The planets and all the stars have their appointed ends.
Through science and observation and logical extrapolation….
We learn how small we really are in the vast universe around us.
And we see how impermanent everything is…
We are made from the dust of exploded stars. All elements beyond helium and hydrogen were formed in the flaming hearts of distant, ancient suns.
And when we die, we dissolve back into the elements from which a volatile and creative planet with a life-filled biosphere created us. And may decide to create us anew.
So, we will one day be mere dust again. Free to create something new.
We are but the words of the puzzle, making one crossword one day, and another anagram the next.
But the stories we make of those random, meaningless words…
Are the reason for existence.
And they are just as eternal and undying as anything else is.
The hills of Outpost had come alive with construction projects. The Lazerstone collective had found enough harmonic crystals to form ten million new rock men. They all looked like the original Lazerstone, but once separated from their original, they quickly developed personalities and intelligences uniquely their own. Lazerstone himself explained that the content of the native Outpost crystal, various minerals and odd bits of elements, made each crystal man different from the rest, just as snowflakes are unique from each other. The result was a vast and capable workforce who could build spaceships and defense installations in an airless environment without complaint. They were also highly capable of manipulating the planet’s rock formations to construct what was needed for defense.
“It is unbelievable!” swore Tron, “these rock men may have saved us from Tang and his Imperial Fleet! Arkin, I can never repay you for this.”
“I am lucky to be alive and glad to be able to help in this fight,” declared Cloudstalker.
“You got that right!” added the head of Ace Campfield bitterly. The head of the deadly bounty hunter and skilled assassin was all that remained of the Mechanoid menace.
“Shut up, Ace,” said Cloudstalker.
Tron, Arkin, Hassan the Elf, and the head of Ace Campfield were watching the intensive creation of defense facilities from the edge of the transparent dome that covered Tron’s pirate city.
Tron’s scarred face drew up in a sneer. He looked at the still-living Mechanoid head. “I don’t know why you keep that thing around.”
“He was someone to talk to on the trip here. Besides, I may be able to learn something about the enemy from him.”
“Yeah,” growled the head, “When the stars all go out.”
“If it were me, I would drop-kick that thing out onto the surface. He can talk to himself for a thousand years. How do you know he’s not secretly broadcasting everything he sees or hears to Admiral Tang?”
“Well, I guess that’s why I only kept the talking part. It’s small enough to scan completely and inside out.”
The head fell into grim silence.
“These rock men fit my armors perfectly,” said Hassan. “They will be a formidable fighting force.”
Arkin looked at the Peri intently, really noticing him for the first time. He marveled at the clever way the little child-like man had redesigned his artificial leg to operate like a Swiss Army Knife, with forty-two extra pop-out devices including a mini drink mixer for martinis. He also noticed how charming the creature was for being a genetically manipulated freak.
“You are quite an arms designer,” Arkin said to the elf.
Hassan smiled an extra-broad smile and looked a bit sheepish as he answered, “I don’t really like weapons, you know. The Peris believe that every story, no matter how much adventure and risk it has in it, should be about love. All life is a page in the Great Story. I don’t object to making things that might save someone in battle or prevent a serious injury.”
“Hmm. I see. I don’t know how necessary the defensive part will be to Lazerstone soldiers. They are pretty much impervious to harm as it is,” said Arkin.
“Well, the armor allows the wearer to fly and protect against plasma bolts,” said Hassan.
Arkin nodded. That was a very good thing for his side in the upcoming battle. He was glad this creative little goober was on their side. The elf was not a great warrior or anything, but he was a good little man to have on your side. Arkin couldn’t help but feel something paternal towards this child-like little man. He was reminded of his own son, Devon, growing up away from his father on the distant planet Arriseah. It could easily all end very badly. Even with the help of these crystal soldiers, Admiral Tang had the resources and strategic genius to wipe out all of these pirates. He knew he could die here and never see his family again. That had never stopped a good idea before, though. He meant to see this through, no matter what the cost. He smiled at the brooding head of the assassin, Ace Campfield.
“We are gonna win this, Tron,” said Arkin. “I know we will.”
“I wish I could have your optimism,” Tron answered. “Any realist will tell you, we are probably doomed.”
“We can’t fail,” said Hassan simply. “The good guys always win. The creator made it so.”
Arkin nodded as he looked at the elf. It was the way he had always felt put into words. Let Admiral Tang come soon! He wanted to see how this would play out.
What is the use of Kartoon Kops? I mean, why do we possibly need cartoon policemen with rubber whack-bats, squirting ink guns, and face pies? Why, to control cartoon misbehavior, of course.
If I work on the roof of the house because the shingles are weather-damaged, and then I walk off the end of the roof, and I just stand there in the air because I know better than to look down, I am breaking the law of gravity. I deserve a strawberry pie to the face for that crime. (Not blueberry pie, though. I’m allergic to blueberries.)
If I run in place and my legs go faster and faster until they look like blurred leg-colored circles, and then I take off, faster than a speeding bullet, leaving only poofy clouds behind, I am breaking the law of acceleration and inertia. I deserve a blast of black ink in my face for that.
And if I put an extremely hot towel on my face, and Bugs Bunny is my barber, my face will come off in the towel and leave the space on the front of my head blank. I will be breaking the law of… of… well, keeping my face on in public. Rubber whack-bat bruises are in my future for that.
“But, Mickey!” you say to me, “The real world doesn’t work that way!”
“Well, duh! Didn’t I tell you this was about cartoons from the start?”
Yesterday I finally found and bought a used car to replace the dead one in the shop. I am thinking this is the last car I will ever buy. Of course, that’s what I thought about the last car I bought, the one now awaiting the coroner’s report about its death by cracked transmission. The Fiesta is dead. Now, I hope the new 2015 Focus will be the car I end my driving career in.
As Mickey’s go, the one who is writing this is a moderately interesting example of the breed. Still, there are things you probably ought to be made aware of. A sort of precautionary thing…
First of all, this particular Mickey is an Iowegian. That means he comes from Iowa, the State where the tall corn grows. It is a prime reason why his jokes are corny and his ears have been popped (oh, and he does actually have two, unlike the picture Paffooney where only one is showing). His fur is not actually purple. If anything now, it is mostly silver-gray. But the Paffooney is a magical portrait, and purple is the color of magic. He has a goofy, and sometimes fatal grin. You may not be able to prove that he has ever actually grinned someone to death, but it is likely he could always dig somebody up.
Another irrefutable fact about this Mickey, unlike many many Mickeys, is that he used to actually be a public school teacher. He taught the little buggers for thirty-one years, plus two years as a substitute teacher. He did twenty-four of those years in middle school… twenty-three of those in one school in South Texas. His mostly Hispanic students managed to teach him every bad word in Spanglish… err, Texican… err, Tex-Mex… or is it Taco Bell? Anyway, they taught him every bad word except for the word for cooties… you know, piojos. He learned that word from an old girl friend.
A despicable thing about him… (you know despicable, right? It’s that word that Sylvester the cat always uses) is that he actually likes kids. That’s just not normal for someone who teaches them. Teachers are supposed to hate kids, aren’t they? But he never did. It is true that he yelled at them sometimes, but he never did that because he hated them. He did that only for fun. And he actually apologized to kids sometimes when they got into behavioral trouble, because he said it was the teacher’s fault if kids are bad, and, besides, the kids are so surprised by that, that they forget all about the behavior and can be flammoozled into acting good.
The last and most wicked thing you need to know about Mickey is that he cartoons up a storm sometimes. He loves to draw everything that is wacky and weird. He has more goofball colored pencil tricks than a Charles Shultz and a Dr. Seuss rolled together in a sticky lump with a George Herriman stuck on top in place of a cherry. He steals ideas and techniques from other artists and steals jokes from comedians, undertakers, and random juvenile delinquents. He also puts together lists of wacky oddball details that don’t quite fit together and weaves it into purple paisley prose (somewhere in this whole messy blog thing he has also defined purple paisley prose and how to make it… in case you were curious.)
So there you have it. The Truth about Mickey. The sordid, simpering, solitary facts about Mickey. The straight poop. (wait a minnit! How did poop get there? Not again! I thought I had cured that!)
Children are a resource that we, as a people, cannot live on without.
If we stop having children, nurturing children, raising children, providing children discipline and education, entertaining children, guiding children, and, most of all, loving children, in eighty or so years, human beings will be extinct in this universe.
How many universes are there with humanity being extinct in them? It is impossible to answer. But if there is more than one universe, there is more than one.
When I was a child myself, family farms were still the rule in Iowa. Couples would try for lots of kids to help with the farm work. Chores! I fed animals. I went with my grandfather to the feed store, the hardware store, and the hatchery. I drove a tractor. I walked bean fields and pulled weeds. I mucked out a hog house once (and believe me, once is enough for a lifetime.) I have slopped hogs. I shingled a house and a garage. I painted the family house (in town, not Grandpa’s farmhouse.) As a child, I helped my uncles who were farmers, and worked for other farmers in the area. I was just as important as fertilizer to the maintenance of the world I lived in. (I did not say I was important to USE AS fertilizer. They would’ve had to kill me to use me that way. But my work was a part of what made the land yield plenty.)
I was left, as a child, with the distinct impression that we were meant to live in the land as a part of the land. Nature was our friend. We didn’t cut down all the trees and pave over everything like the city folks did. The kid who never went skinny dipping was rare indeed.
There once were people who knew they lived with the land, and they were good stewards of the land. They knew if the land was not living well and healthy, then neither would they live well and healthy.
But I am not arguing that we should go back to the world of the 1960s. The work I did in the land back then is now mostly mechanized and done by machines, computers, automation, and factorization. But we can teach our precious children the values of old to use in new ways. If we don’t, well… I hope the AI Terminator Robots of the future will have a happy life without us.
Rosemary Hood was a bright, blond seventh grader who entered my seventh-grade Gifted English class in September of 1998. She introduced herself to me before the first bell of her first day.
“I am definitely on your class list because my Mom says I belong in gifted classes.”
“Your name is Rosemary, right?”
“Definitely. Rosemary Bell Hood, related to the Civil War general John Bell Hood.”
“Um, I don’t see your name on my list.”
“Well, I’m supposed to be there, so check with the attendance secretary. And I will be making A’s all year because I’m a werewolf and I could eat you during the full moon if you make me mad at you.”
I laughed, thinking that she had a bizarre sense of humor. I let her enter my class and issued her copies of the books we were reading. Later I called the office to ask about her enrollment.
“Well, Mr. Beyer,” said the secretary nervously, “the principal is out right now with an animal bite that got infected. But I can assure you that we must change her schedule and put her in your gifted class. The principal would really like you to give her A’s too.”
So, I had a good chuckle about that. I never gave students A’s. Grades had to be earned. And one of the first rules of being a good teacher is, “Ignore what the principal says you should do in every situation.”
But I did give her A’s because she was a very bright and creative student (also very blond, but that has nothing to do with being a good student). She had a good work ethic and a marvelous sense of humor.
She developed a crush on Jose Tannenbaum who sat in the seat across from her in the next row. He was a football player, as well as an A student. And by October she was telling him daily, “You need to take to me to the Harvest Festival Dance because I am a werewolf, and if you don’t, I will eat you at the next full moon.”
All the members of the class got a good chuckle out of it. And it was assumed that he would. of course, take her to the dance because she was the prettiest blond girl in class and he obviously kinda liked her. But the week of the dance we did find out, to our surprise, that he asked Natasha Garcia to the dance instead.
I didn’t think anything more about it until, the day after the next full moon, Jose didn’t show up for class. I called the attendance secretary and asked about it.
“Jose is missing, Mr. Beyer,” the attendance secretary said. “The Sherrif’s office has search parties out looking for him.” That concerned me because he had a writing project due that day, and I thought he might’ve skipped school because he somehow failed to finish it. When I saw Rosemary in class, though, I asked her if, by any chance, she knew why Jose wasn’t in class.
“Of course I do,” she said simply. “I ate him last night.”
“Oh. Bones and all?”
“Bone marrow is the best-tasting part.”
So, that turned out to be one rough school year. Silver bullets are extremely expensive for a teacher’s salary. And I did lose a part of my left ear before the year ended. But it also taught me valuable lessons about being a teacher. Truthfully, you can’t be a good teacher if you can’t accept and teach anyone who comes through your door, no matter what kind of unique qualities they bring with them into your classroom.
Some days simply nothing goes right. Some days things go so wrong that a couple of bad days turn into a bad week which then morphs into an unlucky, really bad month. So it is on a bad Friday.
A quick and messy explanation; my hoopy old automobile hit a pothole. The pothole broke the transmission. The repairs seemingly are going to cost more than the car is worth. The insurance wants to total the car. But my son in the Air Force bought my wife’s car a while ago. And he now needs his car to go to his post in Florida. So, my family has gone from being a two-car family to a no-car family in a matter of three weeks. This next week my wife has a job to drive to. My daughter has a class to go to twice in the next city to the East. I don’t have a usable toilet to use in our house, and I need to walk to the nearest public toilet in the grocery store. That’s a lot of Uber and walking we didn’t have to do a year ago.
I am endeavoring to get the destroyed car dealt with. The shop where it is now sitting wasn’t the first choice of the insurance company. So, they arranged a tow to another shop. But the tow truck and the shop where the car currently is had a big misunderstanding and that sudden cancelation became my problem. It took an hour and a half on the phone to straighten out the mess. The car won’t officially be deceased until the 19th. But the coroner will most probably declare it still dead.
And the attempt to get a new car derailed today too. I have been waiting to test drive a Ford Focus I found at Carmax since Tuesday. But, it turns out, the car couldn’t pass a pre-test-drive emissions test, and when they went back to check the paperwork from previous owners, they discovered a problem that requires investigation. So, I have to go through the car search for a used car all over again.
But, although the crisis of the family cars is reaching a double-deadly deadline, it is a bad day that isn’t all bad. The St. Louis Cardinals lead their division by seven and a half games with two weeks left in the regular season. I am pre-qualified for financing at Carmax in spite of having a Chapter 13 bankruptcy from 2017 to 2021 and having no credit rating at all. So, even from the depths of this bad day, I can see future sunshine over the next couple of hills.
Catch a Falling Star 
What Will One Day Be…
No king rules forever.
No man we know of lives eternally.
The planets and all the stars have their appointed ends.
Through science and observation and logical extrapolation….
We learn how small we really are in the vast universe around us.
And we see how impermanent everything is…
We are made from the dust of exploded stars. All elements beyond helium and hydrogen were formed in the flaming hearts of distant, ancient suns.
And when we die, we dissolve back into the elements from which a volatile and creative planet with a life-filled biosphere created us. And may decide to create us anew.
So, we will one day be mere dust again. Free to create something new.
We are but the words of the puzzle, making one crossword one day, and another anagram the next.
But the stories we make of those random, meaningless words…
Are the reason for existence.
And they are just as eternal and undying as anything else is.
And there-in lies the reason for hope.
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