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The Mayans predicted the world would end in 2012.  But they apparently didn’t realize that the Cubs would win the World Series and Donald Trump would be elected U.S. President in 2016.    The world as I knew it ended on November 8th.  So now that the four horsemen are riding and the world is coming to a close, I have to plan what it is I will do with my remaining days.

I do so love to draw pictures and tell stories.  I plan to be doing that when the Grim Reaper rides in on his pale pink horse.  (I do realize that the Bible only says it is a pale horse, but Death has a sense of humor, or Trump wouldn’t be president for the End of Days.)

I know old Lucifer isn’t really red, but let’s just call him “Lucy”, shall we?

I am writing a novel about a war between good and evil, a surrealist fantasy novel called Recipes for Gingerbread Children.  It is a novel about an old German Grandma (Like Great Aunt Selma, for those in my family that remember her).  It has Nazis, and evil fairies, and teenage nudists, and magical gingerbread cookies in it.

It isn’t a true story, but the characters in it are based on real people, and like all surrealism, it is presented as true even though it truly cannot be.

Oh, and there’s a werewolf in it.  And if I finish it, I will start another called The Baby Werewolf that shares many of the same characters and reveals a parallel story line that takes place simultaneously.

Torrie and Macey Brownfield.

I like the word “simultaneously”.  It is a very good word.  When I say it out loud, it sounds really snappy and makes me sound way smarter than I actually am.   And I like the idea of stories that tell the same things over again, but from a different perspective or a different point of view.    I am fascinated by the idea.  Oh, and “perspective” and “fascinated” are both very good words too.  “Fascinated” almost makes me sound like Mr. Spock when I say it out loud.

And if I live long enough to complete that literary goal, then I shall surely start another pair.

You see, I don’t expect the world to end for everybody.  In fact, I suspect the cold wind blowing in from the future right now is really only for me.  I am in poor health and life’s stresses are taking a daily toll.  It is true that President Elect Trump thinks climate change being man-made is a Chinese hoax, and that belief is probably going to spell the doom of all life on the planet.  But that won’t actually happen for quite a while yet.  Neither I nor Trump himself will probably live long enough to see the world reap the whirlwind that he has sown.  And I don’t expect my writing and publishing nonsense to amount to anything before the world ends, but it is the world to me.  So I grin and continue.  Such is the way the world turns.

After eight years of George W. and eight more years of Obama, we have gone through highs and lows that either prove that government can do a few good things, or a lot of bad things.  And we all suffer a little, or gain a little, or both no matter who is President of the United States.  There are many on my side of the question that fear this new one is going to be an orange-colored Hitler.  But really, Adolf Hitler was the only Hitler, and he was actually born with the last name Schicklegruber.  This new job and responsibility may change him.  Look how gray it made Obama.  Look how less smiley it made Jimmy Carter.  Look how much like a rodeo clown it made George W. look… um, okay, that one didn’t really change.  And Ronny Reagan was mostly preservative the whole time anyway.  But, anyway, the new job will change the Donald in some significant way.  And Steven Colbert is right.  We have to come together.  We have to hug a Republican here and there.  We have a mutual interest in getting along.

Maybe we need to look a little harder.

I have friends who voted for Trump.  They are probably only still speaking to me because their candidate won.  But losing is not the end.  They are at least still speaking to me.  And whether making fun of me or not, laughter cures all ills.

The Chicago Cubs beat the Cleveland Indians to win the World Series.  They blew a 5 to 1 lead and had to squeak out a one point win in 10 innings… with a rain delay in the extra inning… but they won!  No, they WON!!!!!!!!

But wait, Mickey, didn’t you say the world would end if the Cubs won?  Didn’t you predict they wouldn’t win for another 108 years?  Aren’t you a gol danged Cardinals’ fan?

You got that right.  The Cubs won.  The world will now end.  And I still live and die by the Cardinals’ fortunes.  But it is a case of the universe unfolding as it should.  After all, baseball is life.

You see, rooting for the underdog and being loyal forever, like a true Cubs’ fan, is something God expects in every day life from all of us… at the very least, from the best of us.  We need to feel a part of something bigger than ourselves.  And what is bigger than battling a baseball curse that has lasted for 108 years and overcoming it in the end?

How do you get Chicago Cubs to do the popcorn dance?  Either heat the field up to 250 degrees and burn their feet, or allow them to win the 7th game of the World Series.

The Billy Goat’s Curse began in 1945 during the World Series between the Cubs and the Detroit Tigers.  It was the result of Billy Goat Tavern owner William Sianis having his pet goat Murphy banned from the ball park because of pungent smells and possible talent at making hay farts out of eating too many Cracker Jacks, box and all.

Sianis got so mad that he sent a telegram to Cubs’ owner, Philip Wrigley saying, “You are going to lose this World Series and you are never going to win another World Series again. You are never going to win a World Series again because you insulted my goat.”

And I’ll be danged if that curse didn’t work for at least 71 years.  The Tigers beat the Cubs in 1945 and then didn’t make it back to the World Series again until 2016.  Murphy was one danged powerful goat full of mojo.   Where besides baseball do you get stories with high-octane low-calorie bull-puckey like that?

So now, the world will end.  There is nothing left to overcome.  The spirits of Ernie Banks, Ron Santo, Ferguson Jenkins, and Billy Williams can now be at peace whether they are dead or not.

But wait!  The Indians themselves haven’t won since 1948.  And have you heard of the Rocky Colavito Curse?  Maybe there is reason to live still.  And, who knows, the Cardinals may be about due to win World Series number 12 next season.  I guess I can’t die just yet.

This is Marta the Cat-Girl.  She is a denizen of the jungles of my imagination.

I had this post prepared ahead of time in case today was just too much with things I must accomplish, meetings, deliveries, and not feeling well to boot.  It helps me keep my vow to publish every day on this blog until November 30th, the completion date of two years of daily posting.

Some songs are so beautiful and so true, that I cannot listen without tears in my eyes and burning fire in my heart.

“I did my best, it wasn’t much

I couldn‘t feel, so I tried to touch

I’ve told the truth, I didn’t come to fool you

And even though it all went wrong

I’ll stand before the lord of song

With nothing on my tongue but hallelujah”

lyrics from “Hallelujah” by Leonard Cohen

You see, I believe in God… but my God is a bit bigger than most people’s God.  In fact, most of the people who come closest to what I believe are atheists.  My God is all of existence, the good and the bad both.  He is above my understanding, but it is my place to constantly try to reach for Him and know Him and, sometimes, even be Him.  Things that are impossible to accomplish, and yet we all do it on a daily basis.

My God does not punish sin.  My God does not reward faith.  My God does not ask anything of me beyond being.  But since I exist, and since I believe that love and beauty are good things, if I want the universe around me to manifest love and beauty, then I must make it so.  I must live as a loving person and a singer of beautiful songs… even if I can only sing silently in words on a page.

However did someone as dopey as me come up with something as dopey as this?  Let me tell you a story.

When I was ten, an older boy, a neighbor, trapped me, de-pants me, and abused me.  It was not love in any way.  It was sexualized torture.  He made me feel pain.  He took away my sense of well-being.  He made me afraid to touch or be touched by others.  He made me believe my own physical urges were a terrible thing that God would punish me for.  I wet my pants in school more than once, because I feared the boys’ bathroom at school.  I no longer tried so hard to make the other kids laugh.  I sank into depression.  And ultimately, I thought about ending myself in painful ways, ways I felt I deserved.

Reverend Aiken is the one in the cowboy hat.  His son, Mark, was my childhood best friend.

But I was blessed.  My best friend’s father was the minister of the Methodist Church and, eventually, both churches in our little town.  And in the late 60’s, the Methodists decided to be very progressive on matters of human sexuality.  When I was twelve, he taught all the kids in my age group about sex using a blackboard and a willingness to frankly discuss anything we needed to know.  Of course, he never quite figured out what my terrible secret was, in fact, I couldn’t have told him about it if I wanted to, the memory was repressed and I couldn’t call it up until that day in college when it all came back to me at age 22.  But he knew it was there.  He is the one that taught me that faith in God is about love.  It is not about punishment, especially not punishment for biological urges and physical needs.  People need love, and should never be castigated or humiliated because they seek it.  And he told me that I was not to blame for the acts of others.  The notion of original sin, that we are all born despicable because Adam goofed, is nonsense.  All people, even the bad ones, are God’s children and worthy of love.  People can be redeemed from anything.  And it is the job of worthy people to be the love that informs the universe.  We must do good deeds and love, honor, and, most of all, render aid to others.  Because that fills the universe with goodness and light.

Both the good Reverend Aiken and my abuser are dead now.  I deeply love one, and I forgive the other.  And it’s because that’s what God is… love and forgiveness.  It has to be so.

Did you listen to that song from YouTube?  If you made it this far through this rather difficult ramble without listening to it, I recommend you click on it and give it a try.  It is about King David sinning with Bathsheba, and repenting his sin before God.  And in the end, there was no punishment for him.  So, I, too stand before the lord of song with nothing on my tongue but Hallelujah.

As a writer, I have to get inside the skin of my characters and walk around for a bit.  I find this process transformative in ways I never expected.  Particularly with female characters.

As I have had to explain to numerous people in my life, I am not gay or transgender or in other ways different in regards to the gender I was born into.  But I have learned to accept those things as part of reality and elements of all of them exist inside my goofy old head.  Psychiatrists I have talked to (for many reasons unrelated to me being crazy) have suggested this means I am very empathetic and often feel the feelings of people I am talking with or reading about.  I understand that many writers and teachers are the same.

Valerie Clarke is the main character from Snow Babies and When the Captain Came Calling.

So as I work on stories with major characters who are female, I find female thinking taking over my goofy brain.

I have not experienced PMS or childbirth, but I have learned to see the world as little girls see it.   My Little Pony is a wonderful piece of didactic fantasy that teaches a girl that she can stand up for herself the way Apple Jack and Rainbow Dash do in a male dominated world, or that they can be the smartest person around like Twilight Sparkle even though she’s a girl.  Girls can be tough and smart even though the world tells them that it is not so.

And as I have tried to work with strong, self-reliant female characters who are not only tough and resilient, but empathetic, I have clearly demonstrated to myself that I prefer fuzzy-warm female thinking to the harsher kind of testosterone-fueled rage that one associates with male characters.  Hard and unforgiving, as character traits, lead to immovable objects being bashed by irresistible forces… and good and valuable things get broken.

An Interstellar Episode of the Mickey Mouse Club

So I am willing to state for the record, my mind is both male and female.  And though the other boys in the locker room may make fun of me for saying such a thing, I sometimes think the female part of it is better and more reliable.

When I was a kid in Iowa in the 1960’s Saturday morning television was the singular source of fuel for the imagination.  I loved the various adventure cartoons.  Jonny Quest, Space Ghost, Thundarr the Barbarian, and the Herculoids were the source of endless lets-pretend games in Granpa’s grove and in the old barn.

I suppose the characters I envisioned myself being the most often were Zandor and his son Dorno.  These two practically naked people lived on a primitive planet that had to constantly be defended from space-faring invaders and free-booters that had ray-gun technology on their side.  The only weapons that the practically naked barbarians were able to use against the villains were exploding rocks that were shot out of a slingshot by Zandor and Dorno and Tara, or out of the horn-gun on the head of Tundro the living tank-beast with too many legs.  Of course, Igoo the giant rock ape could bop ’em with his big stone fists, or Zok the lightning dragon, could zap them with tail and eye lasers.  And Gloop and Gleep, the living Play-Doh blobs, could also always shape themselves into flyswatters or springs or wet blankets, or… well, you have to see it to really get it.

I learned valuable lessons from watching the Herculoids and then pretending to be them.  First of all, I learned that back-to-nature, practically-naked barbarians were morally superior to those who solve their problems with technology.  I also learned that you can win fights with exploding rocks and yelling, “Zandor!  Look out!” at the right time over computerized flying robots with lasers and disintegration rays. There was also the thing about never knowing when an old Space Ghost villain like Brakk or Moltarr was going to show up, and you needed to be ready to defeat them by doing the same things to them that Space Ghost had done to them in previous episodes.  And for some reason, bad guys come with a psychological need to capture Tara or Dorno or both Tara and Dorno and put them in cages.

I hope there was nothing psycho-sexual embedded in those old episodes.  That would be a terrible thing to do to an impressionable young boy who loved to watch the cartoons.  Explain to me again, Alex Toth and Hanna Barbera,  why are Zandor, Dorno, and Tara practically naked all the time?  Oh, yes, it was a tropical planet.  It must have been hot there.

Anyway, I must end this homage now, before I start analyzing how this somewhat bizarre cartoon actually affected me as a child.  I loved the Herculoids.  I still love them… no matter how goofy and weird they are.

I have to confess, I turned the debate off halfway through.  It was mean, gray, and dehumanizing.  Pillory Clampton was easily the person that you should choose.  If offered a choice between tainted water and oozing green toxic waste when you are dying of thirst, you choose the tainted water.  It may slowly kill you, but it won’t turn you into a three-headed mutant moose-man.  Disenhearteningly, the mutant orange bag of testosterone and bile won the debate.  He manipulated the course of the debate to his talking points.  He got away with threatening to use the powers of the president to prosecute her and imprison her for the very thing that the FBI already said she couldn’t reasonably be prosecuted for.  He made his cruel and selfish points directly in her face.

When confronted with his terrible rapist fantasy caught on audio tape, he went on a rant about the supposed sex crimes of Pillory’s husband, suggesting that a man who indulged in his own goatish urges in the past with willing women who later changed their minds, is somehow more important to vilify in the press than what come out of his own piggy little mind in the past.  Maybe on this one it isn’t tainted water, but partially poisoned water in the first cup, but I think I would still rather drink it than what he offers in that glowing green cup.

And the subject of Obamacare came up.  The mad orangutan promised to repeal it.  He says it is a total failure and needs to be done away with.  And it is unfortunately true that premiums and co-pays have gone up to ridiculous degrees.  Especially in places like Texas where the lovely governor sabotaged it by not accepting the medicare expansion and all the conditions of the law needed to make it truly work.  But the orange one will take away the protections that keep me alive and off the street.  I have six pre-existing conditions.  Insurance companies hate people like me.  They prefer the ones who pay the premiums and never make claims.  But I can’t afford all the hospital bills and medical expenses my family has amassed over the last decade.  Heck, I am supposed to be on three different maintenance medications that I should be taking every day.  I am no longer buying any of them in order to afford buying food.  I have cut down severely on checking my blood sugar, because diabetic testing supplies have become unaffordable and the insurance refuses to pay for most of it.  I agree that Obamacare needs to be improved, but I will have to give up all hope of ever seeing a doctor again when I am sick if the old Mexican-hater becomes the next president.

I know my opinions count for nothing.  I have not been in good health, and probably won’t be able to go and vote because of it.  Still, I pray that the next president turns out to be a woman instead of the world’s worst malignant sausage on two legs.  Yes, you heard me right.  Donald is the worst wurst in my humble opinion.

Good ol’ Dave Winchuk sez, “You gotta forgive ol’ Trump for locker room talk.  He’s jes bein’ a man.