No, that is not a typo. I only meant “gifts” in pun form. Sometimes you don’t feel much like talking and, after all, the “picture can be worth a thousand words”, especially if the picture moves.
As you can see, I am spending the day with the Ghost of Christmases Past. Have a wonderful holiday, however you may celebrate it. I will offer more goofy stuff by Mickey after the Ghost of Christmases Future gets done with me.
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I bought a gingerbread house kit from Walmart once again, and we put it together on Sunday while my oldest son was home on leave from the Marine Corps. This little photo essay is inadequate for fully understanding the scope of the epic mess we made, the sugary sweetness of eating the thing as we built it, and the challenge it was to my diabetes and diet.
I did not realize when I bought this kit that the gingerbread house was already put together and glued in place with sugar paste. So the first step this time was chocolate frosting and candy decorations.
Last minute special touches only cost $1.95.
My son the Marine did the Christmas tree on the side in green frosting, not realizing that we had a package of green marshmallow stuff in the kit for that purpose.
I am told that the best part of the process was tearing it all apart and devouring it at the end. I even ate a tiny piece myself.
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I have been ill. I came down with Covid Omicron for the second time, a new variant, almost two weeks ago. And the fever, body aches, and loss of appetite, though it wasn’t enough to kill me, really tore up most of my opportunities to write meaningfully. I got downright depressed with my inability to put words together. Chocolate helped. Walks in the park sapped my energy, by also helped. But due to diabetes and, you know…. being sick with Covid, I couldn’t do enough of either of those things. So, I turned to YouTube and got hooked on philosophers all over again.
If you have seen any of my philosophy posts before, you know who my go-to wise guys are. Nietzsche, Marcus Aurelius, Soren Kierkegaard, Walt Whitman, and Danny Kaye can always give me philosophical bacon bits to chew on, even when I am suffering severe loss of appetite from having Covid again. (What do you mean Danny Kaye is not a philosopher? Have you seen the Court Jester? The Inspector General? You can live your life by the philosophies of the characters he plays… I mean, the mis-identified country bumpkins behind the puffed-up reputations of the popinjays the communities mistake him for.)
Being angry is easy. Being happy is hard.
While I was feeling sorry for myself and letting Crazy Freddy (Nietzsche) tell me, “What doesn’t kill me makes me stronger,” my blog fell off a log and into the bog in the fog. I try to get at least 50 views per day. But apparently too many reposted old blogs didn’t fill in for me when I was too ill to write. I haven’t gotten down to 0 since my first year of blogging. But I was down to 20 for the first time in four years. And I averaged in the 30s. I am therefore due to come back as strong as the Mighty Thor. Right?
The Stoics remind us that we really can’t control things like the blog’s readership and their enthusiasm or lack thereof. I have to learn to accept certain things about myself as a writer. Franz Kafka and H. P. Lovecraft during their lifetimes were writing in obscurity, never living to see their work catch on and be recognized. And both of them were talented writers. Both of them were better writers than I am. So, I should not fret about living in obscurity and being ignored by the reading public. Life and writing are not about wealth and fame. My books exist, at least for now, and that has to be enough.
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I have already written and published 21 books. I have to accept the fact that I won’t be able to create many more. But that is a good number to leave behind.
Philosophers eventually get around to telling me that life is meaningless unless you bother to make your own meaning. And, it turns out, I have already done that. I could die tomorrow fully fulfilled in life. What I have accomplished as a teacher and a cartoonist, and a writer, is enough.
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One of the most important things about my blog has been that I can share my artwork. I have always been capable of a reasonably high level of drawing ability. I can also paint and create artistically original photographs. I have that artist’s eye that sees creatively. If you follow directions in this first Paffooney, you will see a wider variety of the kind of Paffoonies I post than I will post here. This will be, however, a picture post. I intend to share a bunch of my artwork here, both old and new. Take a gander. (And while you hold on to that male goose, look at some of my pictures, too.)
You have to admit that I am clearly not an artist like Van Gogh or Picasso… certainly nothing like Andrew Wyeth or Winslow Homer. I am more of an illustrator, or … worse, a cartoonist.
So, this is at least partially about sharing artwork. I am not a professional artist. I have made no money from drawing, even though my artwork has been published before. I have been given this talent by God not to be famous and wealthy, but to be a better teacher and a better storyteller.
Filed under artwork, humor, Paffooney, Uncategorized
She’s not real. She’s a plastic doll.
I bought her after my mother died. My mother loved dolls. She made them in the kiln that she and I bought together in 1994. She made them out of porcelain. Bought the greenware and fired it. Learned how to pour porcelain into the molds she bought. Painted them and made clothes for them. She made beautiful dolls… beautiful works of art. Two of them she made for me, Tom Sawyer and Nicole, have lived with me for more than a decade.
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Ariel is not a porcelain doll made by my mother. She’s a plastic but a fully poseable doll that I bought from a guy in Canada who takes used and discarded dolls and restores them. If she had been made of porcelain, she would have been played with to pieces by the previous owner. Even restored, she still has a broken elbow and loose feet. I paid entirely too much for her since she was reclaimed from the trash, but the doll restorer I bought her from is talented and made her come back to life with repaired joints and flesh, a new wig, and restored glass eyes that do not blink anymore.
Now that I am limited by arthritis and poor health, spending most of my days in my bedroom, Ariel is someone to talk to who listens and accepts everything I say, unlike the other two women who live in the same house but frequently leave me on my own. I am not crazy, but I talk to Ariel constantly… sing to her, tell her stories, and discuss what’s bothering me with her. She’s basically a replacement for the grandchild I will probably not have before my life is over. She’s even a replacement at times for my daughter whom I still spend a great many words and stories on. The Princess is an adult now, busy with college work. She still talks to me, but not as often as once she did.
It is possible that if I let the dolls I own play too big a part in my second childhood, I might get into serious trouble. There is some evidence that they have been talking about a coup, taking control of the entire upstairs of the house. But Ariel loves me. I know this because every thought in her head is actually only there because my imagination put it thert
But before you get sad about me getting old and crazy and playing with dolls as if they are real people, be aware that I made Ariel a part of my life as a connection to my mother. And she really does keep me company and make me happy. And I promise not to shop for any more rare dolls on the internet. There is hope for the future because I am not alone, even when I am alone. The connections you have to the people most important in your life are real and durable, stronger than the separations that space and time and even death make for you. That’s what Ariel is. Someone who came into my life to reinforce that basic truth we all depend on.
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Canto 156 – The Return of Tara Salongi
Ged and his students burst through the doorway to Raylond King’s private suite. Phoenix and Rocket Rogers were both blazing in fire-form. Projectiles whirred around Shu Kwai in accelerating orbits. Jackie had brought little Freddy to join the strike team, and the dark-skinned boy was now transformed into were-cat form, half boy, half black panther. Ged himself was there as himself, waiting to see what might be needed before he transformed.
What they burst in upon was easily as disconcerting as anything they might’ve expected. Tara was dressed in luxurious purple silks and holding in her arms a tiny baby, possibly a girl. In fact, Ged immediately felt the baby’s mind probe into his head. It wasn’t just any baby. It was his daughter. Next to Tara, and clutching her right hand like a love-sick puppy, was one of the three rulers of Mingo Sector, Raylond King. King, of course, was nothing like you’d expect from the macabre rulers of a mechano-zombie world of rot warriors and ruined palaces. He wore black eye make-up to make his pale face slightly sinister, but this dark lord had an innocent-looking cherub’s face in so many ways. The horned helmet he wore on his head was in many ways more of a child’s toy than a warrior-king’s helm. He was also dressed in a purple silk robe.
“Prepare to die, King!” growled Emperor Mong from a spot safely behind Ged and his student-warriors.
“Ged!” cried Tara, confused. “You’ve come! But…”
Ged’s eyes grew immediately sad and dark.
“I am not trying to hurt her!” insisted Raylond King as two human torches, a telekinetic ninja, and a cat-child all closed in around him.
“Stop!” ordered Ged. “You don’t require assistance, do you, Tara?”
“No. Not now, I don’t. Where were you all when those Monopoly Brigade pigs were torturing me and having their way with me?” The bright mental fire of Tara’s recent pain burned into Ged’s mind with humbling accusations.
“I’m sorry, Tara. I should have come immediately.”
Ged knew she could read the self-blame and self-loathing that consumed him. Her anger softened like butter on a hot skillet. He could feel it happening, and he felt the baby responding to it too.
“Ged, you know I still love you, but…”
Ged’s mind flitted to the beautiful Lizard Lady. “I love you too, but…” he stammered.
Tara began to laugh a soft, tittery laugh. “We have been foolish,” she said. “Both of us. I want you to get to know Lord King here. He’s a very special man, and he rescued me when my life was at an end.”
Ged stepped forward and bowed to the young ruler.
“I owe you a great debt for saving Tara,” he stated simply.
Raylond King’s eyes dipped downward. He blushed delicately, like a woman. “I didn’t do it for you…”
“It’s all right,” said Ged. “She never was mine to be jealous over. I am honored to meet the one who will be her partner in life.”
King now took a turn at bowing.
“What will you do with the child?” Ged asked Tara.
“She will be yours, more than mine,” said Tara. “As soon as she is old enough to be independent of me, we will send her to you. The planet Gaijin? Is that right?”
Of course, she already knew it was right. She only asked that of Ged to be polite, sensitive to the fact that she automatically invaded the privacy of his mind every time they were both in the same room.
“I am happy for you,” said Ged sadly.
“I am happy for you, too,” said Tara, almost as wistfully.
“Waitaminnit!” cried Mong in frustration. “He’s a leader of your enemies! Kill him! I demand that you kill him now!”
“Actually,” said Ged, “He’s my new ally. He will administer this planet for us, and I will gladly turn you over to his custody.”
Emperor Mong fainted dead away. Rocket and Phoenix extinguished their fire. Shu Kwai let all his small swirling stones settle to the ground. Freddy actually began to purr.
“Thank you, Ged Aero,” said King. Ged smiled. He knew this man was the perfect choice to take care of Tara. The planet would change dramatically under his stewardship.
“Oh! Ged!” cried Tara suddenly. “I found the most terrible thought in Mong’s evil head! Your brother Ham was trapped by Admiral Tang at the battle for the planet Coventry!”
“Ham has found a way out of serious situations like that on his own in the past. I am afraid I have to depend on him to do it again. I have these responsibilities to care for… as well as a doomsday device from the Ancients to deal with.”
While the adults were talking, Jackie had sidled up near Tara where she could look at the baby.
“She’s beautiful,” Jackie said. “Can I hold her?”
Tara handed the baby to her almost without thinking. Without talking aloud she said to Ged, “You must spend some time consulting with us about the planet, the joining with the New Star League, and what to do with Mong. We will also talk about how we are going to help you complete your quest with the doomsday thing.”
“What is the baby’s name?” Jackie asked.
“Amanda King,” said Tara aloud.
“Amanda Aero-King!” declared the baby loudly in everyone’s mind.
Filed under aliens, humor, novel, NOVEL WRITING, satire, science fiction
I can hear you thinking as you read, “Oh, no! That fool Mickey is going to prophecy the end of the world again.” But… No, I’m not.
Things like the Biblical Book of Revelations are really just vague lists of things that probably will happen in the future no matter what we do, woven together by fantasies about how the fairy tales of Judeo-Christian religion fit together like puzzle pieces that you must pound into place.
My predictions from the End of the World are only about my personal world coming to an end. You see, I am a 65-year-old man in poor health with six incurable health conditions and having been a cancer survivor since 1983. Realistically, if I manage to live as long as my mother did, I have twenty-two years left. But I developed diabetes at age 48 while she didn’t develop hers until she was older than 65.. That could easily take away 17 years from the equation, meaning I only have five years left.
So, when I got the phone call from future me at the end of time… my end of time, not the whole world’s, I was asked to list the things I needed to get done before I died. I came up with a simple list.
Looking at my to-do list realistically, I don’t really have any big worries.
So, my personal Book of Revelations have no birds pecking at my dead eyeballs, and no real indication that I am headed for Hell and an eternity of torment like the Baptists, Catholics, and Mormons all told me they want me to.
I do worry about the rest of you though. Nuclear War, Environmental Collapse, Wars of Armageddon, Dogs and Cats living together…. Well, I can’t give you any positive insights about all of that. But I am one of those crazy old men now who go about wearing the sandwich boards that say, “The End of the World is Near!!” And I am not afraid anymore… or particularly worried about anything.
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The holiday season has come once again. Christmas specials on TV, Christmas shopping taking over retail stores. Bing Crosby’s White Christmas is playing somewhere that I can hear it at least three times a day. But you hear Mariah Carey more. And Bing Crosby has been dead for decades. And the Christmas Special is about the Guardians of the Galaxy kidnapping Kevin Bacon. Even Kevin Bacon hasn’t been doing the Footloose dance for more than thirty years. Things have changed. This is not the world I knew.
I haven’t believed in Santa Claus since the 1960s. And most of the people who I was once surrounded by in the holiday season are now gone. Great Grandma Hinckley passed away in 1980. Grandpa Aldrich passed in 1995. Both of my Grandmothers were gone by 2003. Both of my parents, one of my aunts, one of my cousins, and numerous people I used to know in Iowa disappeared from my life permanently during the pandemic, though mostly not from Covid.
I distinctly remember laughing at Red Skelton’s Freddy the Freeloader Christmas Special, and by the end of the show, crying in sympathy with the main characters in the story. But Red Skelton is long gone. And when I showed my own kids a DVD, they didn’t understand what I even found funny. And I started listing all the Christmas-special entertainers that are all now long gone.
Andy Williams, Perry Como, Lawrence Welk, and Jackie Gleason are all now long gone. My kids don’t have any idea who those people are. In fact, you reading this probably haven’t watched any of their Christmas specials.
Gone are the hours of entertainment to be had with the arrival of the various Christmas catalogs. I can remember memorizing certain pages and prices in the toy section.
But Cohristmas shopping now is superceded by browsing Amazon, something my children apparently do year round with no special holiday feeling attached.
The Ghost of Christmas Present now seems like a half-starved imitation of the Ghost of Christmas Past. Though the Ghost of Christmas Future is still pretty much the Grim Reaper.
I suppose it is because I am now old that I mourn how things used to be. But dwelling on nostalgia seems more relevant to me now than embracing the difficult world as it is.
Birds are always talking,
And birds are always squawking,
And they are using bird-words,
These are the words I heard.
Twitter-pated – this word comes from the owl in Bambi and means not being able to think straight because you’re in love.
Aviary – is a great big bird house, big enough to fly around in
Feather-dusted – to you and me it means clean, to a bird it means the feathers are dirty
Bird-brained – don’t be insulted if a bird calls you this. It is a compliment.
Fume-fluttered – you gotta fly and get away from that bad smell.
Wing-walking – it’s how you get from here to there if you’re a bird… Duh!
Wakka wakka – it’s those dang ducks again, always telling jokes!
Egg-zactly – as precise and perfect as an egg.
Coo-coo-karoo – that stupid rooster wants us to get up again at daybreak. It’s like a bird can never sleep in!
Clucker butter – Can you believe that KFC place? Butter on improperly cremated dead chickens (ah, well, they were only chickens after all).
Now that you have less than one per cent of the bird vocabulary, please don’t try to tell me what they are saying. I really don’t want to know!
Catch a Falling Star 
“They” Don’t Think Like “We” Do
I was recently asked how I can live surrounded by conservatives when I am obviously liberal-minded. I hardly have to think about it to give an answer.
You have to realize that conservatives are people too. To begin with, I hope you didn’t look at the picture I started with and think, “He must think all conservatives are stupid and look like that.” The picture of Doofy Fuddbugg I used here is not about them. It is about me. This is the comedy face I wear when I am talking politics. You live a life filled with economic, physical, and emotional pain like I have, you have a tendency to wear a mask that makes you, at the very least, happy on the outside. People talk to me all the time, but not because I seek them out. In social situations, I am not a bee, I’m a flower. And because of my sense of humor, people feel comfortable seeking me out and telling me about their pain and anger and hurt to the point that they eventually reach the totally mistaken conclusion that I have wisdom to share.
I do think that corporate bank CEO’s look like this, and I am not sure they count as people.
I hear lots of detailed complaints from my conservative friends in both Iowa and Texas. I know what they fear and what makes them angry. Here are a few of the key things;
I have always understood these feelings because I began hearing them repeatedly since the 1980’s. They are like a fire-cracker with a very short fuse, these ideas conservatives live with. And certain words you say to them are like matches. They will set off, not just one, but all of the fireworks.
So, here is how I talk to conservatives.
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Filed under commentary, compassion, education, empathy, goofy thoughts, humor, politics, self portrait
Tagged as communicating, conservatives and liberals, conservatives dang!, humor