Category Archives: Paffooney

The Beyer Brand

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This is a logo-doodle…wouldn’t that make an excellent name for an alien science fiction character?   Logodoodle, Prince of the Black Hole Kingdom.

I have been so obsessed with all the terrible details of the new orange monkey that has taken over our government that I completely forgot about an idea I had for a logo using my family name.  That is, until I began doodling while binging on Penny Dreadful on Netflix.  (Gawd, I have to talk about that show in a post too… horribly wonderful stuff!)  Yes the name-plate art you see above, not inspired by Trump’s gold letter fetish, no, not at all, is merely a doodle.  No rulers were used.  I eyeballed everything and let it flow.  I do admit to going over the pencil drawing in ink and editing at that point.

My family name, you see, is a very old and common German name.  Beyer means “a man from Bavaria” or auf Deutsch, “ein Mann aus Bayern”.  We were originally peasant farmers, but achieved nobility and a coat of arms in the middle ages.  I know this because in 1990 I was invited the to world-wide Beyer family reunion in Munich due to the genealogical research Uncle Skip did into the family name.  They sent me a book and I paid for the book, but did not attend.  (On a teacher’s salary?  Are you kidding me?)

But I was thinking about my brand.  It does have a meaning, and it does stand for something.  I underlined the illuminated letters of the name with a broken sword.  My ancestors were once warlike.  My great uncle died in the US Navy during World War II.   My dad was in the Navy during the Korean Conflict.  But having been a school teacher for so many years, I am dedicated to the belief that conflict is best resolved through wit and negotiation.  I would sooner be killed than have to shoot at another human being.  Of course, that part of the Beyer brand only applies to me.  Both my son the Marine, and my brother the retired Texas prison guard, are gun nuts.  And they are both very good shots.  I don’t recommend getting into serious arguments with them.

My family name also stands for farming and farmer’s values.  We were once stewards of the land.  Both my mother and my father grew up on farms.  I was raised in a small farm town less than five miles from the Aldrich family farms of my grandparents and uncles.  I have worked on farms.  I have shoveled cow poop… a unique thing to look upon as a badge of honor.  My octogenarian parents are living now in my grandparents’ farm house on land that has been in my family for more than 100 years.

My family name also stands for service.  I am not the only teacher in the clan.  My mother and two of my cousins are long-time registered nurses and all have seen the craziness of the ER.  (And I don’t mean by watching the television show with Clooney in it.)  I have a brother who was a prison guard and a sister who is a county health inspector.  We put the welfare of others before our own.  Our success in life has been measured by the success of the communities we serve.

While it is true that I could never make money off the Beyer brand the way gold-letter-using Mr. Trump has, I think it is safe to say, “My brand is priceless.”

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Stardusters… Canto 22

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Canto Twenty-Two – In Golden Wing One, Fighting for Life

It first appeared over the horizon and the orange-brown clouds of the atmosphere as a sort of bright star-thingy.  It was an enemy space ship.  Farbick couldn’t identify it any more than that.  It was shooting at him with very large slug-throwers, cannons as the Earthers called them.

“Why are they attacking?” asked Biznap of the fat Galtorrian.

“Since the last war started, every ship you meet is an enemy craft.  We won’t survive if we don’t shoot them first.”  Stabharh didn’t wait for the fat one to answer.  Farbick supposed it was because war was the little lizard’s area of expertise.

“Well, come on!” squealed the fat Galtorrian, “before they kill me!   Shoot them!  Shoot them now!”

“We’ll be all right,” said Farbick, rolling away from the cannon fire.

“We will not!  That’s a top of the line space ship from the Overlord’s private fleet.  They will kill us just because we’re here!”  The fat fool Bahbahr was so frightened he squeaked when he talked… like a frightened child who was about to soil his pants.

“Don’t worry,” soothed Starbright with her calming female voice, “Farbick knows how to do this better than any Telleron pilot I know.”

Suddenly the cannon shot that Farbick couldn’t dodge came directly at the view screen.

“Aagh!  We are dead!” screeched Bahbahr.

The shot, however, exploded a fair distance away against the ship’s energy field.

“How did you do that?” asked Stabharh in amazement, and possibly enviously.

“Higher tech level than our enemy,” said Biznap smugly.  “Your people don’t even know how to generate a force field, let alone breach one with projectiles.”

“All right!” cried the fat Galtorrian.  “Now shoot him down.”

“Can’t do that.  We don’t carry ship to ship weaponry,” said Farbick.  “Defense only… the explorer’s code.”

“What?” growled Stabharh, “he’ll go back to Senator Tedhkruhz and relay our location.”

“He most certainly will not!” cried Biznap.  The Commander reached over to the proper switch on his control panel and flipped the cloaking mechanism on.

They heard the electric buzz of the device and saw the tell-tale shimmer across the viewing screen.  Moments later the enemy space craft began to drift away in a confused spiral search pattern.

“Why did they leave like that?” asked the fat Galtorrian.

“They lost visual contact and had to give up,” said Farbick.  “They can’t track what they don’t see.”

“You can be invisible?” crooned Stabharh.

“Of course we can,” crowed Biznap proudly.

“You must teach us this!” said the little lizard warrior.

“Now, hold on, junior,” said Biznap, “We still have an agreement to work out.  Are we still prisoners?”

“Well,” said the fat one, stalling, “we must still decide that matter.”

“Open to negotiation?” asked Biznap.

“Yes,” said Bahbahr in an oily voice.  “Definitely looking forward to bargaining.”

“We need coordinates to land,” said Starbright.  “You still haven’t explained where we are going.”

“I wanted to go to my secret base on Gundahl, the second moon of Galtorr Prime,” said the fat one.  “The bad guys will not find us there.  And very few of our enemies still have any kind of flight or space travel capability.”

“Which is the second moon?” asked Farbick with the navigation program pulled up on his pilot’s main computer.

“Gundahl is the big irregular one.  Rekhpahree had a base there too before the war.  The chunk missing from the moon is the result of Senator Tedhkruhz blasting it from orbit.  Melted moon-bits rained down on Galtorr Prime for a ten-cycle after that.”

“Okay,” said Farbick, “I have the moon locked in to the computer, but where on the moon?”

“The entrance to my base,” said Bahbahr, “is under the Silica Falls near the Sea of Black Bones on that big hunk of stone.”

“I see it,” said Farbick.  “We will go there directly.  But tell me, why do the names on your home-world all sound like a horror movie set?”

“You might as well ask, why do Galtorrians hate each other with such passion?” said Stabharh.

“Or why do Galtorrians eat each other after they have slain Galtorrians in battle?” said Bahbahr.

“Yes,” said Farbick.  “I want to know that too.  Why do you people eat each other?”

“We wish to absorb the fighting spirit of the defeated warrior,” said Stabharh.

“Personally,” said Bahbahr, somewhat cattily, “I just like the taste.”

“Yes,” agreed Stabharh, “I do also.  Especially in savory blood sauce.”

“Savory blood sauce?” asked Starbright as if she were about to be ill.

“Yeah, you know,” said Bahbahr, “What the Earthers call ketchup in those Frankie Avalon and Annette Funicello movies.”

*****

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Scary Driving Stuff

Yesterday evening we didn’t pass a milestone… we kinda ran into it.

Number Two Son Henry is about to become a licensed driver in December.  Thursday night he finished his last drive time with driving school instructors.  We have to wait for the road test, but nothing really stands in his way.  He has been repeatedly practicing driving in Carrollton and Lewisville city traffic.  Over the summer and into the fall he has compiled hours worth of driving experience.   But, no matter how experienced, nearly everyone has at least one accident during their driving life.

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We had stopped at Wendy’s to get dinner after school, the three of us, the Princess, Henry, and I.  My diabetes was on the warpath yesterday, and I made the mistake of eating too much of a baked potato.  So, I asked him to drive even though it was Friday evening rush hour traffic.  He assured me he could handle it.

Well, we made the first turn onto the street on a yellow light and he accidentally caught the median curb with the driver’s side wheel.  Then, as we bounced into the traffic stopped at the next red light, we crunched into the backside of a lady’s car as it innocently waited for the light to turn green.

The air bags did not deploy.  There was no blood and death and fire.  My biggest worry was the fact that we were all shaken by the incident.  My hands were shaking anyway from blood sugar problems.  So, we put the emergency lights on.  I stupidly turned them off again.  Then the lady appeared at the driver’s side window with a look of utter horror on her face, her hands shaking worse than mine.  We exchanged insurance information.  She called the police to get an accident report, but they were busy and told us that if we could drive away from it, we should, and they would look into it later.  So, Henry realized the emergency lights were off and turned them back on.  We took pictures of the accident (see above).  Then we drove both cars into the Spring Creek Barbecue parking lot.  The damage turned out to be minimal, consisting of scratched paint on both cars.  There didn’t even appear to be dents.  Henry then drove us homeward, and we got him to work on time.  So it was basically a real-life jump scare that proved our hearts could still beat way faster than normal.  And Henry got the first-accident milestone done with, before he even got his license.  How fun!  But let’s not do it again soon.

 

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Upon Further Reflection…

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My 60th Birthday Self Portrait

Time dictates lots of things.  I am not now even the ghost of what I was back then.  I look more like Santa Claus than my father or my grandfathers ever did.  You may notice that, even with glasses on, I have to squint in order to see who I really am.

It is normal to do a bit of self-examination after a milestone birthday.  But I never claimed to be normal.  In fact, I doubt after the results of the recent election that you could say I was anything like the common man at all.

I was raised a Christian in a Midwest Methodist Church from a small Iowa farm town.  But I have since become something of an agnostic or atheist… not because I don’t believe in God, but because I don’t believe anyone can tell me who God is or how he wants me to be other than me.  But I am also not at the center of the universe the way most religious people believe.  I believe that all people are born good and have to work at being bad by making self-centered choices and making excuses to themselves for behaving in ways that they know are wrong.  God doesn’t forgive my sins because he doesn’t have to.  I am tolerant of all people and most things about them.  To sum up this paragraph, I am nothing like the dedicated Christians I know and grew up among.  The actions of the new, in-coming government and dominant political party convince me that intolerance, self-interest, and rationalizations are the norm.

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Sometimes my nose gets really red and my hair bozos out for no particular reason.

I deal with the problems of life by making jokes and forging ahead with carefully considered plans in spite of the doubts others express about my abilities, my choices, and my sanity.  I prefer to do something rather than to sit idly by and do nothing.  Yet, I never do anything without agonizing over the plan before I take that step.  And like the recent election, things usually go wrong.  I have failed at far more things in my life than I have succeeded at.

I am told I think too much.  I hear constantly that I make things too complicated.  People say I should do practically everything in a different way… usually their way.  But I inherited a bit of stubbornness from my square-headed German ancestors.  In fact, I inherited Beyer-stubborn from my Grandma Beyer.  In all the time I knew her, I never saw her change her mind about anything… ever.  She was a Republican who thought all Republicans were like President Eisenhower, even Ronald Reagan…  but not Barry Goldwater.  Someone convinced her that Goldwater was a radical.  That was almost as bad as being a Democrat.  I, however, have strayed from the Beyer-stubborn tradition enough to change my mind once in a while, though only after carefully considering the facts on both sides of the question.  Nixon changed me from a Republican like Grandma into a Democrat.  Fortunately, Grandma Beyer loved me too much to disown me.

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In my retirement, I have gotten even more artistical than I was before.  This is a picture of me with my fictional child Valerie.

So how do I summarize this mirror-staring exercise now that I have passed the 500-word goal?  Probably by stating that I do have a vague idea of who I am.  But I promise to keep looking in the mirror anyway.  One never knows what he will see in the map of his soul that he wears on his face.

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Stardusters… Canto 21

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Canto Twenty-One – In the Wreckage

The repaired anti-gravity coils were not one hundred per cent successful.  The station whirled to the surface of the planet in a flaming spiral that scattered red-hot sparks throughout the dirty brown clouds that made Galtorr’s atmosphere nearly solid.  The impact cracked the seal between the station and the space ship that had impaled it.  Smoke and toxic atmosphere rushed in.

“Ah!  The air stinks!” cried Menolly.

“The hostile environment suits!”  cried Tanith.  “Get them on!”

Everyone obeyed as quickly as they could peel themselves off the floor.  Alden and Gracie had trouble with the helmets since they were designed for beings with a head fin on their heads.  Brekka’s suit was almost too tight to put on.  She had to wriggle, pull, and squeal to get it on.  But when it was on and all she had to do was push a button to make it fit properly, she didn’t push it.  Davalon wasn’t exactly sure why, but he did notice her admiring the reflection of her shapely behind in a piece of interior chrome.

“What do we do now?” asked George Jetson.  He turned his helmeted eyes toward the intercom that had been their connection to Sizzahl.  “Sizzahl?  Are you still there?”

“Of course I am.  I’m not the one crashing through the atmosphere.  How many of you died?  Are the Earthers okay?”

“Is anybody dead?” George asked.  “Speak up if you’re dead!”

“We’re all okay,” said Tanith.  “I already counted all the survivors.  All seven of us made it into environment suits.”

“So, we’re all here.  What do we do next, Sizzahl?” Davalon asked the intercom.

“I need live plants.  Round up every live plant on the station and bring it to me.”

“Where do we find you?” asked George Jetson.

“Well, I need to have you tune your communicators into the intercom broadcast so I can talk to you and guide you.  This dome I am in is hidden well.  You will need to follow my directions very carefully to find me without guiding scabbies to my sanctuary.”

“Er…” said Menolly, “what are scabbies?  That doesn’t sound good.”

“There’s a movie called Night of the Living Dead, the Galtorrians’ favorite Earther movie, do you know it?”

“No.”  They were all quiet, but Davalon wondered what Alden was thinking.  He seemed to have heard of the movie.

“In the movie, dead people crawl out of their graves and eat the living people,” Sizzahl explained.  “That’s a little bit like the scabbies.  They are diseased, and they attack and eat anything they can get their rotten claws on.”

“Oh, no!”  Menolly fainted and her metallic helmet clunked against the floor of the station.

“Don’t worry.  If you can get here without being discovered by them, I am well protected here.  I am looking forward to having you here.  I’ve been alone for a very long time.”

“We are coming, Sizzahl,” said Tanith.  “Tell us how to tune our com units.”

As Sizzahl explained, Davalon looked at the plants the Galtorrian wanted.  They were rather browned and blighted.  He wasn’t sure they were really what Sizzahl wanted.  Still, gathering up the plants was not too much for her to ask.  After all, she had saved all of their lives.  By rights, Davalon and his crew of truants should all have died already for their mistakes.

*****

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A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Future

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…Except it ain’t zactly funny. Somehow we let the orangutan take over the zoo.

I did tell you the world would end because the Cubs won the series.  Now we have to pay for our excesses and mistakes.

No more Obamacare.  The monkey vowed to repeal it.  And I have six pre-existing conditions, four of which may cost me any and all health insurance.

No more Paris climate agreement.  The monkey likes to burn coal and pollute the air with carbons because it makes money and his monkey friends like it.  Global warming turns the Earth into Venus.

No more nuclear agreement with Iran.  The monkey promised to tear it up.  He hates Iran’s particular flavor of invisible sky-friend.  He believes it gives him the right to kill them, kill their families, and take their stuff.  He is an aggressive and thoughtless monkey.

And I saw this all coming.  My Bubba friends all kinda like this monkey because he says all the things they want to say and get away with… even in polite company.  There are a lot of Bubba friends in this country.  Some of them are not even angry all the time.  Some of them are not even white.

And now that the dust has settled from massive monkey tricks, voter suppression in southern states, lies from Fox News, and Comey’s “Oh-one-more-reminder-about-emails”, the White House will become the Monkey House.  I doubt this essay will get me thrown in prison.  The monkey doesn’t read… except for Twitter.  And he doesn’t understand metaphors.  And I never used his real name in this post.

But everything that’s bad in life gets worse… and then you die.  So I have a little while yet to live and love and make the best of life.  But the monkey wins in the end.

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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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