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It is highly probable that, based on this summer’s historically all-time high temperature records, we will very probably die in the future of way-too-much sunshine.

“Grandpa Mickey, you gotta be more positive!” said my imaginary granddaughter. “We don’t have any choice but to face the future the way it is. And the way it is is gonna be hotter for a while.”

Okay, she has a point. They have been predicting the end of the world for years and years. It was supposed to end in 2012 according to the Mayan Calendar. It was supposed to end with Y2K in the year 2000. The Jehovah’s Witnesses were expecting the end to come in 1978. And a majority of Christian humanity was watching for signs of the Second Coming in the year 1000 A.D.

We have come through existential crisis before. Two world wars, a nuclear Cold War, the Black Death, the Spanish Flu, Covid 19, and Great Aunt Selma’s Christmas fruit cake.

“Fruit cake, Grandpa?”

“If you were brave enough to eat it, Susu, there were grave consequences…”

“Oh.”

“But you are always talking about being a nudist, right, Grandpa? That’s a solution to hotter weather. We can take our clothes off to be cooler.”

There are things that we will have to do if we are going to recover from global warming. Granted, getting naked is not really a step we will be forced to take, though it couldn’t hurt. I can make a list of things that need to be underway as a method of battling climate-change Armageddon.

We need to start with the whole “Eat the rich!” thing. I don’t recommend that we literally eat them. Food poisoning would surpass heart disease, cancer, and Covid if we did. But the climate change crisis is their fault. They made profits by polluting, slashing expensive safety and environmental protection restrictions to line their pockets with more wealth than they could ever spend. So, since fighting the climate change battle is going to be hugely expensive, they should pay most of it. They would be investing in a future where we can all live happily a while longer and not even think about killing them, roasting them, and serving them for lunch. We could wait for the Devil to do that part in his kitchen.

We need to adapt to frequent severe storms and rising oceans. Cities will need to evolve into sealed domed environments, many of which will eventually be underwater anyway. The oceans will need to be de-acidified. That’s because we will have to replace cattle ranches and field crops with seaweed farms and fish ranches. Restoring coral reefs will be critical. Many of us will swim to the worksite, or travel in robotic underwater crawlers, speeders, and swimming vehicles. In the city, inside the underwater vehicles, and in water where we don’t need pressurized suits, we really don’t need clothing. Susu and I will thrive there.

We will also be building many carbon sinks of different kinds upon the land. We have to not only put purified oxygen and nitrogen back into the air on land, but we have to suck an awful lot of carbon out. Vertical forests will become a thing, where skyscrapers of many stories will be enclosed by trees on every level. We will need to become like Mowgli and Young Tarzan, naked in the jungle and at one with a new form of nature, one scientifically balanced and controlled. Weather control and air scrubbers will join windmills and solar panels on much of the Earth’s surface.

Of course, majority rules. If you all decide that a lifeless thousand-degree boneyard is the better choice so you can have your big cars, super yachts, and penis rockets for the short while that the world is burning, Susu and I are not strong enough to stop you.

“Don’t think about the bad stuff, Grandpa. You and I will be good together in the future you talk about. See, I’m naked and ready already!”

“This is Texas, Princess. It’s illegal for you to be naked on the city streets where old church ladies will see you. I’ll end up in jail.”

“But they won’t catch me. I’m not real. Remember? I will only ever exist in the future.”

“Yes, I know. But I am already nearer to 70 than I am to the average first-time-grandpa age. And my children are not likely to have any more children in the near future.”

“Don’t be sad. We’ll be together one day. I promise.”

Well, it doesn’t hurt to be positive. The future looks pretty bleak. But sunshine has a way of finding even the bluest souls. And warming them up. And a granddaughter is not impossible.

As Yogi Berra once wisely said, “It ain’t over till it’s over.”

Lately, I have been getting good signs from my book-sales dashboard at Amazon.. People have started buying and reading my books, at least, the ones with nudist characters in them. A Field Guide to Fauns and Recipes for Gingerbread Children lead the way with more than a thousand pages read on Kindle Unlimited between them. I have already made more than $8.00 total this month in only the last two weeks.

Like the male cardinal who shows up in our yard when good things are happening, it is a sign that it is not all done for nothing. $8.00 will make no real difference to my bank account. But it does show that people are reading my books. I know that this does not sound like the results of lots of readers reading, but remember, publishers, especially Amazon, always screw writers out of most of what they deserve when books are sold.

The most expensive of the books that are actually being bought are priced at less than $3.00, of which, most of that money goes towards Amazon’s e-book-making expenses (whatever those are). If I needed to make myself rich, I would never have become first a teacher, and then a fiction writer. Having readers is the thing. And these are a couple of my best books that are getting read.

So, I take it as a good sign. A symbol that I really am an author.

I took pictures that I drew back in the 70s and 80s and updated them with digital art, redrawing the pictures with a stylus, a touch-screen phone, and an AI digital assistant. I took pictures I drew of real-life people I knew and updated them. I can’t make them look much like the real people. I have turned most of these into fictional characters anyway, but I won’t use any real names.

Clint was a student whom I loved to hate. He held classroom farting contests in my fourth period class with his mindless minions. He gave me no end of trouble for two years. But when I finally got the relief of his graduation from 8th grade, he was the kid I hugged the hardest, hoping to make it hurt, and the kid I missed the most.

Shelly Cobble, one of the twin Cobble Sisters, was both a member of the Pirates and a nudist at home.

Sherry Cobble, the self-proclaimed smarter twin, was also a Pirate and even more of a nudist than sister Shelly. And, no, they are not based on my twin cousins. Yes, I am pretty sure that’s true.

Sherry again as a high school senior, still a member of the Pirates’ liars’ club and still a nudist.

Shelly again, same grade still, nudist still, Pirate still, but maybe the nicer sister.

Edward-Andrew Campbell, better known as the Superchicken, still in Junior high at the time of this picture.

Andrew Doble, Pirate, liar, not a criminal according to him, most likely a criminal to local law enforcement.

Dennis.

And so, I run out of time for more. But I like what I have done.

The first story that started all the naked stuff was the Superchicken novel which in many ways mirrored my own first experiences of nudism. Where Edward-Andrew accidentally ends up camping with the nudist Cobble Sisters and their family, and learns to like it, I accidentally ended up repeatedly visiting the clothing-optional apartment complex on Manor Road in Austin. All of it is about getting used to girls and the whole girlfriend business.

I was initially horrified by what I was caught up in. But it went on to be a thing where I got to know Ysandra and also Crazy Andrea in a way that was not sexual, and really not intimate, but definitely the kind of friendship that loosened the iron chains of traumatic childhood experiences… and helped me heal.

The nudist Cobble Sisters, as you have probably realized by now, are based on the nudist twins from my early years of teaching. I will not give you real names. If you feel the need to call them names in the comments, you can use Rani and Dani. Not even close to their real names.

But I understood twins well. I have twin girl cousins that are the same age as the younger of my two sisters. I have taught at least six pairs of identical twins and at least two pairs of brother-sister twins. one pair of maternal twins that were boys, and one pair of maternal twins that were girls (those are the twins that don’t look exactly alike.) I taught one pair of Vietnamese twins, one pair of African-American twins, and two pairs of Hispanic Twins. I have gotten Facebook wedding pictures and new baby pictures from the last pair of Hispanic Twins in the past seven years.

But the point is that the twins and their nudism have not only taken over my fiction, they have taken a bit of control over my life. Rani and Dani would have a gigglefit if they read this.

The Cobble twins play a key role in my “I-am-not-a-monster” novel, The Baby Werewolf. They play an even more important role in the companion book, Recipes for Gingerbread Children. Sherry Cobble is one of the multiple narrators in the book, The Boy… Forever. So, I have naked people in half of my books. Some of my friends and relatives wonder if that doesn’t spoil the stories. But I would beg to differ. I find it to be a key feature. And the nudists on Twitter and the Clothes-Free Life website, seem to agree. A Field Guide to Fauns is a book a wrote completely set in a residential nudist community. I wrote it for nudists. And I joined the AANR nudist organization to become a nudist myself.

So, this is all the overlong and overcomplicated explanation for why I am writing a book of naturist essays with lots of stuff with naked people in it. I will do my best to make Governor Abbott and Governor DeSantis hate and ban my books. When they jail me, it will be a badge of honor.

I used an AI digital assistant, an electronic stylus pen, and my Android touch screen to create these digital fairies. All of this is experimental, but all fun as a theme park.

Yeah, not gallery quality, but fun to do. I am, however doing this on a very small touch screen with a stylus operated by arthritic fingers. And I am now addicted.

The cool thing about digital art is you can make multiple changes and create multiple works of art from one art project.

I can take a photograph and use it as the base of the drawing, going over it to change photo image into drawing… or maybe cartoon.

You can then add or subtract things and make the drawing even more your own.

Manipulating things is easily done… and just as easily undone.

It actually becomes quite cluttered in the project picture file.

And I didn’t waste all my time on only one thing.

The pandemic put a crimp in my doll collecting. Not only did it take away my substitute-teacher job, and my parents… it took away both my doll-collecting funds and my ability to go to a store that sold toys. Toys-R-Us went away permanently.

But I celebrated both my survival of the pandemic and the Marvel Cinematic Universe surviving it by buying all their movie-themed action figures that only cost twenty dollars or less. The Black Panther cost $10, Dr. Strange and Wanda the Scarlet Witch came in the same box for $19.99.

I also go to Goodwill, ReSale, and other junk shops to buy discarded, broken, and abused toys that can be restored and made almost as good as new. (Although none of these required any repairs, and both Aquaman and the Flash were still in store boxes in December of 2021,)

Some of these come from the Walmart clearance aisle. You get them cheap there, often because, like the Rock playing Black Adam, their movie bombed and nobody wanted the toy but me. Or they were from a really old movie, or, like the Prince Namor figure from Wakanda Forever, they were just a character nobody wanted to buy.

And some characters get popular, then got ignored, and then became popular again recently. Hence, Batman meets Lady Bug from Miraculous.

Doll collecting is fun. And it is hard obsessive habit to kill. I know this because the pandemic tried and failed.

Yes, I’d have to say I am enjoying digital art. This portrait is nominally supposed to be Jenna Ortega. Of course, I did not make it look like her, even with an AI tool trying to help.

Here’s a digital update of “The Leap.” Do you remember what it looked like in colored pencil?

Remember Shannon who danced with me?

And “Basketball Player #3?

And KlownTown’s noble Piewhacker Police Department?

“The Spirit Stag?”

And “Rianna Going Bear”

Ah, I have been having a blast!!!

As a family, when our three kids were small, we were seriously addicted to camping. National parks, commercial campgrounds, and sometimes even in the back yard next to the pool. (We had a swimming pool until changing weather conditions changed that, cracking the pool and giving the city the excuse it needed to bully us into removing the pool and declaring bankruptcy over the expenses my week in the hospital after losing the argument with the city caused.) So, in the back yard it was okay to sleep naked outdoors and go skinny dipping in the pool accidentally in the middle of the night when you have to go into the house to pee. And it was great.

And even in national parks, you can get away with a bit of naked camping if you wait until after dark. And in Texas the risk of rattlesnakes was real. Except in one place we camped. Over East near Victoria, Texas there was a park with a man-made lake that had alligators in it… and water moccasins… and eagles flying above it. So, there were no rattlesnakes. The alligators and the eagles eat them. But the alligators and eagles don’t eat water moccasins. So, no skinny dipping after dark

We spent one Thanksgiving weekend at that park in Victoria with the gators, eagles, and water moccasins.

And we went with my in-laws, grandpa and grandma, and my sister-in-law and her second husband with their three kids and their fancy, air-conditioned motor home. And my parents, one of my two sisters, and my little brother and his wife, dedicated tent campers all. (And all of them dedicated to the idea of NOT being nudists.) It was an unusual Thanksgiving because my wife’s family is Filipino. And we had a lot of fried fish and fried hot dogs and friend stuff with Filipino names. And a turkey that my brother was determined to cook in an oil cooker that sat over the campfire which he had learned how to use at his place near Houston. The Thanksgiving campfire, oil-cooked-turkey experiment got flash-cooked in a sudden whoosh of unexpected fireballs, and the blackened bird meat ended up being a favorite of all the Filipinos. Myself, I was planning to eat hot dogs all along. I don’t like turkey. But it was a very warm November in Southeast Texas that year. And it was hot way late into the night. I was not allowed to sleep nude because… well, wife’s orders. She and my three kids left our tent every night before a half hour of tossing and turning in the humid heat had passed, and ended up in the motor home with the air conditioning. Leaving me to swelter in the tent alone. Which I didn’t do.

Having learned from the alien encounter in Iowa about the possibility of naked transcendental experiences, I spent four nights that holiday walking in my sleeping robe down to a picnic table on the shore of the lake. Water moccasins hunt in the water. So do alligators. So as long as I stayed at the picnic table on the land side, I could sit naked in the coolest night air available, occasionally glancing at the water hoping to see alligators whenever I heard a splashing. And I could look up at a star-filled, cloudless sky. And I thought about nothing, but felt everything. I was connected to the heart of the universe for four straight nights, and it cleansed my soul. I eventually felt cool enough to go back and sleep in the tent, but my mind stayed connected as I slept. And it was a memorable holiday experience for more reasons than just the blackened turkey story.

And most importantly, no relatives were mooned beyond their ability to cope with Mickey’s weirdness. Nobody even asked about it… almost as if no one had seen.

It Hin