Category Archives: Paffooney

The Meaning of 42

little Toy Trio

I get goofy ideas for blog posts when I am reading other blog posts, when I am reading books, and when I am letting television suck the smart out of my brain cells.  I was first inspired by reading this blog post from In My Cluttered Attic.  He was talking about why he chooses to blog in the face of a plethora of common-sense reasons not to.  “Good idea for my own blog post!” said the insane voice that inhabits the dark space behind my mind’s own creative filing cabinet #42 in the second dungeon under my memory.  I immediately filed the idea away in that cabinet because the cabinet was close at the time and I might never find it again later.  Then I leaped to a post by The Off Key of Life in which I found a beautiful song beautifully sung that made me trip over another file cabinet that was behind the mechanical letter-sorting machine on the stairway landing to the sub-basement of the second dungeon.

Some old memories spilled out on the stone steps because I used to sing that song to my three babies when I rocked them to sleep twenty years ago, fifteen years ago, and thirteen years ago.  That song, and “When You Wish Upon a Star” from Disney’s Pinocchio.  Both of those songs are about one day finding the key to happiness… or possibly the key to understanding… but definitely about the search for the key.  I always believed that those songs would give my children sweet dreams… and I prayed that the songs would never become the source of nightmares.

And then I was watching Hulu, an episode of Arrow in which Oliver Queen must decide on the reason why he was doing the whole superhero-vigilante thing and risking his life constantly.  Unfortunately I didn’t find the file box that has superheroes in it that I was looking for in hallway leading to Area 51 in the upper dungeon.  But I knew the topic was going to be “Why I Blog”.  That settled, I began to write and paste in all sorts of random stuff.

“What is the meaning of 42?” you ask?  How clever of you to ask that!  In Douglas Adams’ seminal series of Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy books

the_hitchhikers_guide_to_the_galaxy 42 is revealed to be the answer to the ultimate question of Life, the Universe, and Everything.  Practically everything that he adds to that epic trilogy of five-or-so books is basically random.  And yet, it is not.  He is telling us about the apparent randomness of Life, the Universe, and Everything while carefully explaining how all this random madness that is Everything actually fits together in a very random-mad way.  There is a certain asymmetrical symmetry about it all that has a certain contradictory sort of beauty, if you get what I mean.  (A certain ugly beauty if you don’t get what I mean.)

So why do I blog?  Good question.  I don’t really have an answer to it.  I blog because my first publisher told me I had to do it to promote my book, Catch a Falling Star.  My book has netted me $28 so far, as long as I am not fool enough to start subtracting all the money I have spent trying to advertise and promote my book.  I’m not fool enough.  I stay out of that corridor in the maze of my complicated little mind.  I blog because I can share all the private drawings and poems and insane nonsense that fills the filing cabinets in my mind without paying a hefty psychiatrist’s fee.  Your underwear drawer needs to be aired out once in a while even if you do remember to wash your underwear.  And it is liberating to walk around figuratively naked in front of an audience that potentially includes little old church ladies, God, and everybody.  I blog because writing is something that I do, have always done, and will continue to do until they put my smelly corpse in a pine box and bury it under the garbage pile out back.  All that scribbling has to count for something sometime.  And maybe that sometime is now.  If you are one of those poor souls suffering from Serial-Mickey’s-Blog-Reading Disorder (a condition the CDC has taken to labeling SMBRD… not to be confused with small-bird flu), and you actually read the posts and look at all the random junk piled into those mad paragraphs, you may just accidentally stumble across that key we have all been searching for for eons… and unlike the majority of the world, you will be giggling insanely for a reason!

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Another Self-Promotional Announcement from Mickey

Dr Seabreezannounce

I’m not bragging.  I know it is not that much.  But it’s more than twice what I had at the start of 2014.

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More Powerful than a Locomotive

There is an old saying… “What doesn’t kill us, makes us stronger.”

I have an addendum to add… “If what doesn’t kill us makes us stronger, then I must be Superman!”

Lying here now in pain after having surgery this morning, that is exactly what I have been telling myself.  No more Kryptonite today, thank you.

Superman 1

I may have mentioned before on this blog that I have six incurable diseases and am a cancer survivor since 1983.  (If I haven’t mentioned it before, then it was only because I mistook complaining loudly and relentlessly about it for mentioning.)  I have arthritis, diabetes, COPD, hypertension, psoriasis, and benign prostatic hyperplasia.  Two of those diseases ganged up on me recently.  I had a sebaceous cyst on my lower back that had gotten infected because psoriasis had flaked skin off the top of it until there was an ulcerated infected hole there and it caused me enough pain to prevent sleeping.  (I know you didn’t really want to know about that… but. then, neither did I).

I got the thing surgically excised (whacked off with scalpel and scissors) and had the hole sewn back together with a few butterfly Band Aids slapped on the top.  I had been given a topical anesthetic that deadened the nerves while I was being carved up, but wears off shortly after and then all the pain that has been saved up comes rushing back to fill the void.  The doctor said I could take aspirin, but I have a big bottle of Aleve next to the bed for arthritis, and my body is so used to the medicine that I might just as easily have taken a sugar pill for the same effect.  (Of course then my diabetes would come knocking on my brain.)   So, I am in pain.

But less than an hour after surgery, I had to go in to the counselor’s office at school and discuss for 45 minutes the life-and-death future consequences of the schooling of one of three kids.  It is no kind of chicken barbecue or country fair to have to explain to a school official everything you have been doing to solve the life-or-death problem for the kiddo while pain medication is wearing off and anesthetic is wearing off and patience is wearing off and mental acuity is disappearing faster than a rabbit-man can teach irony to middle-schoolers…. wait, what?  Perhaps I should rest now and let the medicine do its work.

Naw, can’t do that.  I’m Superman.

But, wait… wasn’t I Popeye just yesterday?  Who the heck am I really?  A goofy old writer-guy, most likely.

Superman 2

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Talk Like Popeye

squinteye

I have long identified with Popeye.  Let me review that notion by re-posting a bit of an old post in which I explain while talking like Popeye;

I am Popeye, I sez, because I just am…  Yeah, that’s right, I yam what I yam.

First of all, I looks like Popeye.  I has that cleft in me chin, very little hair left on me ol’ head, and I gots the same squinky eye (what squinky eye?).  I has had that same squinky eye since I wuz a teenager and got kicked in the eye doin’ sandlot football (bettern’ sandlot high divin’, fer sure!).  I also has them same bulgy arms, the ones that bulge in the forearm and is incredibobble thin on the upper arms.

Second of all, I has Popeye Spinach-strength.  I look weak and scrawny, but I is a lot tuffer than I looks.  I go into classrooms full of wild, crazed middle schoolers, and grabs their attention, tells ’em what’s what, and makes ’em woik.  (Woik is a voib, and that means I is woikin’ when I makes ’em do it.)  I kin stands ridicule and kids what will remarks on the hair in me ears and me squinky eye.  I tells ’em that the scar on me face was did by a bloke with a knife (which it were, cause I had skin cancer and the doctor used a knife to get it off).  I has taken all kinds of nasty punches from life (diabetes, blood-pressure problems, prostatitis, arthritis) and I still keeps comin’ back fer more.  In fact, I can winds up me arm and give that ol’ Devil a good Twisker Sock right in the kisser.

Third of all, I has a typical Popeye Sweet Patootie.  My Island Girl Wife is like Olive Oyl in very many ways.  She is always tellin’ me what to do.  She compares me to ol’ Bluto.  She panics and flails her arms when there’s a crisis.  And she expects me to always save the day and never says “thank you” after.

So, I mean it when I sez “I am Popeye”.  I yam what I yam and that’s all what I yam!

Popeye_0

See?  I kin talk like Popeye because in many ways I AM him… He of the mangled-mouth vocabubobulary created by Elzie Crisler Segar on January 17th, 1929 for his comic strip Thimble Theater for King Features Syndicate.  He doesn’t talk right because his brain is so full of goodness and spinach that he has no room left for spelling and pronunskiation.  Ak-ak-ak-ak-ak-ak….  Popeye is just a simple sailor, and has been for 94 years.  He expresses himself horribly, but only in the very best of ways.  So when I mangle a word on purpose… or by happy accident… it is just me honoring that old one-eyed sailor.  It is not me just being a stupid addle-pated blarney goon who don’t knows how to talk right.

popeye_strip_pg5

Comic strip from comicskingdom.com

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Dreary Days and Darklords

joebtfsplk

Al Capp was a genius.  And he knows precisely how it goes.  And no one describes it better.  Storm clouds float directly over my little square head (I am a Midwestern German-American, and they all have cubes for heads… both literally and figuratively.)  Anywhere I wander, disaster surely follows.  The last few days have been an absolute and unrelenting disaster.  And I can’t tell you all the details because it would compromise other people’s privacy.  But I can say that no lightning stings worse than the lightning bolts thrown by aggressively profit-conscious health insurance companies.   I will not name the hated company here because they will surely raise my premiums, but I hate them with a hatred more hateful than red-hot iron-grate-hate.  I went to a doctor’s office yesterday,  a doctor I was seeing for the first time because the new insurance company handling retired Teachers in Texas didn’t like the old doctor.  The old doctor was too good and got paid too well for insurance to approve him.  So I asked them to recommend a new doctor, a specialist of the right brand to replace the old doctor.  They gave me a name and I made the appointment.  I was told this new doctor was in-network.  I got there and started filling out a small hill of paperwork that required all my personal numerology and the atomic number of several specific elements… and my shoe size.  (And this was not a foot doctor.)  As I was littering the doctor’s office with filled crossword puzzles of numbers, hard-to-spell drug names, and private information, I was called up to the receptionist’s desk and informed that the insurance company said that while the doctor was in-network, she was not in-plan.  The specific plan I bought (chosen from a list of one) only uses doctors associated with Baylor Hospital in Carrollton… and this new doctor was associated with Methodist Hospital in Plano.  I could only see this new doctor if I paid 100% of the fee.  Being an independently wealthy retired school teacher on a fixed income, I had to decline that honor.  This of course is not the only hyoomillagration (Popeye’s word for it, not mine… another explanation that requires another post and another day) that the last few days would bring.  Having half a year’s salary as a working school teacher and half a year’s salary as a doddering retired person fully capable only of puttering and nuttering, the income tax situation tipped heavily in the government’s favor..  I had to pay almost $2000 dollars on the taxes that I filed through Turbotax on Monday.  I was proud of getting the taxes done early, but saddened at the sudden deflation of my savings account to the condition of totally-flattened-balloon-hood.  Worse yet, Turbotax sends bills under the name INTUIT, which I didn’t recognize on my bank statement.  It took the Wells Fargo fraud expert all of ten seconds to figure out the mistake I made, which was two minutes and ten seconds after the previous banker I had talked to irreversibly closed my bank account and issued a new bank card and account number which will take two weeks to come in the mail.  Now I couldn’t pay that doctor even if I wanted to.  And there were other things biting my bum as well.  The electronic car key is out of battery juice and I must now unlock it by hand.  The dog is currently on another in a long line of poop-and-pee-in-the-house-sprees.  I have a benign growth on my back that the other doctor I actually got to see this week says needs to come off by next week.  It is hurting constantly and keeps me from sleeping.  I am Joe  Btfsplk this week for no reason that I know of and mad wizards are persecuting me relentlessly.

Black Wizard

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François

Francois spotlight  What I am endlessly burbling about today in purple paisley prose is a raw novel idea.  I have not started to cook it, bake it, or even burn it at all yet.  It is not ready for the writing oven.  It is still that mass of daydreams, nonsense, and foofy-foofram that we former English teachers like to call Pre-Writing.  (Note the capitol letters… teachers make this goop high on the writing-process, lies-the-teacher-has-to-tell list, because, otherwise students will glop out some words on paper and call it a final draft without even re-reading or thinking about the dang thing.)  (Note too the use of the parenthetic expression that breaks up and uglifies the paragraph and identifies this writing as less-than-serious purple paisley prose.)  This goofy post is obviously, then, not only about Pre-Writing, that’s exactly what it is… gloppy, sloppy word mash that I hope to one day boil into something stunningly beautiful.

So here’s what I actually have.  I have a character.  His name is François Martin (not pronounced the Iowegian way, Frank-oyce Mahr-tinn, but the French way, Fran-swah Mahr-tah… because the character is actually from France… duh!) (I will have to post an explanation of Iowegian and the foreign language the people of Iowa actually speak another day.)  François is a recently orphaned young boy whose father, Rejean, was a masterful and loving parent who made the mistake of relying on relatives to take care of his children in the case of something bad happening to him and his wife.  Car accidents are bad and tend to happen too fast to correct this sort of mistake.  François Is sent to live with the family of his father’s American half-brothers and half-sister in Norwall, Iowa.  Here’s where the trouble starts.  Victor Martin, the eldest brother, is the only one of the three who even has a job.  He owns and operates a seedy Midwestern bar in the middle of the tiny town and is universally disliked and berated by local church ladies (the heart and soul of any Midwestern town in the 1980’s.  The other uncle and the aunt are even worse.  They are lazy, detestable, foul-mouthed… and those are their good points.  The other uncle, Richard, has a son named Billy dropped off one day by the hated ex-wife and made to live in the basement of the old house they bought when Ona White’s relatives actually decided to sell her house after her untimely death by werewolf.  Okay, you see by now that this is a tragic story full of emotional heart-ache and pain… and bursting with humorous potential.

This nebulous family drama idea has a name.  Originally I called it Little Boy Crooner because François can paint his face with sad-clown paint and sing karaoke like an angel… an angel who can potentially save his horrible half-uncle’s business and horrible-er family.  I have re-titled it Sing Sad Songs… with Clowns because I added to this novel-notion the idea that François also loses himself in dreams and finds his way to H.P. Lovecraft’s Dreamlands via the magic ways of the three clowns from the Dreamlands, Mr. Disney, Mr. Dickens, and Mr. Shakespeare.   What a mess of an idea!  but I am betting that if I live long enough to get to it, it will be among the best things I have ever written.

Francois

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Broken People Parts (A goofy poem from messed-up Mike)

sunnyface

Sometimes people break,

And then, they fall apart,

And it takes a jigsaw master,

To Puzzle back their heart.

And if a foot falls off,

Quite busted on Monday’s hump

They may be legless, headless, limp

And lying in a lump.

But no face is ever busted

To a point of no repair,

And lips are pasted back in place

With a smile that wasn’t there.

sunnyface2

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The Bicycle-Wheel Genius

DSCN7060

I have just finished the final edit of The Bicycle-Wheel Genius.  PDMI may not be ready for another novel from me, but it is ready for an editor or beta reader to be looking at it.  I will not be making any further changes because of my perception of the shape, style, and meaning of the novel.  I need input to proceed.  I need to advance to publication.

Blue in the back yard

This novel is about a lot of things.  It is science fiction.  It is a time-travel and alien-contact story.   But the thing it is really about, theme-wise, is friendship.   It is about the friends we need, the friends we have, what makes a friend, and how you treat a friend.  It is about love.  It is about love that has nothing to do with sex.  It is about love between boys and girls, about love between boys and other boys, about love between a man who has lost his wife and son and a boy who has lost his best friend, and even about the love between family members who love each other even when they disagree and don’t like each other very much.  It is also about love between a boy and his rabbit and how it changes when the rabbit is turned into a rabbit-man by the time machine.

My Art of Davalon

Okay, part of the reason that all sounds so terribly complex, is because of the structure I adopted for this novel.  This novel is a unique sort of sequel to Catch a Falling Star.  I call it a Prequel-Equal-Sequel because it takes place before, during, and after the events of the other book.  The primary characters are also different.  The main protagonists in the first book are only minor supporting characters in this book.   The supporting characters from Catch a Falling Star, the inventor and bicycle-wheel engineer Orben Wallace, and his next-door neighbor boy, Timothy Kellogg (also the grand and glorious and ludicrously uproarious leader of the Norwall Pirates, a small-town liars club of country boys), have become the protagonists.

It was all a very complicated process to write, but also strangely fun and deeply engaging to do.  I originally assumed because it was overly complex and facetious, that it was really not that good.Millis 2

Re-reading and editing, though, has caused me to think that it actually a very good story.  I know that it is not as good a piece of writing as either Snow Babies or Magical Miss Morgan, but it has a very significant part to play in the over-all story arc of my home-town novels.  It develops critical characters like the two protagonists, Mike Murphy, Blueberry Bates, Cudgel Murphy, Mary and her daughter Dilsey Murphy, and, of course, Valerie Clarke.  So, this is a sort of celebratory post.  I have finished another project and must now move on to the phase where I must try to get it published and publicized, packaged and promoted.

RabbitWalker

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Buried Treasure

Spring cleaning is how I have spent at least a portion of my lonely invalid’s Spring Break.  I get to walk the dog and clean the house while my family is enjoying the somewhat chilly beaches of Florida’s panhandle.  Well, it isn’t all misery.  As I was cleaning in the library upstairs, I came across a set of drawings from the 1980’s that I had been looking everywhere for.  You have no idea what kind of treasure exists under stuff until you start putting stuff in other places.  I picked stuff up, and low and behold… treasure.  How long since I last moved that stuff?   I have no idea.  Stuff moves around in the library constantly.  Some of the books fly off the shelves in the middle of the night, I swear it.  But this stuff wasn’t books, so it was becoming a permanent accretion of stuff.  Not yet icky stuff, but it was painter stuff, brushes and oil paints and mixing bowls and acrylic paints and linseed oil and all kinds of stuff that can become very icky in an upstairs room in Texas with no air conditioning.

So, let me give you a look at what I found before I start trying to turn it into writer’s stuff and Paffooney posts.

Bobby

This first picture is called Bobby, because Bobby Zeffer sat for the portrait of the boy.  (You are aware that I don’t use people’s real names in my work.  So, Bobby, if you read this post and see this picture, you will have to remember that it is really you.)  (No chance of that, though.  Bobby is not illiterate, but I know he hates to read.)  I could also call it Horatio T. Dogg, because that is the name of the talking dog detective who smokes a pipe and wears a hat and was the main character of a mystery novel that became too silly to finish.  It turned out to be one of those stories where I reached the point of having a Tyrannosaurus leap out of a wormhole and eat all the main characters.  I gave up on that story rather abruptly.

Long John Silver

The second picture is rather obviously Robert Newton playing the part of Long John Silver in the Disney version of Treasure Island.  I was still in my twenties when I drew this.  I was inspired to try my hand at further portraiture because the picture of Bobby turned out to actually look like him.

kids

The third picture is the reason I was desperate to find these old drawings.  It is one of my prescient pictures.  I drew it in the 1980’s from an image that haunted my dreams as a young teacher.  I later realized how remarkable it was while I was teaching in Cotulla in about 2000.  The girl was in my seventh grade fifth period English class.  I can’t tell you how many times I had to dig this picture out and stare at her face.  Almost twenty years before, six or seven years before she was even born, I drew this girl, and it looks exactly like her.  I became even more mystified by this portrait when the boy walked into my classroom last year.  He was from Africa.  Eritrea to be precise.  He was a wonderful, soft-spoken, highly-intelligent boy with a deep Christian faith in God.  I almost went crazy searching for this picture so I could compare what I had drawn to the real boy.  It turns out he has a bit less hair in real life and a small scar above his left eye.  How did I not see that in my dream?

flute cover

The last picture was designed as a cover for my graphic novel Hidden Kingdom.  I have recently revisited that project and I am thinking now more strongly than ever of trying to finish it.  I can do a lot of drawing with my arthritic hands as long as I only do a little bit at a time.  And this whole drawing thing, this raging addiction, has finally become fun again now that I am retired and have the time to do stuff.  Not icky stuff… Treasure!

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Goofy Squared

Mickeynose

There are a number of really, really goofy facts about me that I will reveal in today’s post…  No one is trying to blackmail me over these things, believe it or not.  I have no money.  And I have no reputation to protect.  I am nobody.  Just a silly, goofy, loony old nobody.  But I have a few chuckles now and then at my own expense.

Revelation #1; The clown nose in the picture was a souvenir from Cirque du Soleil.  We went to see them in a parking lot in Frisco, Texas.  They had an actual circus tent.  When I was five, I told my parents I wanted to be a clown when I grew up.  Nobody believes me when I say it, but I achieved that goal.  They say, “But you were a school teacher!”

And I say, “How is that different?”

Honestly, I have worn a clown nose and played harmonica in front of a classroom full of twelve-year-olds.  I can make teenagers laugh so hard the principal has to check to make sure they are not gleefully setting me on fire or duct-taping me to the wall.  (Duck-taping sounds funnier, but you have to be accurate when describing real events from modern schools.)

Revelation #2;  I am a closet nudist.lil hunter2

I used to be associated with the AANR, a nudist/ naturist organization in the latter part of the 1980’s,  I met the nudist publishers through stamp collecting and they tried to recruit me.  I bought books and videos from them.  I have actually been naked for an entire day… once.  I knew nudists in Austin where a former girlfriend stayed over several weekends with her sister who lived in the clothing-optional apartment complex on Manor Road.  I am not brave enough to walk around physically naked in front of people on a regular basis though.  So, I am a closet nudist.  Only a nudist in my closet.  I get a lot of mileage out of naked jokes in my fiction, though, because, well… naked is funny.

Goof  Revelation #3;  I keep scrapbooks filled with collages made of pictures from magazines, newspapers, photos I’ve taken, pictures I drew myself, poems, short snippets of things I find funny or ironic or autobiographically important, and secrets like I am sharing with you today.  (The picture of Goofy seen here is one I colored myself from one of the old coloring books left over from my kids’ coloring book days.  I hate to see unused coloring book pictures go to waste.)  I call these my magical tomes because I use them as source material for the spells I weave in my fiction.  I also use many of the images for drawing and painting as models.  I also discovered I can borrow whole images and make new art using my cheap-o substitute photo-shop program.

Revelation #4;  It is totally by accident that I have come to look like the most important character in Snow Babies, the novel that PDMI is slowly publishing for me.  Catbird Sandman is an old hobo who wears a coat that has so many patches on it that it Catbird Mehas become a patchwork crazy quilt.  He wanders around the country, appreciating the world and its people, and using his considerable store of mysterious abilities to charm, help, and change people.  He carries around a book, a well-worn copy of Walt Whitman’s Leaves of Grass and quotes from it, treating it like a sort of Bible-like source of spiritual wisdom.  The character looks like Walt Whitman.  And now, though not intentionally, so do I.  I grew the beard and long hair because of psoriasis.  It attacks me under the edge of my jaw line and all around the back of my head.  It is easily scratched and bloodied, and then infected when someone cuts my hair or I try to shave.  So I have given up that battle and gone all hippy-dippy.  It sorta fits with the whole jobless, shiftless, former nudist sort of persona that I have been cultivating as an author.

So what is the equation Goofy Squared all about?  Well, if you take the square root of the four Goofy revelations in this post, you come up with Goofy times two.  So Goofy obviously equals one.  And I think I have clearly proven that I am the goofy one.

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