Ode to Joy

My mother responded well to treatment. Her heart is doing better. Instead of going into hospice care to prepare for the end, she will be going back to skilled care in the local hospital where she can recover enough to be allowed to go home again. It qualifies as a miracle in my book.

In general we have come to expect life to be mostly a compounding of pain and sadness, back-breaking toil followed by disheartening disappointment. But, oh! Those times when we unexpectedly receive by grace those moments of ecstasy and purest joy!

It is like riding a dolphin naked in the open sea. There is a lot of salt water in your eyes. It is hard to hang on. And going underwater threatens your very existence. But the resulting leap into the bright sunshine and bracing air raises the power of your heart to feel the best of what life offers for you to feel.

And it is as simple as that.

Joy.

We live for love. And those moments when the clouds suddenly part and the sunlight shines upon us. We are, totally without warning, no longer alone in the dark.

So, please, today… won’t you be happy for me? You deserve it even more than I do. Today is a good day. Today there is joy in Muddville.

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The Inexplicable Explosion

There are good things that happen, and bad things that happen, both happening suddenly and in a very large way.

We tend to refer to that kind of thing as an EXPLOSION!

The biggest and most deadly explosion right now is the viral pushback on Emperor Abbott’s “No masks in school!” imperial edict. Or is it Grand Wizard Abbott of the Republican Empire of Texas? Whatever it is, kids are back in school, in the building, with a rule that no school district is allowed to mandate masks. And inexplicably the number of cases of Delta Covid in unvaccinated students is exploding. Who could have foreseen such a thing?

Of course, there is no suggestion whatsoever that ruling tyrants like Emperor Greg Abbott, or King Ron DeSantis in the Crackpot Kingdom of Florida bear any responsibility for this explosion. No one is suggesting that, since their kids and grandkids, and those of their wealthy friends go to expensive private schools, they would actually like to see a greater deadly outbreak amongst the children of the poor, minorities, and other people that might grow up to vote for Democrats.

But there are other explosions as of yesterday too. My car, coming back from Walmart made an inexplicable “Pop!” followed by coughing sounds and then an engine warning light on the dashboard. That was further followed by engine overheating and a necessary stop for engine oil at the Dollar Store. Miraculously, after the extra oil was put in and the car had two hours to cool, the thing worked normally with no red dashboard lights, or even yellow ones. Of course, in the near future, I will have to take it to a mechanic to be checked (even though I am certain they will find something wrong, and it will be expensive.)

But there has been a good explosion too.

For more than a year now, it has been my goal to get 50 or more views on this blog per day. It has been an uphill haul. I failed to reach that goal, it seems, at least one day of every week. But not these last two weeks.

Last week I topped 100 views every single day. Then I began noticing that I have at least 50 views every morning before I even wake up. And I have hit 200 or more five times this week.

Yesterday was 299 views by 177 visitors and 22 likes.

Why the sudden explosion?

ingI have noticed that my number-one-viewed post was called Nudist Notions. But it can’t be merely because those who are looking for porn clicking on the picture-search nudes. There wouldn’t be twice as many views as viewers if that were true. Besides, those looking for nudes can now basically only find the ones that have been there a long while now. Nothing has changed on that score. And nudists from Twitter have been finding my blog to be nudist friendly for a while now too. And there haven’t been any surges in nudist visitors that I am aware of.

So, the explosion is inexplicable. At least for now.

Maybe the algorithm has changed its mind about me and displayed my page more for two weeks. But that doesn’t ezplain it either, because… well, it’s Mickey’s blog. And Mickey don’t get no random good breaks from this universe. No, not Mickey the Unread.

Well, just in case you see this and want a copy of this month’s free-book promotion, here’s a link to that book which is good from today through midnight Monday

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Superheroes from the 60’s

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I was a comic book nut from a very early age.  I started collecting comics in 1966 when I was ten years old.  Almost as soon as I started collecting them, I began copying the drawings, copying Spiderman, Hawkeye, Captain America, Avengers, and Batman.  I am a comic book lover, and I am also a comic book plagiarist.  But I promise to use my own artwork and photographs to illustrate this blog post.  After all, I am illustrating being a copy cat.

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Cosmic Boy, Saturn Girl, and Lightning Lad in the style of artist Curt Swan in 1962.

My parents didn’t approve of kids with comic books.  I desperately wanted Spiderman comic books and Avengers comic books, like the ones I read in the barbershop every time I was waiting for a haircut.  But they had gotten wind of Frederic Wertham’s campaign against comic books two years before I was even born.  The learned psychiatrist insisted that comic books corrupted children with sexual images hidden in the artwork (oh, gawd, look where Saturn Girl’s hands are… close anyway), Batman and Robin were homosexuals trying to influence young boys to be gay, Wonder Woman was a lesbian who was into bondage.  This he said in 1954, but it didn’t really reach my parents’ ears in rural Iowa for another 12 years.  The result was severe limits on my comic book ownership possibilities.  But Superboy and the Legion of Super-Heroes were acceptable, as were Casper the Friendly Ghost and Scrooge McDuck.

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So, my copy above of Curt Swan’s work is from the Legion of Superheroes.  Superman was boy-scout enough to qualify too.  I could get by with Tarzan even though he was a mostly naked guy running around the jungles.  And time and money solve a lot of problems.  I was allowed to subscribe to Avengers and X-men and the Amazing Spiderman once I had field-work money to put towards it.  I drew lots of comic book heroes from that point onwards.

Superman 1

I learned how to draw men with unhealthy amounts of muscles, women with waists that would break in two with the amount of breastly boobage a teenage boy would pack on top, and numerous people who actually seemed to think capes made sense as a fashion statement.  I also learned how to do shading in pen and ink and foreshortening from master artists like John Romita Jr. and George Perez and Barry Windsor-Smith.  And I would be remiss if I didn’t give proper credit to Murphy Anderson and Jack “King” Kirby.  I know you don’t know who those people are because you are not the comic book nut I am… nobody is.  But believe me, they are masters of an American Art form.  And I will never be one of them, because even though I am almost as good as some of them, I chose to be a teacher instead of being a comic book artist, a thing I could’ve so easily succeeded at back in the 1980’s.  You should know this too…  I have never regretted making that choice.

Aquaman

Walker

 

 

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Murky Deepends

My mother is dying.

My sister called last night to tell me that this time, when she went into the hospital for her chronic heart problem, she would not be coming out again.

She is 87 years old, just half a year younger than when we lost her mother at 88. And at almost 65 it is not unreasonable to believe that I have to expect to lose my mother sooner rather than later. But I am still not ready to lose my mother.

See this ugly little hairy mushroom-guy? This is Murky Deepends. I started drawing him as a teenager. I needed to see him face to face… because I was a survivor of a sexual assault. I started drawing him after the phone call that kept me from killing myself.

And this picture of him that I drew today is the only picture of him that I still have. I may have drawn hundreds over the years. I drew him to tear up the picture, or burn the picture, or soak it in water and flush it down the toilet.

Murky is my depression.

And before I could use him as an illustration for this piece, I had to make sure I put a black box around him. No way can I ever let him escape again to grow and take over my life one more time. I cannot let him win.

I know he looks kind of sad and pitiful. But don’t feel sorry for him. He’s a stone cold killer. And if you look at him carefully enough, you may detect a smile on his face.

I am sad now about my mother. But it is okay to be sad. I lost my father less than a year ago. During the pandemic lockdown. I did not get to see him before he died. I did not get to attend his funeral.

My fear is that the same thing will happen now with Mom. I have no way to safely get to Iowa again. The pandemic is raging again in both Texas and Iowa with the Delta variant. My sister is the only one who can get into see her and be with her according to hospital Covid rules. (Mom does not have Covid. Only a weak and failing heart.)

And it is okay to feel sad. I have earned the right to be sad through 63 and three quarters years of love and devotion.

And Murky has no place in my sadness. Murky is depression. Not a feeling like sadness, but an absence of feeling, a numbness and incapacitation. So, I will keep him in a box or destroy him completely. I will get through this with the rest of my family, and Murky will not have any power over me.

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How To Write A Mickian Essay

mickeynose

I know the last thing you would ever consider doing is to take up writing essays like these.  What kind of a moronic bingo-boingo clown wants to take everything he or she knows, put it in a high-speed blender and turn it all into idea milkshakes?

But I was a writing teacher for many years.  And now, being retired and having no students to yell at when my blood pressure gets high, the urge to teach it again is overwhelming.

So, here goes…

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Once you have picked the silly, pointless, or semi-obnoxious idea you want to shape the essay around, you have to write a lead.  A lead is the attention-grabbing device or booby-trap for readers that will draw them into your essay.  In a Mickian essay, whose purpose is to entertain, or possibly bore you in a mildly amusing manner, or cause you enough brain damage to make you want to send me money (this last possibility never seems to work, but I thought I’d throw it in there just in case), the lead is usually a  “surpriser”, something so amazingly dumb or off-the-wall crazy that you just have to read, at least a little bit, to find out if this writer is really that insane or what.  The rest of the intro paragraph that is not part of the lead may be used to draw things together to suggest the essay is not simply a chaotic mass of silly words in random order.  It can point the reader down the jungle path that he or she can take to come out of the other end of the essay alive.

Once started on this insane quest to build an essay that will strangle the senses and mix up the mind of the reader, you have to carry out the plan in three or four body paragraphs.  This is where you have to use those bricks of brainiac bull-puckie that you have saved up to be the concrete details in the framework of the main rooms of the little idea-house you are constructing.  If you were to number or label these main rooms, this one you are reading now would, for example, be Room #2, or B, or “the second body paragraph”.  And as you read this paragraph, you should be thinking in the voice of your favorite English teacher of all time.  The three main rooms in this example idea house are beginning, middle, and end.  You could also call them introduction, body, and conclusion.  These are the rooms of your idea house that the reader will live in during his or her brief stay (assuming they don’t run out of the house screaming after seeing the clutter in the entryway).

Teacher

The last thing you have to do is the concluding paragraph.  (Of course, you have to realize that we are not actually there yet in this essay.  This is Room C in the smelly chickenhouse of this essay, the third body paragraph.)  The escape hatch on the essay that may potentially explode into fireworks of thoughts, daydreams, or plans for something better to do with your life than a read an essay written by an insane former middle school English teacher at any moment, is a necessary part of the whole process.  This is where you have to remind them of what the essay is basically about, and leave them with the thought that you want to haunt them in their nightmares later.  The last thing that you say in the essay is the thing they are the most likely to remember.  So you need to save the best for last.

So, here, finally, is the exit door to this masterfully mixed-up Mickian Essay.  It is a simple, and straightforward structure.  The introduction containing the lead is followed by three or four body paragraphs that develop the idea and end in a conclusion that summarizes or simply restates the overall main idea.  And now you know why all of my former students either know how to construct an essay, or have several years left in therapy sessions with a psychiatrist.

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Horatio T. Dogg… Canto 8

But the Game Wasn’t Over

Mike and Blueberry sat next to the hero of the bottom of the first, happier than Bobby had seen them in a long time.  And what was even better, he knew he was himself the reason.  The Pirates led three to nothing.  But Tim got out on the next fly ball, popping it to Delwyn of all people.  And, wouldn’t you know it, this time Delwyn didn’t drop it.

It was, like all 4-H softball games, a five-inning game.  And being the home team, the Pirates only had to hold on to the lead until the top of the fifth inning was over.  And Mike was on his usual game.  That fastball, even though it was underhanded and using a ball that floated through the air like a watermelon, burned holes through the Lincoln township bats and Tim Kellogg’s catcher’s mitt for good measure.  Three more strike-outs in each of the second, and third innings.

But Clarion’s blond Apollo wasn’t going to stay shook up for a whole game either.  And he could also windmill in a scorching-hot fastball.  He matched Mike strikeout after strikeout.

In the fourth inning, both teams got a couple of runners on base.  But the Leaders scored two runs when Watson hit a double with runners on base.  And the Pirate’s fourth had two men on base, one of whom was a girl, but Bobby struck out instead of driving them in, and Tim made the last out again after him.

So, it all came down to the final inning, and the Pirates with only a one-run lead.

Bobby, of course, spoke directly to the Big Guy in the Sky.  “Don’t let them hit it to me.  Whatever you do, don’t make that ball come to me.”

The first batter up was Leroy Watson.  And wouldn’t you know it, the gol darn Apollo hit a ball to deep left field that Billy Martin could only get to on the bounce.  Billy’s arm was good enough to wing it into the home plate to hold Watson to a triple.  Still, the tying run was on third base.

Mike on the mound had to really bear down and throw hard strikes for the rest of the inning.  The next two Leaders struck out.  But you could see the strain on Mike’s face.  In fact, you could see it all the way from deep right field.
“Please, don’t let that ball come to me.  Hit it to Billy.  He’s good at catching fly balls.  He’ll win the game for us.”

But it didn’t get hit out to any field.  In fact, the bats didn’t get near the ball for two more batters.  Mike pitched eight consecutive balls outside the strike zone.

“It’s okay, Mike.  Let your fielders help you.  Your arm is getting tired of throwing it so hard,” Coach Kellogg said in a wise old voice that made Bobby’s heart drop down from the middle of his chest, down into his behind, and eventually down his right leg and all the way out through the bottom of his right shoe.

And Bobby knew where it was coming.  Delwyn Marmoody was up to bat.  And Bobby’s heart was tunnelling down into the grass somewhere beneath him.

“Be on your toes, fielders!” cried Tim from his position at catcher.

“You can do this, Bobby!” cried Blueberry from the bench.

Why did she have to yell that?  She put the curse on him!  He wished he could turn into a swan once again and fly away.

Two strikes and two balls later, Delwyn swung.  The bat went, “TUNK!”  And the ball was flying through the air… Directly at Bobby in right field.

“Gotta get under it”

“You can do it, Bobby!”

“Shut up, Blue!”

And then it settled into Bobby’s open glove.

And he was about to lift it high in the air in triumph…

When it rolled out again and hit the ground, somewhere on top of Bobby’s buried heart.

“AW, NO!!!” cried the Norwall crowd in unison.

The runners were going with the crack of the bat, so two of them had already crossed the plate when Billy came scrambling into right field, got the ball and cannoned it to home plate to keep them only one run behind.  The runner trying for a third score was out at the plate.

                                    *****

There was a shallow hope in the bottom of the fifth inning.  Two runs would win the game.  One run would tie it and give them an extra inning.

But Johnny Miller struck out. 

And when Dilsey Murphy got up, she hit a double to right field.  And there was a glimmer of hope with one out.

Then Mike got up.  Mike was the most dangerous hitter the Pirates had.  Watson intentionally walked him.

“It’s gonna be hero time again for you, Bobby,” Blueberry whispered in his ear.

Frosty Anderson got up to the plate with his meanest game-face sneering away at the Clarion Apollo.  He banged the heavy bat Mike had used on the plate to show how much business he actually meant.

“Hit it out, Frosty!” hollered Tim Kellogg.  “Or you-know-who is up next!”

Bobby did know who.  And there went his heart again, headed for the depths of the dirt in the dugout.

The pitch swished in at just about the perfect spot for Frosty to hit it, and he swung with all the might of Hercules.  He topped the ball to the third baseman who stepped on the bag and zipped to first for the double play.

Frosty Anderson came barrelling over to the Pirate bench with so much anger that fire was blazing up out of his ears and lighting his blond hair on fire.

“You know who really lost us the game, don’t you?” he screamed directly at Bobby.  Suddenly he was directly in front of Bobby, pushing him with two hands.  Bobby went backwards over the bench and landed on his back in the sand.

Mike grabbed Frosty from behind, whirled him around, and presented him with a cocked right fist, ready to knock the angry boy’s block off just like in the Rock ‘em Sock ‘em Robots commercials.

“You need to blame somebody, hero?  Who hit into the double play at the end?  Bobby’s on our team.  And he’s the one who drove in three runs to put us ahead.”

“Okay, okay… Sorry, Bobby.  But he did drop the game-ending out.”

“Whatta you think, Bobby?  Should I hit him?”

“No, please don’t.  He’s a Pirate too.”

“Good boy, Bob.  That’s the way we hold a team together,” said Coach Kellogg as he picked Bobby up off the ground and set him back on his own feet again.

The whole group said that it wasn’t Bobby’s fault that they lost, mostly because Coach Kellogg asked them to, but not all of them meant it.

“We almost won,” said Blueberry.

“No, we didn’t,” Bobby said quietly so only Blue could hear, “But thanks for thinking so.  You have a good heart.”

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The Fairy’s Final Evolution

Here’s the colored pencil version of Derfentwinkle, girl fairy. I like this one a lot better.

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Evolution of a Fairy

I decided to be lazy today. The work I am sharing with you only took a week to accomplish.

She was inspired by a cartoon character in an old animated TV show. But the model for this idea was fully clothed and not a fairy. I don’t know why I felt it necessary to portray her nude.

But drawing clothes made from leaves and acorn caps is hard. So, this little 3-inch-tall fairy girl decided to pose nude.

This is a second drawing. The first one was a little too revealing and I felt the need to give her a longer braid.

This, then, is Derfentwinkle, a fairy resident of the Hidden Kingdom of Tellosia. Specifically she is the apprentice of an incompetent necromancer known as Old Bumble Bones.

Once I had the drawing scanned into a jpeg, I decided to enhance it with the basic paint program that came with the computer back when I bought it.

I am not overly fond of this kind of coloring. My old laptop is quirky and unreliable, and my arthritic fingers still prefer a pencil to a mouse or a keypad. So, I may recolor it with colored pencil, But for now, here she is in all her glory.

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Chasing What is Real

In 2012 I completed and published Catch a Falling Star. That novel is about aliens who speak English because they have been watching old television broadcasts from Earth and absolutely adore I Love Lucy reruns. They invade Earth via one small town in Iowa where they make the fatal mistake of being charmed by humans. The juvenile specimen they kidnap, Dorin Dobbs, leads a tadpole mutiny aboard the Tellerons’ space ship. The tadpole they accidentally leave behind on Earth is adopted and becomes beloved by a childless farm couple. And Commander Biznap falls deeply in love with a septuagenarian Sunday School teacher who aids him, and he rewards with a return to her youthful twenties via de-aging technology. The invasion gets defeated. Someone disintegrates himself, and the Tellerons leave having learned to be better people as they flee to Mars in defeat.

Of course, this novel, written while I was still teaching for the Garland School District, is ultimately the origin of my manic love of researching conspiracy theories. After publishing the novel, I had a dream about the book. I dreamed that aliens had read the book and began chasing me, wanting to know how I knew what I knew about them. I tried to tell them that I made it all up, but they didn’t believe me.

So, after I had written and published the book, I took up researching alien contact and flying saucer encounters Wow! I began to see what some really, obviously insane people believe is true, as well as what some very intelligent and credible people hesitantly report, revealing some insanely disturbing things.

I do not believe any of the stories told by David Icke, the lecturer who sells books and lectures on the existence of shape-shifting lizard-people who masquerade as important government figures and celebrities. (Although the orange president we so recently had was definitely a lizard pf some kind ) Icke is very easily recognizable as a grifter and con man. Of course, his grifts are all legal. If lying were completely illegal, fiction writers would be out of business, and nobody would fall in love or be able to sell real estate.

But one cannot quickly dismiss the work of journalist and physicist Stanton Friedman so easily. He had an interview experience with Major Jesse Marcel who was the intelligence officer on the New Mexico base in 1947, and who told Friedman what may be the real story behind the Roswell Incident . This was a credible source telling a story as a whistle-blower years after the actual experience which was very different than the government’s version of events in spite of the fact that Marcel and other witnesses had been threatened to keep the secret.

The real trick to this fascinating search for reality in the bizarre world of alien contact, MUFON researchers, and underground alien facilities is to accept that complete knowledge of reality is unattainable.

You know that something real is being covered up based on the elaborate cover-up efforts that the authorities have gone through. Weather balloons? Really? Even Project Mogul balloons for spying on Russian atomic-bomb efforts? Well, maybe. But there are so many things that were subjected to cover-up, misinformation campaigns, threatening witnesses, Men in Black, and deathbed confessions that you have to believe something very disturbing is actually real. It is real that lying is going on on both sides. And there are a lot of concerning facts brought out by people who have nothing to gain by their revelations and an awful lot to lose. Some have even died.

So, you have to detect lies and juggle the lies of liars to get anywhere near to reality. And I have applied the process to more than one conspiracy theory.

Here are some things that I have concluded (at least until more information surfaces.)

In the 1940’s and 50’s the U.S. government knocked down a handful of flying saucers and UFOs using high-intensity radar waves developed for World War II. Bob Lazar is probably telling the truth. Linda Moulton Howe is probably telling the truth. Travis Walton is probably also telling the truth, but is less believable than the other two. David Icke and Alex Jones are liars. The Ancient Aliens program from History Channel and now on Netflix is not solid science, but have some very interesting details to add to the mysteries. The government definitely knows about aliens, either because they made contact with other worlds in the Eisenhower Administration, or because they are producing the information themselves to cover up something far more concerning.

The important thing in this topic is not the reality of aliens visiting Earth. The important thing is how the reality of the topic is pursued. Are you going to be crazy or pursue a sensible information-gathering process where the results are tested and retested? ls it about my thinking processes. or am I deceiving myself? These questions are the reasons I do what I do. And also why I had to re-post this old post today with numerous typos corrected. Did the government put those in to make me look like an insane idiot? Or is my idiocy self-inflicted? You be the judge.

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Portraying Key Characters

Since I have written my Hometown Novels as a series with certain recurring characters, it becomes important that I know what they look like in my own stupid head. So, I draw them. Mike Murphy and his girlfriend Blueberry Bates are good examples. They appear in The Bicycle-Wheel Genius, Magical Miss Morgan, and Catch a Falling Star.

Valerie Clarke is a main character in When the Captain Came Calling, Snow Babies, Sing Sad Songs, and He Rose on a Golden Wing.

Farbick the pilot and Davalon the tadpole are main characters in Catch a Falling Star, Stardusters and Space Lizards, and both appear in The Bicycle-Wheel Genius.

Sherry Cobble and her twin sister Shelly, both dedicated nudists, appear in Superchicken, Recipes for Gingerbread Children, The Baby Werewolf, The Boy… Forever, and Sherry by herself appears in A Field Guide to Fauns with her own twin daughters, Mandy and Tandy Clarke.

Brent Clarke is the leader of the Norwall Pirates in Superchicken, The Baby Werewolf, The Boy… Forever, and he appears as an adult in A Field Guide to Fauns, and The Wizard in his Keep.

Milt Morgan, from boyhood onward, is a wizard. He appears in Superchicken, The Baby Werewolf, The Boy… Forever, and he is an adult character in The Wizard in his Keep.

Tim Kellogg is the leader of the Pirates in the 1990’s. He appears in Catch a Falling Star, The Bicycle-Wheel Genius, and Magical Miss Morgan, as well as brief appearances in When the Captain Came Calling, Sing Sad Songs, and He Rose on a Golden Wing.

Torrie Brownfield is not actually a werewolf. He suffers from a genetic hair disorder called hypertrichosis. He appears in Recipes for Gingerbread Children and The Baby Werewolf.

Some characters have a single starring role, as Francois Martin does in Sing Sad Songs.

And Devon Martinez does in A Field Guide to Fauns.

I can always tell a better story when I know exactly what a character looks like. And I do that by drawing a picture.

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