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A Beastiary for the Modern Classroom

There is a certain order to everything in the universe.  Beginning teachers or substitutes that have never done the job before may think otherwise, walking into a classroom populated by modern teenage beasties.  It looks like utter chaos to the casual observer, and it is.  But there is an underlying order (kinda like some of my sillier corkscrew-shaped paragraphs with all the purple-paisley prImageose and over-long parenthetic expressions).  You have to recognize the critters for what they are and then, you may have a chance to deal with them.

First on the list are the dominant predators, the bullies, the snarks, and the outright evil ones.  The most important battles you have to fight as a teacher are the ones for dominance in the classroom.  The teacher is rarely the dominator, and usually the dominatee, so you must proceed with great caution.  At the top of the pecking order are the Pepsi People.  I call them Pepsi People in a Coca Cola World because they are mainstream, but slightly different than the usual.  Actually, since most of these are actually female, we shall refer to them as Pepsi Girls.  They are the ones that usually dominate the modern high school classroom.  Their parents have enough money at least to buy them home computers and digital cameras so they can post pictures of their bare behinds on Myspace and Facebook.  They enjoy showing off boobies too, if they have them already, which they usually do.  There are a lot of prerequisites to being a Pepsi Girl.  It also helps if they are a cheerleader.  In Texas, cheerleaders sometimes run not only the classroom, but the whole school.  They put the pep in Pepsi.  In fact, many of them suffer from an excess of what I like to call Cheerleader Pep-itis, a dread disease that makes you strut, bat your eyes at boys, and give stupid answers to the teacher on purpose, because it is so not cool to be, like, you know… smart.  A teacher who gives one of these detention or, heaven forbid! a failing grade, will soon be facing parents who will make you recount every last detail of she-said-you-said-and-her-last-words.  The parents may be secretly on your side, but they are afraid of her too, and they have to say and do the right thing, or there will be trouble at home.  Pepsi Girls are large and in charge, even when they are little-bitty young things with a big mouth and cute behind.  You mostly deal with Pepsi Girls by letting them have their way… or by standing up to them and being told by the principal privately that you have to let them have their way.

Snarks can be girls, but this sort of foul American predator is usually a boy, usually on drugs for attention deficit disorder, and more often than that, the kid all the other kids in class would point to as the one in charge of the class.  Granted, he usually is the one that holds center stage the longest with his repetoire of snappy comebacks for teachers like, “Yeah, whut…?”  But they do actually yield to Pepsi Girls on all occasions when the two species come into conflict.  They are the thin, wired boy most likely to get up and dance for the class for no particular reason, or the fat one that sits in the far back of the room even if you assign him a seat in the front so he can continually interrupt lessons on helping verbs with helpful comments about the size of somebody’s mother’s body parts.  They are also the child most likely to disrobe completely in the middle of class, or hit the teacher in the back of the head with a large, juicy spitball and then claim that it was an accident, and besides, Jorge did it anyway, not the one that stands accused because you saw him chawing the wad of paper to make the spitball.  On many occasions I greet this kind of child at the doorway at the start of class with a detention slip and a magical pass to the office to talk with their good friend, the assistant principal in charge of discipline.  They will say, “WAITTAMINNUT!  I haven’t done anything wrong!”  To which I must answer, “Yes, that’s true, but I decided to give you detention anyway for the evil plan I can see you have already formulated in your head.”  To which they will reply, “oh… Okay.”  You can only win by getting them out of your classroom.

My favorites, though, are the Invisible Kids.  These are the kids that can sit in your classroom all year, and when they leave, you will no longer be able to remember what they looked like, sounded like, or even smelled like.  They keep it all in.  The only time you really have any trouble at all with them is when you ask them a question and actually expect them to say something out loud as an answer.  The only thing you will ever get from them is a note that says, “I can’t talk today.  I have acute larnigitis and can’t talk at all.  Ask me the question after school on Thursday, and I’ll tell you then.”   They never cause noise or disruption in the classroom.  They are more often the victims of the Snarks or the Pepsi Girls, and you really can’t blame them for trying to keep their head down and the big red target off their back.  I like them because, if I put in the work to draw them out, they are usually real people with actual lives.  They can be interesting and funny.  You never realize it in class, but these are also the kids that understand your jokes, and laugh at them with their friends at the mall after school is out.

I could go on and on with specific examples of all of these varied middle school anniemules, but it is a premise that is probably already starting to bore you.  I have that effect on people.  After all, I am an English teacher.  But let me leave off by saying, I’m really going to miss this job when I retire soon to drool in the corner at the local mental health facility (or become a Walmart greeter if I can manage to mindless smile).  It’s not the same when you are not the everyday teacher and get to know all the Pepsi People, Snarks, Bullies, Invisibles, Tecky Trekkies, Gomers, and Goths by their first names, and sometimes their middle names too.  I do hate them all, especially on Thursdays… but over time you learn to love them all too.

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The Little Fool

This poem was inspired by what it feels like to be a public school teacher… how it feels, how I’m treated, and what the main frustration is. The Little Fool

The Little Fool

The king’s favorite jester,
Is sitting in his tower,
Arranging all his puppets,
For the coming children’s hour.

His songs and silly stories,
Are dancing in his head,
But his life is unfulfilling,
And he wishes he were dead.

The pain, it comes from knowing,
That the songs he’s yet to sing,
Are filled with love and glory,
And the most important thing.

He knows the theme is crucial,
And hits the nail upon the head,
But the listeners are all screaming,
That he’s hit his thumb instead.

They really do not listen,
To the stories that he tells,
They think it’s not important,
Not even if he yells.

So he turns back to the children,
With a puppet in his hand,
And one more time he teaches
The best story in the land.

He cries out to the rafters,
“My life is lived in vain!
I tell a tale of triumph,
But my listeners are insane!”

And because no one will listen,
His face-paint all is blue,
And clown tears grace his visage,
There is no sadder hue.

But the Princess now is smiling,
And she shyly takes his hand,
And says, “Beloved Jester,
Please sing it once again.”

And the Jester keeps on trying,
For even a single ear,
Can take the Jester’s message,
And actually start to hear.

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Puff the Dragon

I am a cartoon nut.  I read them.  I write them.  I draw them.  Cartoon people have always been more real to me than real people.  A friend of mine asked to see what I could do because he wants to create a children’s picture book.  I drew Puff in the picture displayed here.  I can’t help it.  I have to draw when I have the chance.  I have had arthritis since I was eighteen.   I walk with a cane now, wearing a back brace constantly.  I dread the day when I can no longer draw.  It is coming too soon.  but for now, I have a dragon to help me fight off the coming darkness.  I know what you’re thinking… “It should say Puff the Magic Dragon!”  but it doesn’t because he is not.  There is no magic in the creation.  I have spent years practicing and learning how.  I can now create cartoons almost at will.  I just can’t crank them out on a regular basis, not without my hands hurting.  So, I have Puff to hang around with for a while, on my computer, on my drawing pad…  He’s a really good guy.  He’s just not a magic dragon.ColdPuff

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Phil Nork’s book

Phil Nork's book

This is the book that I recently read and reviewed. It is a lovely book and impressive in that it is a true story.

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May 4, 2013 · 2:42 am

My Review of Phil Nork’s Misguided Sensitivity

5.0 out of 5 stars                     A Ballad of Love and Roses, April 6, 2013
By 
Michael Beyer (Texas, USA)
 
This review is from: Misguided Sensitivity (Paperback)

A yellow rose for Lisa whom he met at the bowling alley and grew up with. Red and white roses for Mary, the first girl he thought he might be falling in love with. A yellow rose for Joyce who was a lover of women but relied heavily on Phil. And of course a red rose for Star, the one who… Well, to be honest, you need to let him be the one to tell you this ballad of beauty, women you could talk to and be friends with, and the meaning behind a gift of roses. In his book Misguided Sensitivity, Phil Nork takes you through a variety of very touching, sensitive, and warmly portrayed women that helped to shape his life as a man. From his divorced mother and nurturing grandmother, to the first date, and the first love, he takes us on a journey of growth, development as a person, and deepening of understanding across the broad and varied landscape of real-life relationships.
The book is very frank and open, giving us insight into the mind of a sensitive man who cares more about the woman than he does himself. He shares with us the life lessons he learned along the way, listing them for us in a slowly built set of rules for living. You need to read it for yourself.

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A Writer-friend reviewed my book…

Come read my review of Catch a Falling Star by Michael Beyer It is geared toward the younger reader (middle-school and up) but I enjoyed it too
 

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Wild Ride of the Space Cowboys (Short short story)

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Gyro was no ordinary Nebulon.    Nebulons, known to many in the Imperium as “Space Smurfs” for reasons long forgotten, were the child-like blue people who inhabited deep space in their living starships.  Many thought the blue skin, yellow hair, and red apple cheeks showed evidence they were not just humanoids, but human space travelers mutated by the exotic radiations of the nebulae where Earthers and other humans had first discovered them.  Gyro had the red cheeks, the blue skin, and the bright yellow hair, but he also had qualities that were extremely rare in Nebulons.  For one thing he was a Psion, a being with the right brain mutation to perform powerful brain functions that seemed like magic to the ordinary space traveler.  His own special psionic ability was even rarer than the usual Psion.  He could not only use telepathy, but use the power of his “inner eye” to see and alter the molecular structure and overall organization in any finite piece of matter.  In other words, he could change lead into gold with the power of his mind alone.  To Gyro it was just a matter of pushing the funny little atomic balls into new configurations in the creative imaginings of his “inner eye”.

Being a Psion inside the borders of the Galactic Imperium, the so-called “Thousand Worlds”, was a dangerous enterprise.  The Imperials were so afraid of psionic powers and what they believed they could do, that having psionic power brought an immediate death sentence.  That was the reason that when Gyro and his family, and the boy named Billy Iowa, also a Psion, had to leave the Pan Galactican Union, they had journeyed to the distant world of Gaijin to find the master of Psionics, the White Spider, Ged Aero.  Sensei Ged Aero had taken in both boys, given them a home, and taught them how to master the powers of the “inner eye”.

So that was the reason that Gyro now sat on the planet Cornucopia beside a huge dead bug and pondered the possibilities of escape for himself and Billy.  Master Aero and his Little Mutant Space Ninjas had come as explorers to the planet, and run afoul of the living plants, the Throckpods who inhabited it.  As Gyro and Billy had been heading back to base camp, they were attacked by a large group of the ugly sentient flowers and their pet gargantuan dragonfly.  Billy, being a good student of Ged’s Martial Arts training, delivered a jump-kick to the chitinous face plate of the dragonfly that put a hole in it, driving his foot right into the thing’s syrupy brain tissue.  It dropped dead next to them as Throckpods moved menacingly around them in a huge circle of weed.

“We are totally cut off,” said Billy.  “And I think they mean to kill us.”

“They’re flowers!  Flowers can’t eat people… can they?” asked Gyro nervously.

“They are intelligent flowers.  How can you know what they eat and don’t eat?” asked Billy in return.  His Dakota Sioux features scrunched up into a frown.  “I am at the height of my power.  Let them come!  In a sacred manner I resist them until my very last breath!  It is a good day to die!”

Gyro eyes got wider.  It was a very Indian sort of thing for Billy to say, but Gyro didn’t really want to hear it.

“You give me a few minutes to think,” said Gyro, “and I will find a way out of this mess.”

Billy resolutely turned to frown at the approaching grove of ugly flowers.

Gyro looked all around, and finally settled on the dragonfly.  In some ways, the huge insect already resembled an anti-grav cycle.  It wouldn’t take very much manipulation to…  Gyro’s imagination started turning chitin into glass-steel.  The dragonfly’s bowels were easy to shape into a small fusion powered engine.  The blood only had to be separated to get the hydrogen necessary for fuel.  With a few pops and crackles and one big POOM, they had a working grav cycle.

As Throckpods started throwing thorns, and Billy swatted them out of the air with Wushu defensive strikes, Gyro revved the engine and pulled Billy onto the upholstered seat behind him.

“Time to bug out!” said Gyro with a huge blue grin.  The grav cycle immediately and silently lifted into the air on anti-grav repulsor lifts.  Then, with a roar, they zoomed skyward, not only out of the reach of Throckpods and thorns, but also out of reach from the devilish dragonflies that were swarming towards them from somewhere in the eastern sky.

“I guess it’s a good thing you can change stuff like that,” said Billy, holding tightly onto his Texas sombrero, “but if you had never made that stink-language translator, maybe we would’ve never got into this mess.”

“I don’t think the translator is the big problem,” said Gyro.  “These flowers seem to have an agenda that doesn’t include looking pretty and smelling nice.  I think they don’t like us as plant-eaters and potential invaders.  After all, this is their world.”

“Okay,” said Billy.  “Get us back to camp and Master Aero, and I’m all for leaving this dirtball to the plants!”

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First Novels and Hard Lessons Learned

My first published book was a Science Fiction novel called Aeroquest.  It was a story that came about because as a young teacher I liked to play pencil and paper role-playing games with kids.  It started with Dungeons and Dragons in 1981, but because I was in South Texas at the time, Baptist and fundamentalist Texas, I had to change away from any game associated with dragons and demons.  I turned instead to the RPG called Traveller, a space game inspired by Star Wars and other Sci-Fi of the time.  Most of the characters in the book, especially the Mutant Ninja Space Babies, were actually the kids I played the games with.  They are characters that were created by them and given life by me.

51ABNW+RWlL._SL500_AA300_ Aeroq1 Aeroq2 Aeroq3 Aeroq4 Aeroq5 Aeroq6 Aeroq7

So, I sent this book to a new publishing company in 2007 called Publish America.  They seemed excited to publish my work.  They paid me an advance of one dollar.  They whipped me through a publishing process whereby I had to do all my own editing, proofreading, and supervising.  They provided no aid with anything.  They only tried to sell the book (for a grossly inflated price) to my friends and relatives.  Through this whole process, I made a total of twelve dollars.  Well, that didn’t seem like such a bad deal, except for the way mistakes were created in my story that were not there before.  They copyrighted my work and told me that they owned the rights for the next seven years.  I was originally supposed to include illustrations like I posted here, but decided to hang on to those when it became clear that I might lose ownership of them.  So, all in all, I got two free copies of the book, a chance to annoy all my friends and relatives, and twelve dollars cash.  That in exchange for two years’ work.

Aeroquest is the story of the Aero brothers, Ged and Ham.  They start out as hunters, travelling space in a safari ship that belongs to Ham Aero.  The third member of their crew is the super-goofy engineer, pirate, and fool named Trav Dalgoda.  They elude pirates, conquer a couple of planets, make enemies of the entire Imperium, and Ged becomes the teacher of a ninja school on one of the planets they conquer, the planet Gaijin.  I like this story.  It’s full of ridiculous and off-the-wall humor, adventure, and some of the weirdest characters I could possibly put together.  But, truth be told, it is not very good.  I did a much better job on my second novel.

It was a learning experience.  I learned that you do need to work with an editor to help you craft and polish the work.  You do need to work with publicists and social media experts to promote the book and sell it.  None of what I really needed to be an author rather than just a writer came through the PA experience.  I didn’t get soaked for a lot of bucks, but they cheated me never-the-less.  In another year I can have the novel rights back and I can try again with that story and related tales.  I got cheated, but I learned valuable lessons that I hope will serve me well as I continue to destroy my own life with the desire to be a story-teller.

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Flash Gordon is My Hero!

I have to say, there are few things that stimulate my imagination more than Science Fiction.  I was raised on it.  I read Brick Bradford daily in the funny pages for most of the sixties.  I loved anything and everything I could bet my hands on about Flash Gordon and Buck Rodgers.  I loved the Sci-Fi behind Spiderman and the Avengers.  And Star Trek!  My Dad didn’t let me watch either Star Trek or Lost in Space because it had monsters in it and would give me nightmares.  In spite of his loving restrictions that strangled me weekly, I saw those shows quite a lot.  Every episode of Star Trek in syndication during the 70’s!  And I got hold of a book in full color of Alex Raymond’s Flash Gordon from the Sunday funnies of the 40’s.  Play in the sixties was always about exploring alien worlds, fighting alien monsters and menaces, and battling Ming the Merciless and the forces of Darkness. 
My friend Marco the Methodist Minister’s Son would always take the role of Prince Barin.   We both secretly loved the beautiful Alicia Stewart, so she became Dale Arden or Princess Azura, even though she was never actually there.  Dickie Tyler, the local bad boy, was always drafted to play Vultan, leader of the Hawkmen, and when we could get fat, old Tiger Bates to play along, he was always Prince Thun of the Lionmen.  The funny thing that you may have already noticed is that we never had any badguys.  We didn’t fight each other as we Flashatized constantly through our little rural Iowa town.  We would explore and conquer the alien realms in the weedy ditches along the Rock Island railroad tracks.  Or we would establish a beachhead on the jungle planet of Sumpter Park woods, leading to an inevitable war of conquest against the dried ragweed Dragonmen of Mongo.  Once we collected alien spawn from the planet of the Rockmen, though they looked suspiciously like tadpoles from the snail pond down by the railroad underpass.  We tended to work together when we played Flash Gordon games.  It was different when we were World War Two soldiers or comic book heroes and villains.  Dickie made a great Green Goblin and Sheriff of Nottingham.  He had a chilling evil laugh.  But we were all on the same side in space.
I guess that’s why I always preferred the Sci-Fi games.  I got to be Flash Gordon because I could get the guys all working together.  Play was about story-telling for me, and I could enthrall them with what my mind’s eye saw.  Besides, they wouldn’t let me be Robin Hood or Spiderman.  I wasn’t the biggest and toughest kid in the group.  Now, as I work on my Science Fiction novel, I remember my Sci-Fi childhood fondly and try to capture some of the flavor of it in my prose.  I need to write as much as I need to breathe, and I figure, maybe I can bring our fractious, violent world together just a little bit more by making readers look outward for a bit of fun rather than looking menacingly at each other.  Besides, the resemblance between Ming the Merciless and Osama Bin Laden is all in my head, not yours.  Right?

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http://bennypdrinnon.blogspot.com

 

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Icarus

My teenage son and I have been through some rough times.  One time, though, we sat down and talked about him wanting to be a music composer.  I realized then that the things I have been through as a writer, being discouraged by other, more sensible people, having to defend my art, and not even being believed in by my own family, were the very things that he was talking about.  So I wrote a poem about it.  The central metaphor is Icarus from classical mythology.  I even suggested he use it as lyrics and turn it into a song.  Of course he told me how stupid that idea was.  So let me put the poem here and see what you think.

Icarus

“You never once believe in me,

You only hear the lie,

You never once believe in me,

You never even try,

You never see the good in me,

You only fear I’ll die,

You never hear words I say,

You never tell me why,

You never care how well I plan,

Or why I touch the sky,

You’ll never even lift me up,

You never let me fly,”

That is how it always was,

Between my dad and I,

Until the day I reached the sun,

And burned my hands on high,

And so it is he’ll never know,

How much his son was worth,

Because he couldn’t understand,

The day

I fell

To Earth.Imagehttp://www.bits-quark.org

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March 27, 2013 · 6:32 pm