Bob Crachit and Tiny Tim were a key part of Charles Dickens’ masterwork that really helped create Christmas as we know it in this 21st Century time of troubles. I drew this with colored pencils back in the early 80s. It is still one of the artworks I am most proud to have created. Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year!
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Lately I have been having memory troubles. You know what I mean, when you walk through a doorway with a definite purpose in mind.and then, on reaching the other room, you have no earthly idea what that purpose was. It happens to me regularly. In fact, I can even start writing a sentences, and then I… What was I talking about? Oh, yes. I need to practice writing some more spectacularly bad poetry, before I forget how to do it.
Re-minders
Sometimes…
My mind slips out of my left ear…
And I can’t remember things.
So, I have to search under the table…
To find my mind…
And then I remember that that’s not how a mind works.
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Forgetfulness
Tell me now, before I forget…
What was I supposed to remember?
Was it something religious, important, and good…
That comes towards the end of December?
Was I supposed to buy something for somebody then?
I wrote a note to myself in September…
Oh, gosh! How could I ever forget that?
Now the fire is nothing but embers.
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Finding Fairies in my Hair
Why do I have elflocks all snarled up in my hair?
Surely some fairies have been twisting it up there.’
But if I can catch one and make him confess,
He claims I don’t comb it, and that’s why it’s a mess.
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Doofy Me
If I forget everything I ever knew,
Would it be possible that I am still smarter than you?
Old Socrates said he knew nothing at all.
And so he asked questions from Winter through Fall.
I hope I retain enough brain to remember
That everyone needs to wear clothes in December.
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Yep, I still obviously remember how to write spectacularly bad poetry. It is my contribution to literature. Virtually all poets will be able to say, “At the very least, I am a better poet than Beyer.”
Filed under autobiography, goofy thoughts, humor, Paffooney, poem, poetry
You are probably already thinking, “What in the heck does Mickey mean when he says unvarnished truth?” And then also thinking, “For that matter, what the heck is Varnished Truth?” Which is a really good question.
Varnished truth could be like those decoupage projects from the early 70s that my two sisters did for 4-H projects to show at the county fair where you take a quote from somebody like Cardinal Richelieu or Senator Joseph McCarthy or Donald Trump or even Adolph Hitler and decorate it up fancy, glue it to a wooden plaque, and then varnish the bejeebers out of it. Of course, none of those would be true no matter how much varnish was sloshed over it… those names were chosen entirely for their comedic value.
Or you could decoupage the fake work of art I started this post with. I merely used a coloring-book app to fill in the colors by number, so it is not actually art by me. And layering varnish and polish over it would merely make the faux something seem more like real art. That’s Varnished Truth.
But the unvarnished truth often seems negative. It bursts bubbles. Like this unvarnished truth.
My new granddaughter is only pretend. She’s made of plastic. I have no actual grandchildren.
In point of fact, my whole life of late is pretend. I have been trying to negotiate with a small publishing company for two months to try to get my best books promoted at a book fair in New Orleans even though I couldn’t possibly be there in person due to health and wealth concerns. And, like all schemes from publishers nowadays, it is a little bit scammy with the amount of money they want me to pay for including my books and saying nice things about them to people who probably won’t want to buy them anyway. I am probably only a pretend author. And I spend my time mostly in my sick bed, talking to plastic dolls as if they were real children, even during a part of my Christmas holiday.
There are a number of things I want to say as unvarnished truths, but they are as hard to hear as they are to say.
There are rules in this world I live in that I refuse to follow;
None of those are rules to live by. Only to suffer and die by.
And I choose to refuse.
I learned as a teacher of many years in public schools that there is something valuable and loveable in every child, no matter what color, religion, reading level, personality quirk, or general ickiness factor they happen to possess. And every adult was once a child just like that too. Sure, some of them grow up to be MAGA Republicans, but even Donald Trump deserves a second chance… after serving at least the two life sentences he so richly deserves. Elon Musk, Bill Gates, and Warren Buffet too… and I just need a little more time to think about Jeff Bezos. Irresistible evil probably does fly to space in a rocket shaped like a penis.
I can be a nudist if I want to. I can talk to my granddaughter who is made of plastic, and she doesn’t argue with me when I talk to her like the rest of the people do. And if badness is meant to overwhelm everything in the end, well, the point is to live your best life while you are alive. I know I will… even if it is only a form of pretending.
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Canto 2 – Astrophel and Stella
Rogelio met Maria at the bus stop on the corner of Mockingbird Lane and Brookriver Drive just as they had planned in Mrs. Broadbent’s English class at the end of a long high-school day.
“You see it?” Rogelio asked, pointing across the street. “The toy store is right there, just like Fernando said.”
“Yeah, but nobody proved that it was the place where Yesenia disappeared.”
“They found her bloody clothes in the alley behind it. What more proof do you need?”
“Well, I’m going in to look around. Are you brave enough to go with me, Roge?”
“Anything you can do, I can do.”
The two high school freshmen walked across the street at the stoplight. The building was spookily in shadow in spite of the gray-white sunlight trying to penetrate an overcast sky.
As they entered the shop together, the old storekeeper looked up from his old, leather-bound ledger at the front checkout counter.
“Little old for toys, aren’t we?” the white-haired loser asked. It made Rogelio a bit angry.
“We came because of the disappearance of Yesenia Montemayor a month ago. We need to look around. They found her clothes behind this place.”
“So, here to solve a Hardy Boys’ Mystery, are we?”
“Do I look like a boy?” Maria said, now angry too.
“Hard to tell nowadays. Nancy Drew, then?”
“You are just so old and out of date!” said Rogelio.
“Why do you really want to look for clues in my store then?”
“Yesenia was his former girlfriend.” Maria’s glare was defiant.
“And you’re his new girlfriend?”
“Well… yeah, I kinda hope so.”
“Then you probably don’t want to go digging up his old girlfriend, eh? Not in your best self-interest, I’d say.”
“We need to find out what happened to her,” Maria said matter-of-factly. “…So people don’t keep saying one of us had something to do with it.”
“Hated her that much, did you?”
“No! I didn’t kill her and eat her or anything! And I intend to prove that.”
The old man looked at Maria with eyes magnified by his thick glasses. He looked like a Lechuza, a soul-stealing barn owl, that one. Rogelio gritted his teeth.
“Can we look around your store, or what?” he said.
“Help yourself. If you want murder clues, there’s an old decorative Day of the Dead skull by the back door. Pick it up and ask about the missing girl.”
“Tell the cops to do that too, didja?”
“Yep. They didn’t take me seriously though.”
Rogelio simply turned and walked towards the back of the store.
“Do you believe that guy?” Maria mumbled as she followed him.
“I don’t know. I don’t know if I believe you either.”
“What… what do you mean?”
“Well, that remark about digging her up and you talking about killing her and eating her.”
“I said I didn’t do that. You believe me, don’t you?”
“Let’s see what that skull has to say.”
Eerily, the skull was right in front of them as he said it. It was a sort of Halloween decoration for the Hispanic holiday of the Day of the Dead, Dia de los Muertos in Spanish. It was a white papier-mâché skull with brightly colored flower blossoms painted on it for eyes, and an intricate vine design all over it in bright pink and orange outlined with green and dark blue.
“Hola, mi sabio amigo, ¿qué me puede decir sobre el asesinato de Yesenia Montemayor?” He used the Spanish because he knew Maria didn’t understand very much of it. She was raised in an English-speaking house with an Anglo stepdad.
“Ella no está muerta. Ella un juguete con el que juega Imelda.” The skull seemed to be speaking with no moving mouth.
“What? She’s a toy?”
Maria looked horrified. “Who are you talking to? And what’s this all about?”
“I… I don’t know. The skull says she is not dead. She’s a toy, being played with by someone named Imelda.”
“Ahora, Steven jugará contigo,” said the skull.
“Roge, the skull didn’t say anything.” Maria was as white as a ghost.
Rogelio’s mind, however, was being invaded.
“I am Steven, Roger. I will be playing with you until we find out what Imelda’s game really is.”
“Get out of my head!” Rogelio shouted. But his lips didn’t move. And he couldn’t put the skull down either. Instead, he walked to the back door and opened it. It did not open into the alley as it was supposed to. There was a dark room there, with a staircase going upwards, and at the foot of the staircase was Yesenia, naked as the day she was born. And her dark-brown hair was all bleached white like snow.
“Steven! No! You cannot be here. Not now!” shouted Yesenia.
“Stay where you are, Imelda. I am coming to you!” Rogelio heard his own voice say.
“No, Roge! Don’t go out there!” cried Maria.
Rogelio shut the door behind him so Maria couldn’t follow.
Filed under horror writing, humor, novel, NOVEL WRITING, Paffooney
In the Midwest
where I spent my childhood and early youth, there is a great tradition of making fun of the exceptionally eye-bonking ski sweaters and Norwegian-middle-layer clothing that dads and grandads are given as presents less often than only neckties.
Yes, they are functional in the land of 100-degree-below-zero wind-chill. And they also work as defenders of your male virginity when you are in college in Iowa. But we make fun of them not out of derision, but of love. These are gifts, after all, that are given on winter birthdays and Christmas because the giver loves you. And the creative criticism of them is given only as a sign of appreciation for what they are truly for.
And if you tried to click on the X’s on this sweater of mine, and it did not immediately close on your screen, that’s because this one has special meaning. I didn’t get this as a Christmas gift. I inherited it from my father who died in November 2020. And it will keep my heart warm now until it falls apart, or until the time comes to pass it on to my own eldest son.
What…
this essay is actually about is the nature of good criticism.
The fact that this one is a red Christmas tree decorated with lawn flamingos is not the actual point. One has to look past the flaws and try to judge the effectiveness of how it achieves… or fails to achieve… its intended purpose… apparently to keep rats and small birds out of your yard… or from within a hundred yards of the thing.
And…
if I were to be offended by the revelation of Santa’s sexy black thong, then the thing to do as a proper critic is not to use my power to condemn it, but not to take up the critique of it at all. I mean, if you are actually offended by the thing, you would not want to offer an opinion that some would take as a challenge.
“What? You are telling me that I can’t like Santa’s sexy black thong? I will not only like it, I will love it! And I will buy one for myself.”
Following…
the philosophy of the uncritical critic, I would only review this green nightmare sweater of a Christmas mutant demon-dog if I really liked it. Of course, since you are seeing a review of it here, it means I am actually quite charmed by the sweater itself, and amused by whatever seventy-plus-year-old grandmama that has the kitsch-defiant attitude that allows her to proudly wear it… even if it was given to her as a gift by a relative she probably doesn’t really like but, never tells them so.
Doing book reviews one after another (as I have been doing for Pubby in order to get reviews on my own books in return) I have done a lot of the uncritical critic bit. Some of the people I have been reviewing the books of should never have tried to write a book in the first place. But do I tell them that? Of course not. If I have taken the trouble to read the whole book, even though it may be horrible, I am not going to pour cold water on their flame. I have done reviews with innumerable editorial suggestions of what would make it a better story, or a better non-fiction book, or children’s book, or poetry book, or self-help book… I have read terrible books of all of these kinds. And I know the authors did not rewrite the books as I suggested. But in my many years as a writing teacher, I have learned well that you must always point out the fledgling writers’ strengths and ask them to build on those. And some will. Besides the points I earn to spend on reviews of Mickian books, that is reward enough.
Ugly Christmas sweaters and the criticizing of them is how American culture works. Being good at negotiating that fact is a critical skill, especially in the Midwest. But nothing compared to having talent in the wearing of them.
Filed under book reports, book review, commentary, writing, writing teacher
“December is a time of year when we used to think about family. What gifts to buy and who they were for… Looking at the lights in the neighborhood and thinking, “How can they afford all that electricity?” Already having the tree up and debating how long it will stay viable after New Year’s Day… And then we became Jehovah’s Witnesses and celebrating Christmas and birthdays made God hate us and want to destroy us… No, that’s not how they actually say it, but they don’t like holidays never-the-less…And so, we overcompensate and buy kids gifts at random times and end up spoiling them more than the once-a-year crowd does their kids… But the point was always to let the important people in your life know that they were impprtant and were loved.
Children grow up, however, and eventually move on to their own lives and their own families. And the generations above us that always took care of us and looked down with smiles upon us get too old to continue… And we must say the permanent goodbyes… And you have to leave the job you love because your own life has become fragile and desperately at risk… And you discover you no longer believe that someone can reward you with everlasting life if only you are careful to only say the right god-approved words… But that’s okay. We don’t really want to live forever if we are being honest with outselves. Life is good. But like a good book, it needs to have a beginning, middle, and end.
And so, we must make the effort to light up the smiles of those we love while we have the opportunity, and look back on the faces never-to-be-forgotten of those who meant the most to us, and not to overlook the near-forgotten and those we too often value far less than we should… But most of all be thankful that this world we live in and our chance to live in it happened at all. It didn’t have to happen. But it did. And there would’ve been nothing if it hadn’t happened. God bless you. Be Happy. The Universe is unfolding as it should… And word-salad like this is tastiest in Merry Christmas salad dressing.
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Things are beginning to fail for me. I am old and getting older day by day. I am losing vision, mobility, and maybe the ability to write as clearly as I once did.
I finished my 45-book reading goal for the year on Goodreads today. So, I haven’t lost everything. Not yet.
So, have a Merry Christmas. And soon we will test the waters of 2023.
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I have lately been pretty much housebound, since I came down with Covid Omicron for the second time. Wednesday, however, I did manage to get out and see Avatar : The Way of Water in the theater nearest home. My son, home from the Air Force for the holiday, and my daughter went with me. They both liked the movie, just as they liked the first one 13 years ago. I, however, didn’t like it… I mean I didn’t MERELY like it. I LOVED IT! IT WAS BETTER THAN THE FIRST ONE WITH MORE LAYERED CHARACTER DEVELOPMENT, SERIOUSLY DETAILED WORLD BUILDING, AND MORE THEMATIC DEVELOPMENT THAT BUILT ON THE FIRST MOVIE! Okay, I overdid it with the yelling in all caps. Sorry. But the movie was brilliant. Better than Titanic or Aliens, or The Abyss. It was absolutely beautiful. I cried at at least eleven different points in the story before I lost count. And I laughed far more. It was a story that fed my soul.
And then I came home and spent the next two days watching YouTube critiques of it. Gol dang them trolls. Too many of them hate it. And not legitimate hate because James Cameron didn’t make a great movie, but petty personal poisons aimed at not liking a thing because others don’t like it and giving no real reason other than their audiences want to see hatred and insults more than anything else. That’s just how it is in this era of Trump, Republicans, people piling up on the border because Abbott doesn’t want to let brown-skinned folks to have the same access to things like asylum as white-skinned folks, and Covid pairing up with other serious flus and flu-like illnesses, and Elon flubbing Twitter, and… dang! Too many things!
This is a time for love rather than hate. For feeling connection with the universe instead of opposition to others. For regretting that I don’t have any grandchildren yet, and knowing that I probably won’t still be alive when they start to appear… if the world even allows it to ever happen.
We don’t celebrate Christmas in this household. My wife is still firmly a Jehovah’s Witness, the last in our family to still be that faith, but we still acknowledge over-commercialization and the ‘Biblical thing Witnesses believe about the evils of birthdays. Any Christmas spirit of any kind has to be kept silently in my heart. I still love and respect her, even though it is not always a two-way street.
I have been too ill to draw for a while, and I have gotten precious little written either. I made this art with the app listed in the corner. I have been reposting a lot of old posts to keep my string going. But I am still not dead. And still capable of thinking. Apparently opposite to the position the average YouTube movie reviewer is in. Umph. “Dead-brained trolls” is probably too harsh to say, but I honestly can’t think of another.
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Yes…
It means I am doing nothing.
And I am working really hard at it.
I do have a work in progress.
I have added to it once in the last week.
I think the expression, Iowegian as it is, comes from the expression “doing squat” which means “doing nothing at all” combined with “diddling around”, the non-sexual meaning of which is “dithering or only working in an ineffective way.”
I humbly confess that I am not that great of a researcher when it comes to linguistic facts and word origins.
I am much better at making things up and creating my own portmanteau words.
But I do have a very good ear for how people actually talk. Especially when it comes to Iowegian, Texican, Spanglish, and Educational Jargon-Gibberish. Counting English and Tourist-German, I speak six languages.
I also humbly confess that I make big mistakes. I have been working hard for a week on editing published books because of how an overreaction to one small inappropriate detail nearly destroyed one of my best books and now I have to deal with the impression some readers have that I write inappropriate stuff all the time.
Yes, I definitely erred…
I also realized I assume everybody accepts nudity as easily as I do.
They definitely don’t.
But naked is funny. And that is not a point about my writing that I am willing to concede.
Doing diddly-squoot can also result in really weird stuff like this Christmas-card composite of my artwork and Vincent Price’s 1967 Christmas tree.
Filed under artwork, autobiography, foolishness, forgiveness, humor, nudes, Paffooney, pen and ink, self portrait
Catch a Falling Star 
Infinite Monkeys
The theorem goes, “If you sit an infinite number of monkeys behind an infinite number of typewriters and let them tap away at random for an infinite amount of time, they will eventually come up with all the works of Shakespeare, and in addition to that, all the works of literature that have ever been written and ever will be written.”
Now, that is a daunting theorem. All the great works of literature by Mickey will be recreated by monkeys? And even worse, they will probably produce much better versions of all of it. Plus versions of it written in German, Mandarin Chinese, Urdu, and Californian (a really difficult language to translate.) All languages ever created on all the planets of the universe, as a matter of fact. The proof is there. It hinges on the mathematically precise definition of “Infinite.”
But you have to remember, infinite is the biggest number there is.
So many variations will be there in the truthfully infinite amount of stuff that infinite monkeys will produce that one version of Shakespeare’s Hamlet will have a final act where, instead of everyone dying or accidentally killing themselves, Hamlet will talk them all into putting on yellow chicken costumes and dancing with hula hoops as a means of acquiring absolution for their sins.
And a version of it will also exist where all the letter “B’s” will be replaced by “P’s” and all the vowels will be doubled so that Hamlet’s famous soliloquy will begin, “Too pee oor noot too pee, thaat iis thee quueestiioon…”
Accurately imagining the conditions required to have infinite monkeys tapping out infinite works of literary art means that any ridiculous thing that Mickey thinks of will have to actually be typed out by one or more (or infinite) monkeys in all of that infinite monkey writing. Somewhere Eugene Ionesco’s play Rhinoceros will have nothing but characters who are rhinoceroses at the beginning of the play who turn into human beings by the end of the play. (That is the exact opposite of the real French absurdist’s play, for those of you who did not have to read such stuff in college literature courses.)
In fact, in order to think up all the ridiculous variations of every work of literature would take Mickey an infinite amount of time. Mickey probably doesn’t really want to live that long.
‘
And then there is also the question of the physics of infinity. Is the universe itself, I mean, the one we all live in presently, actually infinite? Astrophysicists don’t think so according to current observable data on the astronomical model of this universe. And then you have the problem of infinite monkeys made of infinite matter. The universe would be filled to overflowing with infinite monkey-matter. And that leaves no matter or space to be used for infinite typewriters. The whole universe would be monkey-matter. And that would also mean no room for bananas, or, in fact, any monkey food of any kind. What is going to motivate the infinite monkeys to work for an infinite amount of time on their monkey literature which they won’t have typewriters to write on anyway?
And then there is another horrible thought that occurs to me. In this picture to the left, do you see the evil monkey? Believe me, if you have an infinite amount of monkeys, one or two (or possibly an infinite number of them) will definitely be evil geniuses.
And evil monkeys do evil monkey-business.
At least one or two (or possibly… you know…) evil monkey geniuses will disassemble infinite typewriters to make infinite doomsday devices. Typewriters will be re-engineered into computers and will become filled with monkey-viruses that will rewrite the operating software of the universe. And then, everything becomes an infinite monkey-villain paradise where the evil geniuses among the monkeys will live the perfect life for monkey criminals full of monkey crimes and monkey debauchery and the kind of infinite chaos that infinite monkey-villains enjoy.
This thinking about infinite monkeys leads to one very definite infinite-monkey conclusion; WE DO NOT WANT TO MESS WITH GIVING INFINITE TYPEWRITERS TO INFINITE MONKEYS!!!
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Filed under commentary, goofiness, goofy thoughts, humor, philosophy, strange and wonderful ideas about life