Today I needed to write something short and sweet to be done with it, and yet, actually do it. This was because I had to drive all the way from Dallas to the Air Force Base in Witchita Falls, Texas, to pick up my number two son to reunite him with his car so that he can drive to his new assignment at Eglin Air Force Base in Florida. Not a glamorous job to be sure, but necessary and useful.
On Tuesdays, I am now writing the 5th book in the AeroQuest series. I am greatly enjoying revisiting the terrible mess I made of the original book. Believe me, I am working hard to straighten out and make sense of the convoluted story and the plethora of comic characters. It is inspired by a cross between Frank Herbert’s Dune trilogy and Douglas Adams’s Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy.
The real news for today is that I am conducting a free-book promotion for my book Sing Sad Songs. This is a very good, very sad story about a boy who has lost everything and now must make a new life for himself in a new country, with a new family, and possibly a new girlfriend simply by singing sad songs.
But I didn’t really have enough time to work on a post for today. So, it ends here for today.
When he walked through my classroom door for the first time in August 1988, the start of his seventh grade year, Jorge Navarro was a tiny little third-grader-looking thing. But one of the first things he ever told me in English was that he was a cowboy.
He had two older brothers. Sammy was an eighth grader that year, and Jose was in tenth grade. So, I already knew his brothers. Big strapping lads. They didn’t speak English really well and couldn’t read. But they were smart in a pragmatic, workman-like way. They all three came from a ranch down in Encinal, Texas. Fifteen miles closer to the Mexican border than where I was teaching in Cotulla, Texas. But they were not Mexicans. Their grandparents and parents were born in the USA, and their great grandparents, and possibly further back than that had lived on the same ranch-land all the way back to when everything South of the Nueces River was Mexico. These were Tejanos. Proud Americans from Texas. Hard-working, dedicated to the ranch owners who paid them to do what they loved, getting the most agricultural benefits possible from the dry South-Texas brush country.
Jorge was, at the start, a little man with a big voice in a small package. He was smarter and could read better than either of his brothers. He could even read and translate Spanish, which, of course, was his native language. And he had strong opinions that you could not argue with him about. He was a cowboy. That was opinion number one. He not only rode horses, he fed them daily, curried them in the morning to loosen the dirt and stimulate the production of natural oils that kept their coats shiny, and he even told me about the times he bottle-fed newborn colts when their mothers were sick.
And he strongly believed that a boss, or a teacher in my case, should never ask someone to do something that he didn’t know how to do himself. That was opinion number two. And he held me to that standard daily.
You should never use bad language in front of a lady… or a teacher, was opinion number three. He had a temper though. So, unlike most of the other boys, on those days when he lost it, he apologized as soon as he was back in control of himself. It made the girls giggle when he apologized to them, but that was an embarrassed reaction. He impressed them. They told me so in private afterwards.
He had a cowboy hat in his locker every day. You never wore a hat inside. Strong opinion number four.
And when he was an eighth-grader, he almost doubled in height. But not in width. He was what they call in Spanish, “Flaco,” skinny as a rail. He was taller than me by the time in mid-year when he started competing like his brothers in rodeos. And he was good. Something about the way his skinny, light frame could bend and twist under stress allowed him to stay on a barebacked horse longer than his brothers, or even the older men. He was pretty good at roping steers too. But it was the bareback bronc riding that won him trophies.
This is not a story about someone overcoming hardships to succeed. It always seemed like Jorge was blessed with it from the beginning. But it was the fact that he did what was needed every single day without fail. You could depend on it. He had a code that he followed.
The drawing that started this story is one that I did for him. I gave him and every member of his class that asked for one a copy made on my little copier at home.
And he taught me far more than I could ever teach him. Jorge Navarro was a cowboy. And you couldn’t argue with him about that.
We get smaller as we age. Both physically and mentally and in terms of property…. smaller is what we get.
The car problem was solved by buying a new car (a new used car.) I bought a 2015 Ford Focus that I am quite happy with in spite of the fact that I will have to pay for it for 72 months and may well have to give up driving for medical reasons well before that.
But then the car problem got significantly complicated when the insurance company, instead of totaling the car that hit the pothole and giving me the current value of it less the deductible, decided to okay the repair of the transmission, in spite of the fact that the total cost couldn’t have been more than a few dollars less than the total value of the car. So, I will pay $800 to get back a beat-up car that I no longer want or need.
As a writer, I am also diminishing in my ability to produce output on my laptop keyboard. My mind is still churning out story ideas and daily progressions, but my fingers, arthritic and covered with numerous band-aids, can’t seem to control the typing anymore. Just typing this paragraph forced me to correct letters that seemingly for no reason appear in the wrong space, even in the wrong sentence, paragraph, and wrong page. How does that work? Muscle twitches? Not remembering where the proper letter goes? Or possibly the curser is simply wandering for no reason, highlighting and deleting things at random.
Just as the fairies I have been obsessively telling stories about lately have diminished from human-sized in the Middle Ages to three inches tall today, so too have I become much smaller as a storyteller than I was when I was teaching. I used to have 6 captive audiences 5 days a week. Now I have had 28 pages read on Kindle in the last week, and only made $2.25 in the last month as a writer. Definitely not challenging James Patterson for space on the Walmart bestseller display.
So, I am tiny now. Less well known than I was as a school teacher. Less wealthy than I was two weeks ago. And, if you measured me with a yardstick, probably shorter than I used to be too. Only three inches tall before you know it. And not even any magic to overcome my disadvantages with.
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!)
Catch a Falling Star 
The Diminishing Man
We get smaller as we age. Both physically and mentally and in terms of property…. smaller is what we get.
The car problem was solved by buying a new car (a new used car.) I bought a 2015 Ford Focus that I am quite happy with in spite of the fact that I will have to pay for it for 72 months and may well have to give up driving for medical reasons well before that.
But then the car problem got significantly complicated when the insurance company, instead of totaling the car that hit the pothole and giving me the current value of it less the deductible, decided to okay the repair of the transmission, in spite of the fact that the total cost couldn’t have been more than a few dollars less than the total value of the car. So, I will pay $800 to get back a beat-up car that I no longer want or need.
As a writer, I am also diminishing in my ability to produce output on my laptop keyboard. My mind is still churning out story ideas and daily progressions, but my fingers, arthritic and covered with numerous band-aids, can’t seem to control the typing anymore. Just typing this paragraph forced me to correct letters that seemingly for no reason appear in the wrong space, even in the wrong sentence, paragraph, and wrong page. How does that work? Muscle twitches? Not remembering where the proper letter goes? Or possibly the curser is simply wandering for no reason, highlighting and deleting things at random.
Just as the fairies I have been obsessively telling stories about lately have diminished from human-sized in the Middle Ages to three inches tall today, so too have I become much smaller as a storyteller than I was when I was teaching. I used to have 6 captive audiences 5 days a week. Now I have had 28 pages read on Kindle in the last week, and only made $2.25 in the last month as a writer. Definitely not challenging James Patterson for space on the Walmart bestseller display.
So, I am tiny now. Less well known than I was as a school teacher. Less wealthy than I was two weeks ago. And, if you measured me with a yardstick, probably shorter than I used to be too. Only three inches tall before you know it. And not even any magic to overcome my disadvantages with.
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