While being still locked down for the pandemic due to health problems, I finished and published my book of essays. I hold the first copy in my hands.
Saturdays are Coming Faster and Faster
I suppose with the threat of Coronavirus hanging over the house, the days are getting shorter because the end of time for me is drawing nearer. I have just started a subscription with Pubby, an online company that lets you review the books of others. And in return, they will review yours. That’s a plan that will only bear fruit if it has enough time to grow.
I, of course, started with Snow Babies. It may not be the best that I have written, but it’s at least close, and it is my favorite.
Sing Sad Songs will be the second one I will add.
The first review I got was a five-star review. But the reader read it apparently only in one day, rather than the four days I gave him. (That is the most that Pubby allows.) I would really rather get a lower score if I knew that the reader was actually reading and not just skimming.
The novel covers and illustrations I have included here for Saturday Art Day are all other books I think are worthwhile getting reviewed. It takes a while though to earn enough points by reading and reviewing to get another review on one of my books. They say that once you buy a subscription, the reviews are free. But they are not. You have to earn points to get them. In other words, you have to work for it.
These first few all have four or five star reviews on them already, before Pubby. But some of them have nudist characters in them doing nudist activities, and that may cause them to do poorly with people who think you shouldn’t even read about people having no clothes on. The one directly above got a five star review, but it is set in a nudist park and it was a nudist who reviewed it.
This book has not yet been read by anyone but me, as far as I know.
I can finally get a review on Magical Miss Morgan too, now that I got back my publishing rights from Page Publishing and republished it on Amazon.
And this weekend I have a free promotion going on this book, the second in the AeroQuest series. You can click on the BUY ON AMAZON button and buy it in Kindle format for zero dollars.
Filed under humor, Paffooney, publishing
Coping For Now
Yeah… Life is mostly not fair. Today I had to take number 2 son to the testing site near Parkland Hospital in Dallas. He got the COVID test because a prisoner at the county jail where he works as a guard tested positive, and then Henry started showing symptoms at home, and was too sick to work by Wednesday evening. The Sheriff’s Office is very concerned. He got in for a test faster than most people can, and the Sheriff’s Office is paying for it.
Of course, I am already exposed. And I have three health conditions normally associated with COVID deaths in people my age. Still, I don’t feel sick yet. And I had H1N1 twice, both strains of it. It is possible that I have leftover resistance and t-cells from that. But I am done feeling sorry for myself. Time to get more writing done.
Filed under Uncategorized
Love Among the Trolls
Once upon a time in a magical land there was a Troll named Timothy Trollhammer. He was big and ugly and surly and liked to call people names in the Internet.
So, he was busy this one time, this Oncepponna Time, arguing with his friends in the Internet Cafe. (We all know what that is. It’s a huge Orc bar kept by a fat old Orc named Juicy Burgher who foolishly built his cafe in the middle of a Giant’s fishing net.) And he wasn’t just arguing with his friends, he was insulting them, suggesting their Democrat stupidity would get them toasted in dragonfire for the sheer idiocy of their communist ideas, and swearing to visit their homes and poop on their dinner tables.
And then, Dixie Tinytroll suggested the unthinkable.
“Timothy, you are so dumb and ugly, you will die alone and never be married.”
Timothy immediately killed him with his magic hammer, the one that could pound any nail in one stroke, provided it landed at least in the general vicinity of the nail.
“Cripes, Tim! You done killed Dixie. Drove him right through the floor like a railroad spike!” shouted Dimbulb Orcpuddles. And you is only supposed to kill a troll with fire, according to the Dungeonmaster’s Handbook.”
“Well, he wasn’t supposed to think that!” Tim insisted defensively.
“Since it is against the law to hammer trolls into the floor without management’s consent, you will have to prove that what he said was the opposite of true,” Judge Mental Phoole said with authority.
“How am I gonna do that if the thing was true?” moaned Timothy.
“Well, the Barefoot Princess comes by here every day being chased by some princely suitor. Go marry her.”
“How will I do that?” asked Tim.
“Well, that magic hammer of yours started the problem… so…”
Out there, the Barefoot Princess was once again being accosted by the Son of Duke Poofter-Doofus from the kingdom of Poofter-Doofus’s Swamp. One swing of the hammer nailed Prince Spritely Poofter-Doofus, and the Barefoot Princess swooned into his free arm, the one without the hammer in it.
“That’s assault with a deadly weapon, and harassment of a Princess,” said Fontaine Fox, a potential eyewitness.
“I fear the Troll may nail us as hostile witnesses,” moaned Deefenbarger Duck, a second potential witness.
“You two come with me,” said Timothy. “I’m getting married, and I am in need of witnesses.”
And then Tim had Judge Mental Phoole perform the ceremony, only having to threaten to nail him on the head with a magic hammer three times. It was a lovely ceremony. Most of the trolls at the wedding couldn’t refrain from making rude comments, so they got hammered (with wedding-celebration booze, of course. What did you think I meant?)
And after the honeymoon the Barefoot Princess woke up. She was grateful for being rescued from the Poofter-Doofus. But they did not live happily ever after. After all, they had three kids. And the kids were all trolls.
Filed under finding love, humor, Paffooney, satire
Dread Waits
It is not an easy thing to have to wait for bad news.
You know what’s coming. You know why it will happen. You know how it will happen. The only thing you don’t know is when.
My father is in hospice car. The doctor doesn’t believe he will last much longer. I will still be in Texas when it happens… probably. My mother is planning a cremation and later service when the pandemic has released its grip on us all. Of course, it is a nightmare for her. Not being able to visit the man she has loved and been companion to for 64 years. No kisses. No hand-holding. Only looking at him through a window with a mask on. And most of the time he doesn’t even know who she is. Last week he asked for her, wanting her to come to him. By the time she got there, he didn’t remember what he had wanted… or again, who she even was. There is nothing for any of us, my mother, myself, my two sisters, my younger brother… to do besides wait.
And of course, there is more than one dread thing I have to await. This pandemic is highly likely to bring an end to me. My number two son, in his new job working for the Dallas County Sheriff’s Office, had to deal with a prisoner who has COVID 19, and he was wearing his mask, but three days later he is not feeling well. And I have been sick since last weekend, and started coughing and sneezing today. It may just be that both of us are having a bad reaction to mold from the rain, but if it gets worse, I may end up being tested again so I can wait on pins and needles for another seven days before finding out the verdict. I am too susceptible, and the virus is too relentless. It will eventually have me before it’s run its full course.
So, here I am dreading the impending visits from the Grim Reaper. Why then do I choose to illustrate with cartoon villains? Well, Snowboy is a robotic device originally created to be an assassin by alien beings working for the US Government. He was wrecked by an individual given the power to do so by his future time-travelling self after a good-hearted scientist tries to bring him back to life in the form of the son he had previously lost in a fire the robot had caused. And, much as we all do in a life plagued with random tragedies and ill fortune, he spent time (and lots of it, thanks to his time machine) trying to figure out what he will do and why he should do it (though most of us can’t use WWI German Fighter Pilots and man-eating chinchillas to do it.)
Timothy Trollhammer uses his handy hammer to win himself a beautiful barefoot princess for his wife. But the trick for old noggin-bopping Tim is to keep her once he’s won her. And that’s a problem he can’t solve by bopping it with a hammer. He has to learn patience, and kindness and… maybe even love. The lesson does not go without its moral to the story.
As much as we may fear what’s coming very near,
We must be ready to to pay the price,
It’s certainly very dear
And though it’s something not so nice,
The due date now is here.
What more is there to say? I await God’s twisted sense of humor when it comes to my fate and the fate of my father. And waiting is all there is to be done.
Filed under Uncategorized
AeroQuest 4… Canto 108
Canto 108 – The Lost Child
Things had been chaotic in and around Outpost for an Earth-time week. Tron and Maggie were both dragging from one conference and administrative nightmare to the next.
Elvis and King Killer found them sagging in their seats at the conference table in the Outpost control center.
“Boss, it’s not that bad. Nobody died in a training accident today,” said Elvis the Cruel.
“Really?” said Tron with a snort. “Two of those Triceratops starship-thingies locked horns and tore the bridge section off of one of them.”
“But nobody died,” reaffirmed King.
“Well, that’s something,” said Maggie, blowing a stray red hair out of her eyes.
“The problem with those things is that they have a mind of their own. It’s hard enough to learn starship combat from complete scratch like these maroonies and alien squid-men have to, without having to learn to accept interference from your own starship at the same time.” King had offered the same complaint a hundred times already, but it didn’t hurt for Tron to hear it again.
At that moment, Artran, the adult version, wandered into the conference room having heard everything that was said.
“You know these things are shaped like dinosaurs for a reason, right?” Artran asked with a grin.
“Yeah. A Flintstones reason,” griped King.
“If they were actual living riding beasts, you would have to learn to ride them differently. You can’t control them so much as you have to guide them. Think of it like leading them with a tug on the reins.” Artran’s reasoning was actually quite eye-opening. The starships shaped like dinosaurs were created by an artificial alien intelligence that came to them by way of the inscrutable Ancients. It was a superior race that created them from the highest level of technology that living beings had ever known. If they acted and reacted in contrary ways, it had to be because the lesser beings flying them didn’t understand their ways.
“How did you get so wise since you were a little boy just a couple of months ago?” Maggie asked her son who had suddenly become a man, seemingly overnight.
“Spent the last twenty years in the past with the Star Nomads, exploring unknown space and learning more than I ever could’ve learned from tutor robots on Outpost.”
Actual tears flowed down Maggie’s cheeks. “I miss the little boy you were. I feel like your Nomads have robbed me of precious time with my young son.”
“I don’t regret the things I have learned,” Artran said sympathetically. “And soon you will have another little boy to play mommy with.”
“Really? How do you know it will be a boy?”
“Star Nomads travel in ways that bend time. I have seen Starchart in my past and your future. He’s a great kid.”
“Really? I won’t lose him the same way I lost you?”
“I guarantee it, Mom. And you haven’t lost me. I’m here now. And I will help you win the upcoming war.”
“So, what are we supposed to be doing differently with these dinosaur-shaped starships?” King scoffed with a note of resignation in his voice.
“Train them to let their Triceratops riding beasts run like a herd. In life, herds of horned herbivores would stampede together at the enemy as a way to overwhelm and trample their tormentors. Herds of bison once did the same thing. If there were enough time, I’d take you back in time to show you.”
Tron grinned. “And I’d go with you too. But I have the idea already from what you have told us. King, can you train them to do what Artran is suggesting?”
“With starships?”
“Maybe you start thinking of them as riding beasts.”
“Yeah. I could definitely do that. But I have never flown a bison before, or anything like that.”
That made everybody laugh. But King had a sense in the pit of his old stomach that the Lost Boy maybe had just solved a major training problem.
Filed under aliens, humor, novel, NOVEL WRITING, Paffooney, satire, science fiction
Fighting the Good Fight
I like to think of myself as a good person. In fact, having been a successful public school teacher, I basically feel that calling myself a hero is not the same sort of toxic narcissism that Prexydental Trumpalump displays when he thinks of himself that way.
I need to get it through my thick head that everyone sees themselves that way, and that it is universally untrue. We let too much badness go unopposed. We are hard-hearted too often towards our fellow men and women… and children… and animals… and the planet as a whole.
We see others who are different than ourselves as “others” and exclude them from our groups, some of us going so far as to villainize others just because their skin is green, or because they know what “Blogwopping” means and we don’t. And what we villainize, or demonize, or verminize, we feel righteous in harming, even exterminating.
So, what’s the point I am making? Am I such a loathsome creature that the only way I can make the world a better place is to curl up and die? Of course not. That’s the darkness talking me back into grave ideas and depressed thinking. I need to spread a little of that old Norman Vincent Peale peanut-butter on the slice of toast that is my world. Yes, a little bit of positive thinking can re-butter your toast for the better in order to prepare you to battle the battles that must be fought and won.
A true warrior is not the guy doing the most killing on the battlefield. And he is not the one who dies for his country either. Both may have their place in a war, but neither is the one who wins it. A true warrior is the one who endures to the end. The last man standing. The one who rules the battlefield at the end of the day.
So, what do I mean with all this warrior nonsense? I mean, my Great Grandma Hinckley was a true warrior, because she steadfastly led her family through five generations of it, and made more generations possible.
You say the world is dying of climate change? My Grandma was a relentless garden-keeper, helping us to survive with garden-fresh sweet corn, sweet peas, pumpkins, squash, and carrots from her garden. And she planted a multitude of flowers every year to keep the bees happy and a everything they pollinated growing.
You say we may succumb to pandemics and plagues? Grandma Hinckley was a maker of chicken soup, a mender of wills and willpower in the downhearted… church-goer, psalm-singer, user of Vick’s Vapo-Rub, Dr. Scholl’s inserts, Werther’s Original Butterscotch and Hard Candies, and if worse came to worse… Castor Oil!
And for political problems… government corruption and such? Well, maybe you can’t still vote for FDR or Eisenhower… but you damn sure better vote.
Yes, my Great Grandma Hinckley was a true warrior.
And so, I am ready for the fights to come. I will be a warrior like her. I will be a problem-solver, and I will endure. Because that’s just what you do, no matter the odds against you. I learned it from her. And I’m pretty sure I’m not the only one with a warrior for a grandma, or mother, or father, or sister, brother, wife, or son… even daughter. We stand a chance if we will only stand together. And we do it for love.
Filed under angry rant, autobiography, battling depression, family, goofy thoughts, healing, humor, inspiration, Paffooney
Laughing Blue Essays
Now you can read some of the best of this blog in book form. Available in both Kindle e-book and paperback forms.
Filed under announcement
I’m More Alive Today Than I Was Yesterday
Yes, I use that picture to illustrate the character Milt Morgan, but it is actually me. I drew it from a school photo from grade school. And yes, that means a color photo from the 1960’s. I am now 54 years older than I was when that picture was originally taken. Being that old… not ancient, but a senior citizen, means I am not as far from the day I will die as I am from either the day I was born, the day this picture was taken, the days I graduated from high school and college, and even the day I got married. Especially since I am ill with 6 incurable diseases and conditions and living in the midst of the 2020 pandemic with anti-health President Trumpalump still in the White House.
Yesterday I woke up with my left arm numb, a sharp pain in my left armpit, a heaviness and pain in my chest, and a throbbing in my temples.
Yes, I know. I promised my family I would go to the ER if I had those Heart-Issue symptoms again.
But the last time I went to a doctor on a Saturday with those same symptoms, my EKG sent me to the ER, who charged me two hundred dollars out of pocket and sent me directly to the hospital. After more than a week of tests, drugs, and worry… no heart indications, stress test passed, and the general consensus among specialists that it was the arthritis in my rib-cage and the arthritis in my neck, near the spinal chord that caused both the anomalous EKG and the numbness in my arm. They got the same heart-warning EKG readings while I was hooked up to a machine that showed I was definitely NOT having a heart attack.
So, yesterday I gambled with my life. I stayed home. I finished my book of essays and published it on Amazon. (At least, if I died, I would leave behind one more product of wit, wisdom, and autobiography from a total idiot.)\
This morning I was better. It is not a hundred percent certain that I won’t drop dead from a heart attack or stroke, but my pains yesterday were definitely from sleeping for too long on my left side with an arthritic rib-cage. Arthritis doesn’t kill you by itself. Only when it masks the pains of something more deadly and disastrous.
So, I lucked out. And I have another finished work. It is Laughing Blue, a book of essays from this goofy little blog. Along with illustrations that I feared wouldn’t all be compatible with Amazon’s file-size limits. I appear to have been 100% victorious on that gamble too.
The book is now live on Amazon. Whether you can actually buy it or not, I don’t know yet. So, I will wait to post a link until I am sure.
Filed under autobiography, health, illness, Paffooney, publishing
Catch a Falling Star 
Doom Looms… Yet Again
My number two son is coronavirus positive. All four of us who live in the house are now under quarantine for fourteen days (at a minimum). I have six incurable diseases, three of which; diabetes, hypertension, and COPD, the virus uses as the window to climb in and assassinate you.
We are not supposed to share a bathroom with the ill person, which is hard to do with only one bathroom. Nobody is seriously considering peeing outdoors.
We are all now wearing masks in the house. Well, except for my wife who insists she can’t breathe with a mask on all day (though she does it for her job as a Texas school teacher.) And she is a diabetic too.
What are the chances that I will still be alive in two weeks? Well, I am proceeding with the idea that I have a zero percent chance myself. I will do what I can to swim with the current. Like a good Taoist, I will not try to change the natural order of things. I have been retired now for six years, not by choice, but because of health problems. I am actuarily supposed to be dead five years ago. Heck, I had the H1N1 virus twice (both strains). The fact that I am still alive now means that I am very hard to kill.
So, I am expecting to die soon, but doing everything in my power to paddle the boat to safety in the raging river of Doom, Gloom, and rumors of Boom.
But my regrets are few. It has been a very good run. I have had a lotta laughs over 64 years. I taught for 31 years. I have written 16 novels and one book of essays. I am about halfway finished with my next novel.
My next novel is called The Wizard in his Keep. It is about three kids who are orphaned by a car wreck, then rescued by a family friend. Their weird “Uncle” Milt Morgan has been helping to create a virtual-reality computer game called The Legend of Hoodwink. He takes them to live inside the game world. And there they discover that things have gone terribly wrong for the computer game and the company that designed it. And it’s possible that the game has been contaminated with real magic somehow. And there may no longer be any way out of the game ever again.
This book may well be my own Mystery of Edwin Drood (the last, unfinished book by Charles Dickens.) It is somehow perfect, then, that this novel was inspired by The Old Curiosity Shop, and has many Dickens references in it.
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Filed under battling depression, commentary, family, feeling sorry for myself, health, humor, illness, Paffooney