Category Archives: strange and wonderful ideas about life

Islands of Identity

Island Girl2z

Who am I?

Why do I do the things that I do?

No man is an island.  John Donne the English poet stated that.  And Ernest Hemingway quoted it… and wove it into his stories as a major theme… and proceeded to try to disprove it.  We need other people.  I married an island girl from the island of Luzon in the Philippines.  She may have actually needed me too, though she will never admit it.

Gilligans Island

When I was a young junior high school teacher in the early eighties, they called me Mr. Gilligan.  My classroom was known as Gilligan’s Island.  This came about because a goofball student in the very first class on the very first day said, “You look like Gilligan’s Island!”  By which he meant I reminded him of Bob Denver, the actor that played Gilligan.  But as he said it, he was actually accusing me of being an island.  And no man is an island.  Thank you, Fabian, you were sorta dumb, but I loved you for it.

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You see, being Gilligan on Gilligan’s Island was not a bad thing to be.  It was who I was as a teacher.  Nerdy, awkward, telling stories about when I was young, and my doofy friends like Skinny Mulligan.  Being a teacher gave me an identity.  And Gilligan was stranded on the Island with two beautiful single women, Mary Ann and Ginger.  Not a bad thing to be.  And I loved teaching and telling stories to kids who would later be the doofy students in new stories.

But we go through life searching for who we are and why we are here.  Now that I am retired, and no longer a teacher… who am I now?  We never really find the answer.  Answers change over time.  And so do I.

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The Clock on the Wall

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Who in their right mind writes an essay about a clock on the wall?  Well, the “right mind” thing gives me an out.  I do watch the clock on the wall.  Especially now that I am old, and the sand in the hour glass is running out.  The clock on the wall can be quite entertaining.  Especially one like the cuckoo clock that hangs in my parents’ front entryway.  On the hour, the dancers twirl and the two goofballs in lederhosen saw away at the log they will never be able to cut in two.

My wife and I gave that clock to my parents as a gift for their 50th wedding anniversary.  We bought it in Texas and brought it on a visit back to the family farm in Iowa.  Having old German relatives as a boy, I remember waiting impatiently for the clock to strike in Great Aunt Selma’s house, anxious to see the cuckoo pop out  and the clockwork entertainment do its little mechanical show.  I’d have gladly wished on a star for the hours to pass instantly… to see the show again right away… and be older and wiser and able to do more.  Back then it seemed like older folks like Aunt Selma lived forever, with her dried-apple face and German accent.  Accumulated time seemed to have majesty and power.  It was magical.

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But now I am old.  My joints hurt every time I move.  I can’t get out of bed of a morning easily.  Parts of me that I used to take for granted no longer work.  I have forgotten what it feels like to feel good and full of energy.  The time on the face of this old clock hasn’t changed in nearly a decade.  My parents don’t keep it wound.  We no longer look forward to the clock-Kinder dancing so often.  If the clock stays forever at five after four, maybe the grim reaper won’t come knock at the door.

I have always believed that there was magic in old cuckoo clocks.  It was a simple, earnest faith in magic that only a child can truly know.  But now, as an old man, I remember.

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Doodle Burger

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Recently burger-I have been binging on drawing doodle-burgers.  Burger-I know that sounds a little bit off, but that is because it was written in Burger-burger-Speak-burger .  It-burger is easy to translate.  Burger-I have merely added the word-burger “burger”-burger to every noun-burger and pronoun-burger as either a suffix-burger or a burger-prefix.  So enjoy my recent burger-doodles and ignore my burger-burger prose-burger.

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This burger-doodle was drawn in the car-burger as burger-I have recently been visiting burger-family and have not had to do all my own driving-burger.  Burger-I drew it with pencil-burger and later went over it-burger with pencil-burger.  It-burger was inspired by a burger-guy that burger-I happened to see walking by in Belmond-burger.  It-burger is not a portrait-burger, but it-burger probably accurately reflects his inner-burger-burger-self.  Burger-Iowans are like that-burger.

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The burger-girl being hit on with flower-burgers by a burger-bunny-boy-burger was also drawn in the car-burger.  The longer burger-I look at it-burger, the more burger-I realize what a creepy cartoon-burger it-burger really is.

Burger-burger-Speak-burger is annoyingly hard to do.  And burger-I doubt that it-burger will ever be a commonly spoken language-burger.  But some fool-burgers taught themselves to speak Klingon-burger, didn’t burger-they?

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A Vicarious Adventure on Mt. Fuji

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I get a Facebook communication from Number One Son, and he tells me that he climbed Mt. Fuji.  And he proved it with pictures and poetic expressions.

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“A lonely isle on a sea of clouds, In a land which soothed my troubled soul. A year spent on drunken sin, Taught me the weight I carry with me is home. Men fight so desperately to find meaning in this life And yet, for all their efforts, few truly find it. Angels, demons, men and monsters, the Dragon, All are trumped by the will of existence. A year spent amongst comrades and nature, Has taught me God has little to do with spirituality. Find for yourself some measure of peace, And fight for dear life to defend it.”

-Allen Beyer

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Me;  Poetic.

4:49am

Number One Son;

Yeah, so is the top of Mt Fuji.

4:52am

Me;

I’ve never been there, but I feel it in your words.

4:58am

Number One Son;

Yeah, so am I going to get featured on your blog?

4:59am

Me;

I’m no longer forbidden to blog about you?

4:59am

Number One Son;

Just not marine corps related stuff…

That’s what I told you in the beginning.

5:00am

Me;

Okay, I can do that.  It sounds like a real adventure.

Number One Son;

Yeah it was quite the experience.

Guess you can say I’m well cultured.

5:23am

Me;

Yes, it was a bucket-list item to be envied.

5:24am

Number One Son;

Yeah, planning to go see whale sharks next.

Me;

Another bucket-list item?

Number One Son;

Yeah, but not nearly as much effort for that one.

Fairly certain, though, we weren’t supposed to climb that mountain in one day.

5:33am

Me;

Not supposed to be that easy? Or you just didn’t have permission?

5:34am

Number One Son;

No, we were supposed to stop to adjust to the lack of oxygen.

Those pictures don’t do the summit justice, and I’m fairly certain that’s because we were all suffering from hypoxia.

5:35am

Me;

They are beautiful never the less.

5:35am

Number One Son;

True.

There was one point coming down though that was absolutely terrifying.

5:37am

Me;

What happened?

5:39am

Number One Son;

Descending through the ashes alone on Mt Hanoei the clouds rolled in and obstructed my view to no more than 20 feet in any direction.

5:40am

Me;

How did you get out of it? Ashes? Volcano?

5:40am

Number One Son;

The ashes absorbed sound so all I could hear was my own blood pumping through my veins.

There was a path.

And I just felt absolutely anxious there. I come to find out later that I’m actually not very far from the infamous suicide forest.

5:41am

Me;

Whoa!

5:42am

Number One Son;

Yeah.

It was intense.

Also, bathhouses are quite the experience.

5:43am

Me;

How many others were with you?

There are bathhouses on Mt. Fuji?

5:44am

Number One Son;

There were 11 and no, not unless you count the ones on the slight incline leading to the mountain.

5:46am

Me;

So, what made the bathhouses memorable?

5:46am

Number One Son;

Just the nature of it.

It was weird going there with a bunch of naked men.

5:47am

Me;

Yep, I get that.

Seen 5:47am

So, I got to share in a once-in-a-lifetime adventure, early in the morning, on Facebook messaging.  Could’ve done without the bathhouse thing, though.

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Doodle-Bop!

Sometimes the only thing you really want out of life is just to get by. You get tired of always having to climb the danged highest mountain.  You get tired of trying to swim the danged deepest sea.

16750_102844509741181_100000468961606_71393_6278100_nSometimes all you want to do is doodle-bop!…  To draw in pen and ink and post your derfiest doofenwacky doodles so you can just make your way through another danged day.

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You aim a lot for different, and undeniably original… because no one thinks like you… certainly no one who is real and has a real brain.  You are gifted with an “other-ness”, a sing-songy simpering something that makes you want to doodle and do what no man has done before.  (Does that sentence exist anywhere else in all of literature?  Even if there is some alternate dimension with infinite monkeys typing on infinite typewriters?  What’s a typewriter, you say?  Danged millennials!)

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I really can’t help it, you know.  I was a middle school teacher for 24 years.  That sort of thing has mental health consequences.  And if you wring the sponges in your stupid old brain hard enough and long enough… doodle-bop! comes out.

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Turtle boy’s magic iron of irony!!!

And you have to wonder why some of the stuff that is in your stupid old head is even in there.  Why is it that sometimes the words “Argyle socks are filled with rocks” are drifting through the vast empty spaces in the logic centers of your brain?  There has to be a reason for everything, doesn’t there?

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I do believe I have made myself chuckle at least a dozen chuck-tacular times in the chuck-a-tational crafting of this cheddar-cheesy post.  But it only really counts if I can make you girlishly giggle or guy-like guffaw with my word-munching and cartoony paffoonies.

Wild Ride

The terror-filled cartoon car chase that is life as usual.

You may have noticed that everything is black and white, even though it doesn’t have to be.  Good versus evil, hot versus cold, everything can be divided up simplistically… but the really profound part of simplicity is vibrating reverberations of complexity that lie just underneath.  Words have meaning, even though they are just a bunch of crooked squiggles marked on a page.  (Yes, I know… “or typed on a computer screen”.  Danged millennials!)

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And so, this is my doodle-bop!  Probably not the doodliest or the boppiest doodle-bop! I could have bopped… but there it is.  I have made it through another sorta creative post without losing my mind…  Honest!  I did not lose it.  It is merely temporarily misplaced for a moment.  It will be back in its proper place tomorrow… probably.

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Granny-Quest 2016

 

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I have developed a need to create a portrait of a grandmotherly woman whom everybody loves and who exudes “Have-a-cookie”-ness.  You see, my newest novel project, Recipes for Gingerbread Children, has as a main character a lovely old Holocaust survivor named Gretel Stein.  And she is a talented baker of gingerbread cookies.  She has, in fact, a magical ability to create symphonies of joyous triumph over evil in her little oven in her very small house.  So I need to do a portrait of that very same old woman.  I have to have a picture in my head of the person the story is about, and I have to translate that picture down onto the page by drawing it first.

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So I began that process by trying to find the right combination of wrinkle patterns and granny smiles on the internet.  I tried a Google image search for “cute German grandmother” which inexplicably yielded numerous photos of internment camp war criminals, who were also old ladies, and cartoons of Adolf Hitler.  Talk about the proper context for “What the French-fried Fricka-see-see!”  So, I took the word “cute” off the search.  I found a wealth of German grandma pictures that ought to fit the bill if I can just tweak the portrait in the right ways to bring to life Grandma Gretel.

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Grandma’s School pic from 70’s

I then selected a picture of a German grandma taken in the 70’s because my story is set in the 70’s and the glasses appealed to me as German-grandma appropriate.  So, I started drawing.

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And, of course, it turned out completely wrong.  This granny picture will probably remain forever slightly unfinished, because as I drew it, I found I was transforming the portrait into a picture that was not Gretel Stein.  Instead, it was my own Grandma Beyer that it was beginning to look like.  Don’t get me wrong.  I loved my Grandma B deeply, vastly, eternally… but she is not the same as the grandma in my story.  Well, not completely.  Therefore I must try and try again until I find the old woman I really want to portray.

 

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Imaginary People

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It pretty much goes without saying that, since I am an author of fiction, determined to be a storyteller, I spend most of my time talking to people who exist only inside my goofy old head.  Sure, most of the imaginary people I create to keep me company are at least loosely based on real people that I either once knew, or still know.  You can tell that about Millis, the rabbit-man, pictured here on the right, can’t you?  Sure.  I had a New Zealand White pet rabbit that I raised as a 4-H project.  His name was Ember-eyes… because, well, yeah… red eyes.  It just happens that my goofy old memory transformed him into an evolution-enhanced science experiment in my unpublished novel, The Bicycle-Wheel Genius.  But he was a real person once… ’cause rabbits are people too, right?

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Anita Jones, a character from my unpublished novel, Superchicken, is based on a real person too.  I admit, there was a girl in my class from grades K through 6 that I secretly adored and would’ve done anything to be near, though every significant event I remember from my life that involved an encounter with her, involved red-faced embarrassment for me.  That’s why I remember her as having auburn-colored hair.  Charley Brown’s Little Red-Haired Girl… duh!  I would’ve died sooner than tell her how I really felt, even now, but by making her into one of a multitude of imaginary people who inhabit my life, I can be so close to her that sometimes I am actually inside her mind.  There’s a sort of creepy voyeurism-squared sort of thing.

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Dorin Dobbs, the main human character of my published novel, Catch a Falling Star, is an imaginary character based mostly on my eldest son, though, in fact, I started writing that novel five years before he was born.  Like most of the imaginary people in my life, I talk to Dorin repeatedly even when the real Dorin is half a world away in the Marine Corps.  And even though the Dorin I am talking to is not the real Dorin, he is still constantly using language that is extra-salty far beyond his years, and is often defiant of my fatherly wisdom, and always argues for the exact opposite of any opinion I express.  That’s just how it is to be the father of an imaginary son.

Realistically, I have to admit that even the flesh-and-blood people in my life are imaginary.  No one ever actually inhabits another person’s head except through the magic of imagination.  Even though I am talking to you at this moment, you are only an imaginary person to me.  I don’t even know your name as I write this.  And I am the same to you.  You may have read my writing enough to think you know something about me… but you really only know the Mickey in your mind that I have worked at putting there with my words.  And I really have no idea what that imaginary Mickey you have in your head is like.  He is probably really the opposite of who I think I am.

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I am, after all, married to this girl panda, Mandy Panda from the Pandalore Islands, and my three children are all Halfasian part-panda-people.  Yes, this is the imaginary person who is my real-life wife.  The secret is, we only ever know the imaginary people we have in our goofy little heads.  We don’t know the real person behind anyone in our lives, because it is simply not possible to really know how anybody else thinks or feels, even if they write out their lengthy treatise about how all people are imaginary people.  That stuff is just too goofy-dippy to be real.

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Teacup Pigs

As an artist I have definitely become aware that popular art comes in popular waves.  What do I mean by that?  Well, think about superhero movies.  Since the Iron Man movie came out, the superhero movies have come in tidal waves.  I discovered another tidal wave of teacup pigs.  To be fair, it was actually John Oliver who put me onto teacup pigs with a throwaway running joke on his show Last Week Tonight .

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John Oliver, the only picture in this post who is not a teacup pig.

He introduced me to the horrifying wave of cuteness with a couple of pictures which he apparently pulled from Pinterest.

But I have to warn you, the tidal wave of sickeningly cute pig pictures headed your way is tsunami levels of big.  They are going to inundate your life to a degree rivaling pictures of Minions, Grumpy Cat, and Disney Princesses.  It is already swelling phenomenally on Pinterest, and it will soon take over Facebook and Instagram like a zombie apocalypse of cute little porkers in people disguises.   And like zombies, they are fairly easy to tell apart from regular people, and, in a way, they will eat up your brains as you post porkalicious pictures of pixie pigs on Pinterest instead of paying attention to important things like how thoughtlessly racist and narcissistic the last thing Donald Trump tweeted was.

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So, this is fair warning.  The teacup pig-apocalypse is on its way.  It soon will be taking the place of internet cat videos as a thing inexplicably and inescapably on your mind.

 

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Player Characters

One of the best things about Dungeons and Dragons is that, in order to play the game, you have to play “let’s pretend” a lot.  You start with the notion that you have to pretend to be somebody else besides who you really are.  Possibly you can pretend to be someone who is impossible and could never be real.  You can be an elf, or an orc, or a dwarf… but if you decide to be a hobbit, you can’t call yourself a hobbit because that name is the intellectual property of the Tolkein family… but you can be a halfling… and somehow that gets you by.  And if you are, like me, the “Dungeon Master”, it becomes your responsibility to become the voices for all the NPC’s or non-player characters.  You get to be a multitude of people who are really not you.  And you get to do things that the real-life you would never do… either because it is simply not possible, or you haven’t finished studying magic in the real world, or because you are really not such a terrible person in real life… or not such a good and wonderful person in real life as the elf paladin you play in D&D.

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My eldest son’s character, the leader of the adventuring party.

Ditty Bytcha was my son’s first D&D character, rolled up with dice to be a human fighter and an artificer (a maker of useful mechanical and magical devices).  His name was a bit of a joke.  His back story included a father named Willy Bytcha and a mother who was a paladin of the god Aureon (the blue dragon god of wisdom and knowledge) named Gunna Bytcha.  His grandpa was named Gummy Bytcha.  But as time went on, he acquired a sword named Stormgaar.  It was a magic sword, imbued with the intelligence and memories of the secret agent from Breland that gave the sword to him.  It served as his conscience.  It kept him from stealing from the poor and murdering women and children.  It guided him through moral dilemmas like what to do with a captured enemy.  And it gave him a way to add to his power to defeat evil.  By playing this game of goblins and dire wolves, dragons and surly dwarves, my son learned to negotiate his problems.  He learned that every problem does not lend itself to being solved by hitting it with something heavy or something sharp.  It gave him leadership skills that I truly believe have influenced him as a present day U.S. Marine, and may have led to the leadership responsibilities he has taken on there.

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My number two son’s character is Gandy Rumspot, the halfling rogue and builder of sailing ships.

My number two son decided to take over an existing character, the halfling rogue Gandy Rumspot.  This character was a hard-drinking, charismatic, and thoroughly outgoing little hobbit… er, I mean halfling.  He was really the opposite of my son in almost every way.  My son is shy and over-cautious to a fault.  Gandy, however, took to the sea and took to the air.  He turned himself into a designer and builder of ocean-going ships.  And when they encountered other halflings who rode on trained pterodactyls, he had to have one.  They captured and tamed one, and he learned to glide through the air on the saddled back of a pterosaur.  He has learned to take risks and try the things that might seem scary.  When he wanted to get a job, without prompting, he went up to the manager of a tea-seller’s booth in the H-Mart Asian market and asked for an application.  They immediately gave him an interview and hired him.  He has already earned enough money to buy himself an electric guitar which he has taught himself to play very, very well.

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My daughter the Princess chose as her character Mira Mirkestasia, a soul-gem wearing Kalashtar (a form of mind-reading sorceress).

Mira is my daughter’s character.  It took a while to convince the other two that their icky little sister should be allowed to play the game too.  They were worried that she wouldn’t be smart enough to keep up with what they wanted to do, wouldn’t be resourceful enough to help them overcome evil, and would be too squeamish to kill stuff and kill guys when it needed to happen.  So, she became a cerebral Kalashtar, one of those ESP brainiac characters who can do mind-reading and telekinesis because they share their body and soul with a bizarre creature who fled oppression in another dimension entirely.   In one adventure, she took possession of a mystically powered intelligent throwing knife named Xulo-Mira that would always hit the target (assuming she could make the dice roll) and would always return to her hand.  She became a reader of magic scrolls, a lover of magic books, and, in real life, she fell in love with reading, particularly the Percy Jackson novels of Rick Riordan.  Her grades in school improved.  She has become inventive, creative, and artistic… enough so that she was accepted into the special METSA program for high school next year where she will be able to get college engineering credits and do the things she loves to do while getting her high school diploma.

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The clay dragon the Princess made in art class and wowed the art teacher into blubbering incoherence with.

I cannot claim with a straight face that playing the D&D role-playing game allowed me to train my three kids into wonderful people.  That is just an opinion from a doting father who gets off on playing god in an imaginary universe.  But I have found role-playing to be a useful way to teach things.  Over the years I played a lot of RPG’s in the classroom and at home.  I used role-playing exercises on kids whose behavior needed a lot of molding and modeling.  It can be done in real life, and I am not merely a D&D nerd who only lives in a fantasy world of his own making.  I am a D&D nerd teacher who teaches through a fantasy world of my own making.

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Meanwhile, at the DMV

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Yesterday we went to the DMV to make a second attempt to get Henry a learner’s permit and make him into a driver of cars.  We had already been once, but this is Texas.  You need multiple forms of ID to get an ID.  After all, we might be trying commit voter fraud like those other eight people somewhere in the U.S.A.  (Former Governor Perry assures us they exist and are a major threat to the Constitution and our FREEDOM.)  So we brought a folder full of potential proof that my son exists and is currently present in this State, not including DNA evidence, but realizing we would probably need it.

I have been there before.  I do realize what kind of an alternate universe the DMV actually is.  They pack in 3,ooo people, including children, babies, Tia Carmen from Honduras, and random homeless people that the DMV applicants needed to provide moral support.  Then they tell you that everyone needs to take a seat because of fire codes, and they provide a generous twelve chairs for that purpose.  You have to be given a number to proceed.  But they don’t call those numbers in order.  And the time you first enter the infinite waiting room has no bearing on the time they finally call you out either.

So, a wait of three hours gave me plenty of time to observe, well… not stupid people exactly… but people displaying much of the basic and endearingly non-smart simplicity of the species.

Like the guy who pulled up in his sports car while we were still part of the 35-minute outside wait line still waiting to get in the door to be told by the officer guarding the twelve chairs that everybody had to take a seat because of the fire code.

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This simple citizen asked us, “Is this the line you have to stand in just to get in through the front door?”

Somebody gave him the more-polite version of, “No, Duh!”

“Oh,” he said, “Frog that!” Or possibly the less-polite version of that… and proceeded to back his car out again, nearly running over the young Asian lady being dropped off behind his car.  He roared out of the parking lot, apparently not needing a renewed license anyway, because white guys are obviously Republican enough that voter ID laws don’t really apply to them.  (I have wondered if a “heart Trump!” button would be enough ID to get you in to vote in Texas in the upcoming elections?)

Murphy Clan

Of course, there was also the lady with the five… or possibly seven… or thirty-two kids in tow who put her baby stuff on seven of the twelve chairs as she took her horde of non-license-getting little ones to the restroom and drinking fountain.  They have the lovely side-effect of extinguishing all nostalgic feelings for when my three kids were that small… or did I have thirty-two of them back then too?

And of course there were numerous random wandering folks who didn’t bother to read signs, or listen to the angry officer tell them where to go or what to do next, or even understand a word of English, because they all thought that even though they had no earthly idea what was going on, they were going to be given a driver’s license in Texas, and they were probably next at the counter.

After almost three hours of this we finally got to the counter.  There the exhausted and impatient lady that was working the desk took all of three minutes to discover the two things we still didn’t have to qualify.  It turns out you have to enroll in the driving school before you get the learner’s permit.  The opposite of the way it was five years ago when we got my older son his permit.  But possibly because last time we asked the driving school first.  So, I ended the very exhausting day at the DMV secure in the knowledge that I would have to do it all over again the next time I work up the courage to tackle the whole issue.

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