Being Old Enough to Know Better…
I am the man from the Setting Sun,
Come to the future to deliver the past.
What does that even mean, that silly little two-line poem I wrote twenty years ago? Am I not old enough to know better than to create a snippet loaded with goofy contradictions? Apparently not. But I am old enough to deliver the past. I have been around long enough that I remember when President Kennedy was assassinated. I saw Neil Armstrong take that “small step for man” on the surface of the moon. I have learned a number of lessons from the past. And as a writer, I can deliver those lessons in the form of stories. I was born in a different century. I have been around for more than half of one… approaching two thirds. I have collected all kinds of wonderful things in my goofy old brain. And make no doubt about it, with six incurable diseases and being a cancer survivor since 1983, my Sun is about the set. So, I have a mission, to open the eyes of people who are too foolish to avoid listening to what I have to say, or to read what I have written.
I saw The Sound of Music starring Julie Andrews in the Cecil Theater in Mason City, Iowa in 1965 when I was not yet ten years old. I heard the song My Favorite Things for the very first time on the old black and white Motorola TV set in the clip I posted at the start of this post. Kukla, Fran, and Ollie was a puppet show I never missed on Saturdays if I could help it. In a world before video games and computers and even color TV, kids still had priorities. And my world was definitely a world of imagination.
Captain Kangaroo and Mr. Moose
Fess Parker as Davy Crockett, and then as Daniel Boone
Paul Winchell with Jerry Mahoney and Knucklehead Smiff
So, what kind of knucklehead must I be to think younger folks would want to know about any of this stuff from the time of dinosaurs and black-and-white TV? I write books that are basically genre-breakers and about way too many different things to make sense to adults. As a result, I classify myself as a Young Adult novelist, a writer for children… but not the beginning reader kind, or the early chapter-book kind… the kind like Huckleberry Finn, To Kill a Mockingbird, Light in the Forest, or Dicey’s Song. I write books about what it was like to be a kid in the past… the 1960’s, 70’s, 80’s, and 90’s… last century. And I have some knowledge and expertise in this area because I was one of those teachers during that time period that got to know the kids in my classes. I made the horrifying mistake of actually talking to kids, asking them about their lives, and listening to their answers. I talked about all manner of things with all manner of kids… brilliant things and stupid things… with dumb kids, smart kids, smelly kids, charming kids, and the kids everybody else hated. You know… I did all the stupid mistakes that teachers who have no earthly idea how to do discipline would do, and got those kids to learn to behave at least halfway like human beings by being somebody they trusted and respected and… on rare occasions… believed. Right now I am working on Snow Babies. It is set in 1984. And I hope to be good enough of a Sunset Man to be able to deliver it to the future.
Filed under humor, NOVEL WRITING, oldies
Humor Without Insults
I am not one who can stand to watch Republican debates. I know the clown car is full to busting, but I can’s stand the idea that one of those narrow-minded, fact-free, duplicitous Bozos could end up being the next president. (Or fascist dictator, when you consider what “fascist” actually means, and what former President Carter has said about the U.S. not being a democracy any more.) If one of those clowns wins it, the true power will once again reside with the unseen ring master, like it was with the rodeo-clown George W. Bush and his secret puppet-master, Dick Cheney. And I pay enough attention to know that Donald Trump was so insulting to women during the debate, that Democrats can pick Beelzebub to run as their candidate and women still won’t vote Republican.
I watched the final Jon Stewart Daily Show instead. Stewart is more liberal than I am and uses a lot more bad words than I ever could, but his humor and politics are far gentler and kinder than anything coming out of the mouths of name-calling conservatives. They uniformly say terrible and untrue things about President Obama and Hilary Clinton. They don’t hold back from calling even their own Senate leader a liar (a la Senator “Slappy Happy” Ted Cruz.and Senator Mitch McConnell). The Donald is a master of the crude and inappropriate slam. Look at the unfounded claims he made against Mexicans and the cowardly way he impugned the honor of Senator John McCain. Jon Stewart mocks them by taking their own actual statements and putting them beside the verifiable facts to show the absurdity of their political beliefs and goals without casting insults. Yes, I love his turtle voice for aping Mitch McConnell, but there is a gentleness to his wit that shows affection for his subjects rather than laying waste to their psyches with crude insults and unfounded accusations.
I had to learn the kind of humor I’m extolling here as a classroom teacher. You cannot believe how fragile the little animals can be when you resort to calling them names. A growing, developing, vulnerable psyche cannot take the random bash and cruel cut the way an adult can (though even an adult shouldn’t have to). You have to learn to be funny by the surprising imagery you use, the comparisons with funny things, and the flat out absurd. And self-deprecating humor is the only kind of insult you can actually get away with. (I even learned that when a student grows to love and respect you too much, even insulting yourself to make a point is out the window.)
Humor definitely has its uses in the classroom. This classroom poster was used both to teach students how to write a quatrain of twin couplets, and also to teach them that classroom discipline was a matter of teaching them how not to be like cockroaches. I am not directly calling them cockroaches. Instead I am telling them that if they choose to use the thoughtless and rather dumb behaviors that are against classroom procedure, they are choosing to be like roaches. Of course, there is always the classroom clown like Steve-O Whoopsadoodle (not his real name, but a name he called himself) who glories in being like cockroaches. You also have to learn to laugh at them politely and give them their few minutes of fools’ fame.
So, to sum it all up, humor is a very useful thing in running the world and teaching things to others. It is why I always go for the joke in my writing. The place I am at doesn’t always have to be the happiest place on Earth, but it is a lot funnier and happier without the cruel and biting insult. (Sorry about earlier, George, you old rodeo clown). And if we can just be a little nicer to each other when we make fun, it might turn out to actually be fun. (You are welcome to find all the gaffs and mistakes I made in the old drawing above. I was still learning my craft in 1980. But please don’t call me names over it. I have had all the blue I can handle for one week. I used up the last of it in this last Paffooney.)
Filed under humor, Paffooney, writing humor
Terry Pratchett, the Grand Wizard of Discworld
image borrowed from TVtropes.com
I firmly believe that I would never have succeeded as a teacher and never gotten my resolve wrapped around the whole nonsense package of being a published author if I hadn’t picked up a copy of Mort, the first Discworld novel by Terry Pratchett that I ever encountered. I started reading the book as a veteran dungeon-master at D&D role-playing games and also as a novice teacher having a world of difficulty trying to swim up the waterfalls of Texas education fast enough to avoid the jagged rocks of failure at the bottom. I was drinking ice tea when I started reading it. More of that iced tea shot out my nose while reading and laughing than went down my gullet. I almost put myself in the hospital with goofy guffaws over Death’s apprentice and his comic adventures on a flat world riding through space and time on the backs of four gigantic elephants standing on the back of a gigantic-er turtle swimming through the stars. Now, I know you have no earthly idea what this paragraph even means, unless you read Terry Pratchett. And believe me, if you don’t, you have to start. If you don’t die laughing, you will have discovered what may well be the best humorist to ever put quill pen to scroll and write. And if you do die laughing, well, there are worse ways to go, believe me.
Discworld novels are fantasy-satire that make fun of Tolkien and Conan the Barbarian (written by Robert E. Howard, not the barbarian himself) and the whole world of elves and dwarves and heroes and dragons and such. You don’t even have to love fantasy to like this stuff. It skewers fantasy with spears of ridiculousness (a fourth level spell from the Dungeons of Comedic Magic for those fellow dungeon masters out there who obsessively keep track of such things). The humor bleeds over into the realms of high finance, education, theater, English and American politics, and the world as we know it (but failed to see from this angle before… a stand-on-your-head-and-balance-over-a-pit-of-man-eating-goldfish sort of angle).
Terry Pratchett’s many wonderful books helped me to love what is ugly, because ugly is funny, and if you love something funny for long enough, you understand that there is a place in the world even for goblins and trolls and ogres. Believe me, that was a critical lesson for a teacher of seventh graders to learn. I became quite fond of a number of twelve and thirteen year old goblins and trolls because I was able see through the funny parts of their inherent ugliness to the hidden beauty that lies within (yes, I know that sounds like I am still talking about yesterday’s post, but that’s because I am… I never stop blithering about that sort of blather when it comes to the value hidden inside kids).
I have made it a personal goal to read every book ever written by Terry Pratchett. And that goal is now within reach because even though he is an incredibly prolific writer, he has passed on withing the last year. He now only has one novel left that hasn’t reached bookstores. Soon I will only need to read a dozen more of his books to finish his entire catalog of published works. And I am confident I will learn more lessons about life and love and laughter by reading what is left, and re-reading some of the books in my treasured Terry Pratchett paperback collection. Talk about your dog-eared tomes of magical mirth-making lore! I know I will never be the writer he was. But I can imitate and praise him and maybe extend the wonderful work that he did in life. This word-wizard is definitely worth any amount of work to acquire and internalize. Don’t take my convoluted word for it. Try it yourself.
borrowed from artistsUK.com
Filed under book review, humor, NOVEL WRITING
Numbers!
“In fourteen hundred and ninety two, Columbus sailed the ocean blue…” a very bad thing for the Native Americans it turned out, and in 1942 Hitler threatened the Jews of the world with annihilation at a speech in the Berlin Sportpalast in January of that year. 1942 and 1492. What does it mean that my house number is 2914 Arkady Street? Who is doomed to die?
Don’t you think I know how crazy that is? Numbers can’t possibly mean something like that. Can they? But all my life I have been plagued by a confluence of numerological signs and connected meanings. And I don’t think I am alone. Perhaps it is even a fairly common mental disorder. Triskaidekaphobia is an irrational fear of the number 13. And Friggatriskaidekaphobia is fear of Friday the 13th. Is this a rational fear? Maybe it was for the Knights Templar, because on Friday the 13th in 1307 Philip IV, King of France arrested virtually all the Knights, confiscating their fortunes and torturing them, then putting them to death after forcing them to confess to blasphemies. And this was not the origin of the superstition. There were 13 people present at the feast of Passover in the Upper Room on Nisan 13 (of the Hebrew calendar), the day before Jesus was executed on Good Friday. When the 13th person left the other 12, that person was Judas Iscariot. Either numbers do have consequences, or the world is just as crazy as I am.
Okay, so it’s the latter. The world is just as crazy as I am. But it is not all bad and dark omens. I was born during a blizzard in Mason City, Iowa in 1956. In 1985, the car I was driving had the mileage meter roll over to the point that the last four digits readable were 1956. That same day I made love to a woman for the first time in my life. I kept watching the odometer. In 1994 the last four digits (in a different car) rolled to 1956 on the way home from a date at the Pizza Hut in Pearsall, Texas. The woman I had dated married me the next January in 1995 and the first four digits turned to 1956 nine months later on the day my oldest son was born.
And Douglas Adams fans like me all know that the answer to Life, the Universe, and Everything is 42. This magic number is revealed in The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy trilogy that has more than three books in it. Do I actually believe there is anything to this numerology claptrap? Are we connected to the universe by numbers and equations through science, particularly physics? Do numbers have mystical values that can be interpreted for our own benefit? No. Yes. And maybe, I just don’t know for sure yet. I believe in magic. But I also believe in science. Equations measure reality, but only through words can we define it. Did I make you laugh? Did I reveal myself to be totally bonkers? Did I make you actually think? Again… No. Yes. And maybe, I just don’t know for sure yet. Unfortunately, there were 513 words in this essay… so I added this extra sentence.
Filed under autobiography, humor, Paffooney
How to Reason With Stupid People
Okay, I know… I keep promising that I will never resort to insult humor, and then I go and write mean-spirited stuff about Donald Trump and other Republicans. But I need to point out that as a middle school English teacher for 24 of my 31 teaching years, I had to talk to a lot of stupid. And I am not being mean when I say that. Unformed, immature minds are full of misinformation and wrong-way pig-headedness. Those are both synonyms of “stupid”, aren’t they? And I have the further disadvantage of being a freakishly high level of smart. I have a lot of experience dealing with stupid.
And it often begins with, “Well, I know you are very, very smart, but I have common sense!” That’s how the argument started this morning with my beloved wife. When we are wrestling with financial and health and family problems, we always start with the assumption that I am completely wrong and headed for disaster. An acceptable compromise is when the two of us talk it out for an hour, with me listening and agreeing and her laying on me a thick layer of sometimes-aromatic common-sense solutions. We reach a compromise, by which we mean I accept that she is right and I am wrong. And then we talk about the yes-buts. “Yes, but have you thought about the consequences of that expense when it comes to the APR on your credit cards?” “Yes, but if you talk to your boss that way, would she consider firing you?” “Yes, but if you give that prized possession to our son as a gift of love, will he be resentful if you take it away again as a punishment for a minor error?” Sometimes the common sense people have to be gently reminded that their simple solution might need to be looked at from the back side as well. (Don’t get me wrong. I am not calling my wife “stupid” here. She is not. And I am not looking to make a fatal mistake in my blog.)
It helps when talking and reasoning with stupid people that they know you really love and respect them. When I have to talk politics with my more Republican relatives, well, I have to be very reasonable and polite. Some of them are clinging to toxic candidates that, if they elect them, are going to do the exact opposite of what is good for people in their socio-economic group. Ted Cruz and Donald Trump are intentionally playing on the fears and prejudices of people that are thinking with their “lizard brain” instead of their higher-level thinking functions. It helps them to see that you care enough to explain things like “socialism” and “labor unions” and “taxes” in simple terms that help them to grasp that there is a good side to those things as well as a bad.
A large part of the lives of stupid people is the pain and uncertainty that being a part of humanity brings to them. So many of them have no idea of the value of what they do and who they are. They are so caught up in the pain of being themselves that they never realize how much the world around them appreciates and loves them. They don’t understand that being stupid is the common condition of mankind, and just because they are not as smart as God himself, it doesn’t make them bad. Sometimes the only way to talk to stupid people is to stop thinking of them as stupid, and reassure them that you love them and you will do everything you can to help them. If you say it and mean it, they will not be stupid people any more.
“And that is all I have to say about that…” -Forrest Gump
The Uncritical Critic Likes to Read Books Too!
I told you before that I make a lousy movie critic because I watch anything and everything and like most of it. You don’t believe me? You can look it up through this link; The Uncritical Critic
I hate to tell you this, but it is almost exactly the same for books too.
The Paffooney is an illustration for a proposed collaboration on a children’s book. My friend and fellow author Stuart R. West (Stuart’s Blogspot about Aliens) had a story about three kids taking a balloon ride when they accidentally gave the goldfish bubble gum to chew ignoring their mother’s warning that dire consequences would follow. He decided the project was too ridiculous to follow through on, or at least my Paffooney power wasn’t up to making sense of his brilliant literature, and the book did not happen. And I am sorry about that because I couldn’t wait to find out how it turns out. I love weird and wild stories of all kinds. And, unfortunately, I love them uncritically.
So, what kind of books would a goofy uncritical critic actually recommend? Let me lay some bookishness on ya then.
Here is the review I wrote for Goodreads on Terry Pratchett’s The Amazing Maurice and His Educated Rodents.
I have always felt, since the day I first picked up a copy of Mort by Terry Pratchett, that he was an absolute genius at humor-and-satire style fantasy fiction. In fact, he is a genius compared to any author in any genre. He has a mind that belongs up there with Mark Twain, Charles Dickens, and William Faulkner… or down there as the case may well be. This book is one of his best, though that is a list that includes most of his Discworld novels.
Amazing Maurice is a magically enhanced cat with multiple magically enhanced mice for minions. And the cat has stumbled on a sure fire money-making scheme that completely encompasses the myth of Pied Piper of Hamlin. In fact, it puts the myth in a blender, turns it on high, and even forgets to secure the lid. It is funny, heartwarming, and changes the way you look at mice and evil cats.
This is a book to be read more than once and laughed at for the rest of your life.
You see what I mean? I uncritically praise books that make me laugh and think deeply about things at the same time. It is as if I don’t have any standards at all if something is brilliantly written and makes a deep and influential impression on me.
Here’s another book that I love so much I can’t be properly critical when I reread it. A Tale of Two Cities by Charles Dickens. I cannot help but be taken in by the unrequited love the dissolute lawyer Sydney Carton had for the beautiful refugee from the French Revolution, Lucy Manette. Tragic love stories melt my old heart. And I can’t help but root for Charles Darnay as well, even though I know what’s going to happen in Paris at the Bastille because I have read this book three times and seen the Ronald Coleman movie five times. I also love the comical side characters like Jerry Cruncher the grave-robber and hired man as well as Miss Pross, the undefeatable champion of Miss Lucy and key opposer to mad Madam Defarge.
I simply cannot be talked out of praising the books I read… and especially the books I love. I am totally uncritical as a reader, foolishly only looking for things I like about a book. Real critics are supposed to read a book and make faces that remind you of look on my little brother’s face when I had to help him use an outhouse for the first time. (Oh, what a lovely smell that was!) (And I mean that sarcastically!) Real critics are supposed to tell you what they hated about the book and what was done in such a juvenile and unprofessional way that it spoiled all other books forever. That’s right isn’t it? Real critics are supposed to do that? Maybe I am glad I’m not a real critic.
Filed under book review, humor, Paffooney
Is Mickey Truly Evil?
Let’s put Mickey on trial for a minute. The question is something that ought to be considered. After all, the lead Paffooney is a picture inspired by William Blakes’s poem Tyger (hence the major misspelling in the picture) which is showing the tiger from the poem, and which is often considered a portrayal of the Devil, right before the tiger eats the child sitting in front of him. He knew somebody might see it that way. And he colored-penciled the thing that way anyway.
After all, we trusted him to teach our children for over 30 years. And if someone like Florida Governor Ron DeSantis had seen how he taught them to read and write, the possibly-racist, definitely-narcissistic little fat man would be screaming, “Evil! There is evil in our classrooms!” After all, Mickey used books in the classroom where he was reading out loud that the Civil War really happened, and it was about slavery, and the Confederacy actually lost. And he read that to classes in Texas! In a book called The Glory Field, by Walter Dean Myers. A black author! Certainly a case of evil CRT (meaning Critical Race Theory, not Crazy Ron’s Theory.)
And that danged Mickey also used a book in the classroom that showed an innocent black man being put on trial for the rape of a white woman, which Atticus Finch proved he didn’t do, and then he almost got lynched and lost the case anyway, causing the black man to die for a crime he didn’t commit, thus making all Mickey’s white students feel unnecessary shame needlessly because of Mickey’s political woke agenda, which he apparently had before “woke” was even a thing. That was in a book called To Kill a Mockingbird, by Harper Lee, which hasn’t been banned yet for some unknown reason and is written by a white woman.
How many awful things does Mickey have to do before we proclaim him hopelessly evil?
And you know this guy has embraced nudism after he retired from teaching. NUDISM! That means he likes to be naked. And not just when he’s alone (though mostly it is that.) He has gone to private nudist parks to be with other naked people.
And he’s constantly drawing and posting pictures of naked people. Sure he writes books about how being a nudist is calming and centering and helped him overcome childhood trauma. And he never practiced it while he was actively teaching so parents wouldn’t have to worry. And he doesn’t post naked photos of himself in front of us like many Twitter nudists enjoy doing. But he always thinks and writes about naked people. Well, maybe not always… but too much.
And liberal teachers who think like that are dangerous. It automatically makes him a groomer (and I’m not sure if I have it right, but a groomer isn’t just someone who uses curry combs on horses… is it?)
The point of it all is… if we look at Mickey’s record carefully enough, we are sure to find something that we can execute him for. And that should make the little fat man in white boots from Florida appropriately happy as he ascends to be the next Republican dictator of the United States. Evil will have been thwarted.
Filed under Uncategorized
A Poem Is…
When you try to create a poem,
You find out that it is…
A cry of rage…
From your very soul…
Or a deep-bellied laugh…
From your very soul…
Or an untamable sadness and tears…
From your very soul…
And you cannot help but put it into words…
From your very soul.
Filed under Uncategorized
A Writer’s Work Ethic
F. Scott Fitzgerald, when he was ill and nearing the end, said he could only write a single page in a day. But it was an excellent page.
I am now entering that end-of-it-all Fitzgerald territory. Some of the best writing I have done, but very little of it.
I have been writing on the essay project, Naked Thinking.
And so, I am delving deep into the darkness inside. And there sits that never-ending festering battle between light and darkness. A writer knows how to accurately depict the hellish reality of things he has always kept locked away inside. H. P. Lovecraft found a lot of racist hatred and existential terror inside. Dickens found regret in love misplaced and the cruelty of men to lesser men. Mark Twain found grief at outliving most of his children and his beloved wife. There is a lot of yeast applied to leaven the bread of life in the interior of every writer. And most of it ranges from unpleasant to deeply disturbing.
And so I am nearing the end. I do not know how close. But I am writing like the dervish whirls, fast and furious and knowing I will do it until the dance is over.
Filed under Uncategorized
Catch a Falling Star 