The Truth About the Bard – Part One

If you didn’t have enough to think about with Trump and Russia, then here’s a neat little conspiracy problem that I love to play with.

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I came to believe that William Shakespeare was a made-up character pretty much by the same means as the world first noticed the inconsistencies.    In 1848, a young religious scholar named Samuel Mosheim Schmucker, put forward a parody of arguments against the physical existence of a historical Jesus Christ.  The fact that no written works by Jesus own hand had ever been seen or discussed in historical documents was used to claim that Jesus was very possibly a made up character created by the Apostles Paul, Peter, and John.  No physical evidence of his existence remained that wasn’t tainted by the fervor for relics, even fabricated ones, that ruled the Middle Ages.  He posited, as a joke, that in the same way Shakespeare hadn’t written his own plays.   After all, here was an unlikely person, an actor who had never been far from the city of his birth who…

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Singing Rock and Soul

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Yes, this is a picture of a rock.  But it is no ordinary rock.  Okay, that’s not precisely true.  It is a gray metamorphic rock roughly square in shape with numerous flecks of white and a white strip along the top.  As rocks go, it probably couldn’t be more ordinary, more rocky in its soul.  But, as with all things in this life, the importance and true meaning lies in the context.  This is a pocket rock.  It spent a quarter of a century riding around in my pants pocket.  I have held it in my hand millions of times.

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The Rowan Community Center, seen in this picture I used for the cover of Magical Miss Morgan, is the last part of the old Rowan school still standing.

In 1980, my Great Grandma Hinckley died.  That was also the year my folks had to move to Texas because of the transfer my Dad’s seedcorn company gave him to its cotton seed division.  It was one year before I got my teaching degree.  And it was the year they tore down the building where I went to school for grades 1 through 6.  That summer, as I walked around the demolition site, I found the homely gray rock that was nearly as square as I was, and because I was already feeling homesick before I actually left home, I picked it up  and stuck it in my pocket.  It was a little square piece of home.

That rock went with me to college.  It went with me to both Disneyland and Walt Disney World in Florida.  It has been to Washington D.C.  It has been in the depths of caves in Kentucky and Missouri and Texas.  It has been high in the sky in my pocket in an airplane.  It has been to beaches on both the Atlantic and Pacific sides of the U.S.  It has visited both Mexico and Canada.  It his been to Las Vegas.  And it even rode in the subways of New York City.

And possibly the most interesting part of this pocket rock’s career happened in Texas schools.  It was with me in my pocket constantly from 1980 to 2004.  I finally took it out of my pocket and placed it in an old cigar box that once belonged to my grandfather and I have kept keepsakes in since I was a kid.

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And I have thought a lot about this ordinary rock that isn’t really ordinary on closer inspection.  At one point or another I thought about using it as a skipping stone at both the Atlantic and the Pacific.  In 2004 when I was considering the pocket watch broken by it and the car key accidentally bent against it, it almost wound up in Lake Superior.  I put in my cigar box and it has remained exiled there since.  Will I have it buried with me, in my pocket?  No, probably not.  My wife plans to have me cremated.  Hopefully, though, not until I am already dead.  This rock has pretty much been a symbol of my soul, travelling with me, teaching with me, jingling the pocket change when I walk…  And it will continue to exist when the thinking and writing parts of Mickey are gone.

But even rocks are not immortal.  Sometime in the future something will happen to it.  It will end up someplace unexpected or changed by grinding, melting, or chemical reaction into some other form.  But no matter what happens to it ultimately, the meaning of it, the context, the places it has been and the things that it has done will still be true, still have happened to it.  And, ultimately, it will still be just like me.

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Homely Art – Amos Sewell

Here is a re-blog intended to help keep precious old art alive.

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Still being under the weather and filled with sinus head-pain, I decided to go back to a subject I love so much that the post will simply write itself.  You know I love Norman Rockwell and his art, and I fervently believe that kind of mass media oil-painting does not put him in a lesser category than Rembrandt or Michelangelo or Raphael or any other painter with a ninja turtle namesake.   He is a genius, and though he is not a realist in so many ways, his work is more truthful than practically any other kind of painting.  If you are taken by surprise and didn’t know I had this passionate obsession, maybe you should go back and look at this post;   Norman Rockwell

Now that I got that out of my system, here is another Saturday Evening Post artist that is often confused with Rockwell.  His name…

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Fernando

Sometimes as a humorist, you have to delve into very serious stuff. This essay was like that. It was hard to write and contained things that were very hard to admit to. But it is a good piece written about someone who was very important to me. And it makes me both laugh and cry to remember him.

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newwkidI believe that I have mentioned before the fact that I was sexually assaulted as a ten-year-old child.  It is not a fact I was able to talk about publicly until the perpetrator died.  I have since forgiven him, and hopefully his family will always remain uninformed about the incident, for their sake more than mine.  And it is not a fact that did not have consequences.  I may have mentioned before that I did not get married until I was thirty-eight because of the discomfort the fact gave me in my acceptance of myself as a sexual being.  I was resigned to the idea that I would never be married or have children because of that fact.  The Paffooney I am using to illustrate this post is entitled “Long Ago It Might Have Been”.  I drew it after saying goodbye to girlfriend number two, a blond teacher-lady with a…

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O Mio Babbino Caro

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This beautiful song, an operatic aria by Puccini, is from the comic opera Gianni Schicchi.  But, more important than that is what the song actually means in context.

In the opera, Gianni Schicchi is a con man intent on swindling a family out of their inheritance and knowing all along that he will be destined to go to hell when he dies.  The family is gathered for the reading of the rich man’s will, which is, because this is a comic opera, lost for the time being.  Their main concern is for the money, which rumor has it has all been willed to the church.  But one among them is actually worthy of inheriting the money, Rinuccio the son of the rich man’s cousin.  And, as luck would have it, as it always does in comedies, Rinuccio is the one who, during the manic and desperate search for the will, actually finds it.  And assuming he comes out well in the will, he secures a promise from his mother that if he inherits money, he can marry Schicchi’s beautiful daughter Laurretta whom he truly loves.

But when he reads the will, he is devastated.  The money all goes to a monastery.  He begs Schicchi to help him convince the family that he should marry Laurretta anyway.  This Gianni Schicchi tries and finds it harder than turning water into wine.  So Schicchi is about to give up when Lauretta finally speaks up for herself through the song,

O Mio Babbino Caro (My Beloved Father)

At this point Schicchi is moved by the beautiful song and even more beautiful love his daughter has surprised him with.  He not only agrees to help, but executes a bizarre plan, hiding the rich man’s body and pretending to be him come back to life to rewrite the will.  Now the will favors Rinuccio, and over the protests of the family, he inherits the money and marries his true love, Schicchi’s daughter.  The opera ends with Schicchi singing his case to the audience, telling them in song that going to hell is worth it to aid true love.

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And this, then, is the truth of O Mio Babbino Caro.

Love, expressed through the surprise of hidden talent suddenly revealed, is the most persuasive argument there is.

Whether it is the love in the music suddenly discovered in the overwhelming voice of a little girl like Jackie Evancho or Amira Willighagen, or the late great Maria Callas who also sang the role, or even the singer of Puccini’s greatest work who is yet to perform it and make silly old men like me weep for beauty’s sake, the song is the most persuasive argument there is in favor of true love.

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That is a thing I desperately want to capture in the novel I am writing now, Sing Sad Songs.  Love expressed in music.  Love that reverses loss.  Love that heals all things.  And Love that moves all people.  The love that is masterfully sung in O Mio Babbino Caro.

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Homely Art – Part One – Thomas Kinkade

Here’s a unique American original artist who has profoundly affected the home environment of millions. He’s worth a second look.

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Fantasia  These images can be found at http://thomaskinkade.com/

I honestly have a thing for artists that critics hate and common folk like my parents and grandparents loved.  Norman Rockwell is a bit like that.  He enjoyed commercial success as a magazine illustrator.  That is about as far from avant garde art as you can get.  But what can I say?  I don’t call myself an artist.  I am a cartoonist and all around goofball.  I don’t do serious art.  So the questions surrounding Thomas Kinkade bounce off my tough old non-critical hide like bullets off the orphan of Krypton.  I love his pictures for their gaudy splashes of color, his way with depicting puddles and water of all sorts (splashes of splashes), and his rustic homes and landscapes of another era.  This is a man who does lovely calendar art and jigsaw puzzle art.  He is roundly criticized for factory production…

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Aeroquest… Canto 29


Aeroquest banner xCanto 29 – Games with Bread and Cheese

      Ham and his little crew were taken to one of Oasis City’s finest inns.  It was a quiet little place called The White Sands.  The name was appropriate for the dry little desert world of White Palm.  The inn had a cozy restaurant and pub attached.  Having eaten Sinbadh’s stew, the crew of the Leaping Shadowcat opted for drinks.  Ham ordered a Questorian Ale, while the Madonna found a Nebulonin Root Beer on the back of the menu, and Sinbadh ordered an infamous Pan Galactican Gargle-Blaster, not knowing what it was or how it cleaned out both your sinuses and your bowels.

“You are most welcome to anything on the menu,” said the fawning gray-plated metalloid waiter.  “I understand it is all being paid for by Count Nefaria himself.”

“It is…?”  Ham was stunned.

“Yes, by means of his new heir, Count Tron.”

“Oh.”

Tron and a man with a handlebar moustache appeared from the back hallway.  Tron nodded to Ham and came straight to the copperwood table where the three crewmen of the Leaping Shadowcat sat quaffing their various brews.  Or, in Sinbadh’s case, quaffing, choking, and sneezing them.

“May we sit?” asked Tron.

“Who’s your friend?” asked Ham as innocently as he could muster.

“This is Han Ferrari, Duke of the planet Coventry.  Duke, this is Ham Aero, the safari master and explorer I told you about.”

Duke Ferrari shook Ham’s hand firmly.  “Ah, Mr. Aero.  I’ve heard of your brother Ged.  I understand he’s something of a crusader along the Imperial Rim.”

“Yes,” said Ham suspiciously.  “What are you doing so far from home, your lordship?”

“Being rescued from kidnappers by Captain Tron, it would appear.  I am also a leader of the militant opposition in the Galtorrian Imperial Court.  Emperor Slythinus has apparently tried to do away with me by recruiting Count Nefaria to do his dirty work.”

“What are you here at my table for, Tron?” asked Ham nervously.  “I know Goofy is probably dead by now.  Will you take it out on me, too?”

“Now, Hamfast,” said Tron with a smile, “I bear you no ill will.  Trav Dalgoda is fine.  I have the Crown of Stars and the so-called Orb of Essence as well.  I even now own the planet of White Palm.  I couldn’t be happier.”

“The Galtorr Imperium won’t claim the planet for themselves now that Nefaria is dead or in prison?” asked Ham.  Purple gargle-blaster ooze was leaking out of Sinbadh’s mouth and nose.  His eyes were rolling back in his head and the Madonna was trying desperately to help him.  Ham tried to concentrate on Tron and the Duke.

“I am declaring independence from the Imperium,” said Tron with a satisfied smile.  “Arkin Cloudstalker and I will use our corsair fleets to defend this place.  Let Admiral Tang try and retake it!”

“You’d take on the whole Imperial Fleet?”

“He won’t have to,” said Duke Ferrari.  “The Imperium is tied up with both a border war with the Nebulons and another unification war with my planet and the planet Farwind.  They can’t spare enough of the fleet to defeat two corsair fleets.”

“And I’ve seen your setup at Don’t Go Here,” said Tron.  “You have a large ground-bound population depending on you and Ged for release into the stars.  I know because I’ve added to it myself on occasion.”

“So, what’s your point?”

“Don’t try to hornswoggle me, boy.  You are a nominal ruler of a high-population world beyond Imperial reach.  I know you came here to kill me and rescue Goofy Dalgoda and win back the Crown of Stars, but you are in a position to commit your new planet to an alliance with my new planet.  We can help each other.”

“You want to go into planetary government?”

“We can’t screw it up any worse than the Emperor and his cronies.  And besides, I want to throw in with Duke Ferrari here and help his interplanetary civil war.  I want to see an end to the Imperium.  You know, pirate is just another word for freedom fighter in many ports.”

“And you expect me to go along with your plans because you know where to find our planet and you have all the forces you need to take it from me and my brother?”

“I expect you to talk it over with Ged Aero and have the two of you on my side.  You both know it’s the right thing to do.  I’m not the criminal you think I am.  I know Ged sees things the way they really are.  You tell him my plan and see if he doesn’t agree.”

“Ged went further into the unknown.  I don’t know where he is or when he’ll be back.  I only know he will meet me at Don’t Go Here sometime in the future.”

Tron’s sudden anger was all the uglier because of the scar he wore through one eye.  He was about to start shouting when the Madonna diffused everything.

“We say with you, Tron.  Nebulonin, human, cave men, all one side…”

“You have a pretty accent, Sweetness,” said Tron, calming down instantly, “but what the heck do you mean?”

“She says we agree,” said Ham.  “You are right.  I know Ged would want to help you.  My planet and yours, then.  Two new worlds in a new alliance.  The only question is… what will we do next?”

Over ale and good, hot pretzels with cheese from Coventry, in front of a roaring hearth-fire, the fate of the Imperial Rim was altered once and for all time.

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Grumpy Old Mike

Sometimes I am simply out of sorts… so here is an out-of-sorts re-blog. And I said “sorts” not “shorts”. I am not being a nudist today. I am being GRUMPY!!!

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My middle child, my son Henry, recently found an online source that said being grumpy is not as bad for your health as people think it is.  Bless his little black heart… everything on the internet is true, right?  But if it is true, it could be of benefit to me.  Mickey is not the only other me.  There is also grumpy old Mike.

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I recently wrote a poem about being grumpy.  A grumpy poet?  That could be a thing, right?  Here is what that poem looked like;

Grumpy (a poem about Grumpy life)

Dang it, you old grumpy man!

You annoy me as only a grumpy man can.

You grouse and growl and sometimes howl,

And pace the house like a cat on the prowl.

You worry me, weary me, and generally nasty be,

And of course you are… yes, you are… naturally me.

So why do you worry…

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Lazy Sunday Silliness

Sometimes I need something like this to keep me happy and keep me going.

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mr8kecd

Imagination is always the place I go in times of trouble.  I have a part of my silly old brain devoted to dancing the cartoon dance of the dundering doofus.  It has to be there that I flee to and hide because problems and mistakes and guilt and pessimism are constantly building un-funny tiger-traps of gloom for me to rot at the bottom of.  You combat the darkness with bright light.  You combat hatred with love.  You combat unhappiness with silly cartoonish imaginings.  Well… maybe you don’t.  But I do.

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When reading the Sunday funnies in the newspaper on lazy Sunday afternoons, I spent years admiring Bill Watterson’s Calvin and Hobbes for its artistry and imaginative humor, believing it was about a kid who actually had a pet talking tiger.  I didn’t get the notion that Hobbes was actually a toy tiger for the longest time.  That’s because it was…

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June 24, 2018 · 3:43 pm

Terry Pratchett, the Grand Wizard of Discworld

Terry is gone now. No new books are coming. But what he has left behind for us is pure dragon’s treasure hoard… if it’s a pink dragon with purple spots.

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image borrowed from TVtropes.com image borrowed from TVtropes.com

I firmly believe that I would never have succeeded as a teacher and never gotten my resolve wrapped around the whole nonsense package of being a published author if I hadn’t picked up a copy of Mort, the first Discworld novel by Terry Pratchett that I ever encountered.  I started reading the book as a veteran dungeon-master at D&D role-playing games and also as a novice teacher having a world of difficulty trying to swim up the waterfalls of Texas education fast enough to avoid the jagged rocks of failure at the bottom.  I was drinking ice tea when I started reading it.  More of that iced tea shot out my nose while reading and laughing than went down my gullet.  I almost put myself in the hospital with goofy guffaws over Death’s apprentice and his comic adventures on a flat world riding through space…

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