davalon and little Tanith.   It was well past time for their Bible School lesson on the story of David and Goliath.  Nothing was more important to Harmony than pounding Bible wisdom into the heads of these little green heathens.  She had gotten practically all of the grown-up frog folks to wear clothing for the majority of their day.  Tadpoles, however, were much harder to train to have some modesty about gadding around the space ship totally nude.  The very idea!  She had to overcome this nonsense about Telleron children needing to absorb nutrients and moisture through their skin.  She could dose them a whole heckuva lot better while they were wearing clothes.  All she needed was a few large tablespoonfuls of cod-liver oil and a generous helping of a good laxative.  You couldn’t help but feel healthy and whole with your bowels thoroughly emptied and roasted clean from the inside.  And where had these naked heathens gotten to?  Brekka, Menolly, and George Jetson were missing too.  Rapscallions as bad as any of those awful Pirates back in Norwall, Iowa.  Definitely a bad influence.  And the trail led directly to…

“Sublieutenant Studpopper?”

“Erm, yes, Miss Castille?”

“Is it possible you know the whereabouts of Captain Xiar’s children, Davalon and Tanith?”

“Erm, yes, ma’am.  They were assigned a support mission and went out on Golden Wing Sixteen just after Commander Biznap’s mission went down to the planet.”

“Support mission, hmm?”

“Yes, ma’am, er…  I mean… erm, um…”

“Land sakes, young man, why ever are you so nervous?”

“Erm, well… no offense, ma’am, but you have a great a deal of power over Captain Xiar’s family and crew.  And I can’t afford to be making any more mistakes.  I may already be headed for the protein vats to be made into tadpole cookies for my blunders on Earth… while following that awful, terrible, traitorous Commander Sleez.”

“Please!  No one is going to make you into tadpole cookies while I have anything to say about it.  Those would obviously turn out to be the most bad-tasting, foul cookies ever baked.”

“Oh, thank you, ma’am…  I, uh, think.”

“So who gave the order for this support mission?”

“Um… erm… Captain Xiar?”

“Hear it from his mouth didja?”

“Um… well, no…  Oh, no.”

Harmony gave him one of her meanest old-lady lion-tamer stares that could turn rattlesnakes non-poisonous and boil the truth out of any evil little Sunday-school student who ever tried to get away with a big, black belly-thumper of a lie.

“I will report the mistake immediately.”

“You are dadgum right you will!  And take responsibility for it too.  You won’t be turned into tadpole cookies, but I guarantee you the top of the list for latrine cleaners, and you will probably head the list of those asked to go out there and get them back!”

*****

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Man-Eaters

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I finally finished this illustration for the novel Stardusters and Space Lizards.   So I know that many of you are now thinking, “What the @#$%&! is that?”  But I must confess that one of the characters in that science-fictiony humor thingy about planetary environmental Armageddon is actually a man-eating plant with three heads.  But it needs to be pointed out, that though he/she/it seems to be menacing Brekka, Telleron girl space explorer, and at one point in the novel actually eats her, he/she/it does not like the taste of Tellerons, and befriends them later in the story.  So, he/she/it eats earth humans and lizard people, but not frog-like Tellerons.  This is probably only an important distinction to nutty sci-fi nerds like me, and you should feel completely free to ignore it.

It is important, though, for me to finish this humorous but didactic tale in a more timely fashion.  If I don’t finish it soon, we are going to have a man-eating carrot-man-thing that likes to eat girls as our next president who will deregulate all polluting industries and cause the heat-death of the planet Earth.  And then my novel will not only be unfinished, but also completely irrelevant.  These are the worries that keep me up late at night.

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The Silent Sonata

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Being a writer is a life of music that happens only in your head.  You hear voices constantly.  They pulse rhythmically with insights and ideas that have to be written down and remembered.  Otherwise  the music turns clashing-cymbals dark and depressing.  Monday I wrote a deeply personal thank you to the Methodist minister who saved my life when I was a boy.  I posted a YouTube music video by the acapella group Pentatonix with that essay in a vain attempt to give you an idea of the music in my head when I composed that very difficult piece to give myself a measure of peace.

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I realize that I am not writing poetry here.  Poetry can so easily slip into melody and music because of rhythm and meter and rhyme.  And yet, words to me are always about singing, about performing, about doing tricks with metaphor and meaning, rhythm, convoluted sentence structure, and other sneaky things that snake-oil salesman do to get you to think what you are hearing is precisely what you needed to hear.  The Sonata of Silence…  did you notice the alliteration of the silvery letter “S” in that title?  The beat of the syllables?  Da-daah-da a da-da?  The way a mere suggestion of music can bring symphonic sounds to your ear of imagination as you read?  The way a simple metaphor, writing is music, can be wrapped into an essay like a single refrain in a symphonic piece?

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A sonata is a musical exercise in three or four movements that is basically instrumental in nature.  You may have noticed that the movements are loosely defined here by the accompanying pictures, of which there are three.  And it is silent only in the way that the instruments I am using themselves make no noise in the physical world.  The only sounds as I type these words are the hum of an old air conditioner and the whirr of my electric fan.  Yet my mind is filled with crescendos of violins and cellos, bold brass, and soft woodwinds.  The voice saying these words aloud only in my head is me.  Not the me you hear when I talk or the me I can hear on recordings of my own voice, but rather the me that I always hear from the inside.  And the voice is not so much “saying” as “singing”.

Writing makes music.  The writer can hear it.  The reader can too.  And whether I croon it to make you cry, or trill it to make you laugh, I am playing the instrument.  And so, the final notes of the sonata are these.  Be happy.  Be well.  And listen for the music.

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Stardusters… Canto 18

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Canto Eighteen – On an Over-Large Fireball Falling Out of Orbit

The orbital station was really no longer able to be classified as orbital.  Flames licked up all around the perimeter of the vehicle, and looking out any porthole or window let you see instantly that they were all minutes away from burning up.

“What is the next step, Sizzahl?” asked Davalon with a hint of panic in his voice.

“You have the two coils in place?  One inside the other?”

“Yes.”

“Turn it on.  The coils should then spiral in opposite directions.  That is what will provide the antigravity field, the inner and outer coils pulsing with opposing electro-magnetic energies.  It should begin almost immediately to interact with the planet’s magnetic field and slow you to a stop.”

Davalon nodded to George Jetson, and the somewhat cocky Telleron boy instantly flipped the power switch.  The light show that started made a prickly sensation run up and down the spines of everyone on board.

“It’s working.  I think you have saved us, Sizzahl.”

“To be honest, I didn’t do it to save you.  I really needed the plants on board that station.  And I was really lucky that you had Earthers on your ship when you crashed.  I need some of their genes, too.”

“You didn’t mean to save us?” asked Davalon.  “So… are you going to eat us after all?”

“I would if I were anyone else from Galtorr Prime.  We are a carnivorous race, you know.  But you lucked out.  I am probably the only vegetarian Galtorrian in existence… even before the wars wiped out ninety per cent of the population.”

“Are there other Galtorrians with you?” asked George Jetson nervously.

“No, I… I’m all alone here.  I have been since the armies of Senator Tedhkruhz overran our facility and… and… killed my parents.”

“Sizzahl?” said Davalon.  “Are you crying?”

“Yeah… I mean, no!” she sniffed loudly.  “What makes you think that?  Galtorrians are too mean to cry.”

“I know our intelligence reports on your planet suggest Galtorrians are much less sentimental than Tellerons, and Tellerons are so bad that they ate their own children until recently… when the Earthers taught us to love each other.”

“Tellerons are just too stupid to know better.  Every intelligent species tries to preserve themselves, especially through family units.”

George and Davalon were the only tadpoles hearing this from Sizzahl.  Davalon made a promise to himself that he would discuss it with Alden and Gracie Morrell later.  Perhaps Galtorrians could become better people in the same way that Tellerons had through exposure to Earth humans.

“How did you get this technology?” asked George Jetson while studying the spiraling coils.  This is tech level twelve at least.  We thought Galtorr Prime was just like Earth, only at tech level nine.”

“Ha!  That shows how uninformed you superior-minded idiots really are.  Alien races from advanced worlds have been visiting and living on both Galtorr Prime and Earth for millennia.  Probably even longer.”

“Alien races?” said Davalon, “like who?”

“You know about the Utopians, right?” said Sizzahl.

“The who?”

“The Utopians from the Zeta Reticuli systems.  The Earthers call them the Grays.”

“That’s creepy,” said Davalon.  “That double-star system is well within the borders of the Telleron Empire.  How is it that we don’t know about what they are up to?”

“Are they a part of your so-called empire?”

“No.” admitted Davalon.  “We have never really conquered any star-faring races who tried to resist us.”

“Yeah,” said George Jetson, “we are better at conquering little fuzzy critters and bug-people.”

“Are you referring to Kriitians?”

“Um, yeah.  Why?” asked George.

“We have some of them here on Galtorr as well.  I’ll bet the Utopians took a few of them to Earth as well.  Much the same way that Galtorrians were established in underground bases on Earth.”

“How can all of this happen without Telleron knowledge of it?” asked Davalon.

“Simple.  You guys are really pretty stupid.”

Sizzahl’s lack of respect and constant insults were beginning to grind at Davalon’s gizzard.  Of course, Tellerons didn’t have gizzards… hopefully.  That was just an Earth expression from some old western movies Davalon had seen.  But it fit.  His gizzard, whatever that truly was, was feeling very, very ground down.

*****

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Making Portraits

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My biggest regret as a cartoonist and waster of art supplies is the fact that I am not the world’s best portrait artist.  I can only rarely make a work of art look like a real person.  Usually the subject has to to be a person I love or care deeply about.  This 1983 picture of Ruben looks very like him to me, though he probably wouldn’t recognize himself here as the 8th grader who told me in the fall of 1981 that I was his favorite teacher.  That admission on his part kept me from quitting and failing as a first year teacher overwhelmed by the challenges of a poor school district in deep South Texas.

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My Great Grandma Hinckley was really great.

My great grandmother on my mother’s side passed away as the 1970’s came to an end.  I tried to immortalize her with a work of art.  I drew the sketch above to make a painting of her.  All my relatives were amazed at the picture.  They loved it immensely.  I gave the painting to my Grandma Aldrich, her second eldest daughter.  And it got put away in a closet at the farmhouse.  It made my grandma too sad to look at every day.  So the actual painting is still in a closet in Iowa.

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There were, of course, numerous students that made my life a living heck, especially during my early years as a teacher.  But I was one of those unusual teachers (possibly insane teachers) who learned to love the bad kids.  Love/hate relationships tend to endure in your memory almost as long as the loving ones.  I was always able to pull the good out of certain kids… at least in portraits of them.

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When kids pose for pictures, they are not usually patient enough to sit for a portrait artist.  I learned early on to work from photographs, though it has the disadvantage of being only two-dimensional.  Sometimes you have to cartoonify the subject to get the real essence of the person you are capturing in artiness.

But I can’t get to the point of this essay without acknowledging the fact that any artist who tries to make a portrait, is not a camera.  The artist has to put down on paper or canvas what he sees in his own head.  That means the work of art is filtered through the artist’s goofy brain and is transformed by all his quirks and abnormalities.  Therefore any work of art, including a portrait that looks like its subject, is really a picture of the artist himself.  So, I guess I owe you some self portraits to compare.

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Yeah, that’s me at 10… so what?

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The Gallery of Goofiness

Looking for stuff to organize into a post today led me to realize that I currently exist swimming in a tidal wave of goofy images that I myself have created.

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So, lazy and goofy old me will now show you some of these things.

I don’t even remember why I drew some of these things.

Some of it, is obviously because I was a teacher.

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But some of it is merely wacky.

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Though some might be considered inspirational.

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While some of it is just meant to be appealing.

But all of it provides me with an easy post that you can read fast, but still get plenty to think about from.  It is even good for a re-post if I add something newer.

 

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Stardusters… Canto 17

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Canto Seventeen – In the Lizardman’s Stronghold

Biznap, Farbick, and Starbright all had their hands resting against the helmet crests that contained their Telleron head-fins.   It was not easy to hold your hands above your head while wearing the heavy environment suits, but the large, nasty-looking slug-thrower the little lizardman held in his hands gave them extra encouragement.  Farbick was fairly sure the weapon worked like an Earther machine gun and could fire a steady stream of hot metal projectiles.

“You are the most pukingly repugnant set of miscreants ever produced by your inferior amphibianoid race,” said the huge, obese lizardman sitting on the throne, the one, it turned out, that had the girly voice.  The reptile wore only loose-fitting robes over his elephantine body, and his small, atrophied legs made it obvious the prodigious bulk could not even walk by himself.

“Will you eat one of them now, master?” asked the little lizardman with deep, dangerous-sounding voice.   He was tiny compared to the Tellerons, and microscopic compared to his master, but Farbick could tell by his scowl and his cold yellow snake eyes that he was by far the most dangerous creature in the room.

“The female looks delicious,” squeaked the fat one, “but they killed Grakknarh.  We can’t afford to eat them while they are still useful to our plans.”

“Grakknarh was the lizardman who attacked us outside?” Farbick asked.

“Yes.  And he was the one keeping the scabbies out of this facility.”

“What are scabbies?” Starbright asked.

The little lizardman grimaced as he spoke.  “Survivors of Tedhkruhz’s bacteria weapon are mindless monsters now.  They are covered in scabs from the disease, and they attack and eat anyone they see.”

“Don’t give them too much information, Stabharh,” warned the fat one.  “They are our prisoners now, but they have superior technology that we want.”

“Yes, Bahbahr, I yield to your wisdom.”

“What technology?” asked Farbick.

“The space ship you came in on, for one,” squealed Bahbahr greedily.  “We need it to get to another base where we can continue to try to fight off Overlord Rekhpahree, and evil Senator Tedhkruhz.  They have been trying to force my business empire out of business and killed most of my employees.”

“Giving a space ship to Galtorrians is totally out of the question,” said Biznap.  “We have no intention of unleashing your reptilian hordes on the galaxy.”

“What hordes?” asked Stabharh.  “Most of the population of Galtorr Prime is now dead or diseased.  There are barely any uninfected males left alive, and no females that we know of.”

“Too much information!” shouted Bahbahr.  “You need to leave some things for them to figure out on their own.”

“But you told me they were stupid,” said Stabharh.

“Yes, but you are telling them everything!”

“Oh.  Yeah.  Sorry, Bahbahr.”

“Commander Biznap is right in saying that we would rather die than give you the space ship,” said Starbright.

“Whoa, now… I didn’t actually say that.”  Biznap took his hands off his head fin.  “You don’t know how to fly a starship, do you?”

“No,” admitted Stabharh, “but we can learn.”

“Stabharh!”

“Oh, sorry again.”

“We would be willing to transport the two of you to this new base you wish to move to.  After we deliver you, you will let us fly back to our people.”

“We let one of you go.  And we keep the other two, along with all of the weapons you used to slay Grakknarh.”

“You can keep one of us, and the weapons,” countered Biznap.  “You will need someone to show you how to use the weapons properly.  By the way, do you have mirrors on your world?”

“Of course we have mirrors,” said Bahbahr in disgust.  “How else can I admire my beautiful figure and emerald scales?”

“Good,” said Biznap.  “I know a special trick with our weapons and a nice mirror.”

“We will think about your deal on the way to Galtorr Nine.”

“We will need a decision first,” said Biznap.

“We could eat you all now and figure the weapons out for ourselves…”

Biznap nodded meekly.  Farbick wondered if it might not have been better to get the devouring over with.

*****

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