Catch a Falling Star

February 19, 2017 · 2:43 pm

Toonerville Traffic

I had the good fortune recently to find some of my boxed-up HO train pieces that had been packed away since 2004 when we moved from South Texas to the Dallas area. Now, in these photos I took of Toonerville, not all of it was part of the uncovered treasure. But some of it most sincerely was. The people out in front of Mike Minskey’s Tavern are from a set of unpainted 1/78th scale German townfolk from the 1880’s. You see them posed here in front of the Batmobile parked in front of the Teapot Clockhouse.

Here you can see the two F-9 Diesels from the SuperChief (I have a thing for Sante Fe Railroad engines and rolling stock). I parked them next to the Snowflake Express which you may have seen before, since I bought it in a garage sale after we moved here.

The multi-colored bus that you see behind the Miss Amy Wortle Boarding House is actually the Partridge Family tour bus from the TV show my sisters loved in the 1970’s.

Here’s a view of the front of that same TV bus as it sits between Miss Wortle’s place and Eggbert Egghead’s Egg House. Dabney Egghead is the boy in the sailor suit showing off his brand new velocipede.

The old lady crossing in front of the Toonerville Trolley is Granny Wortle (who controls all the money in the family… I named a lot of the residents after people in Fontaine Fox’s comic strip of the 1930’s).

Here’s the back end of the trolley as it passes Digby Davies’ Pet Shop and the purple eggplant house where Gilbert Dornhoeffer and his seven vegetarian children live and build snowmen regularly.

On the other side of Eggbert Egghead’s Egg House you can see Butch and Marcia Niland’s VW mini-bus next to the old shoe-woman’s house which she built from a gigantic pink-and-white high-topped sneaker. Digby moved his velocipede, either to get it in the picture once again, or to get closer to the Scary Clown’s Ice Cream Truck while they’re still serving Eskimo Pies in midwinter.

So now you can plainly see that Mickey finding old boxes of toys that he thought were lost is not a good thing for Toonerville traffic in general, and definitely not good for Toonerville rush hour.

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Filed under autobiography, humor, illustrations, photo paffoonies, strange and wonderful ideas about life, Toonerville, Trains

February 18, 2017 · 4:33 am

The Dancing Poultry Conspiracy Theory

You’ve heard of the sinister 9-11 tale of the dancing Israelis? Some conspiracy theories are very concerning. You have to be concerned about whether the conspiracy theory is true and aliens from Zeta Reticuli really have been cloning Elvis, or whether the conspiracy theorist is a nut-bag like Alex Jones who simply needs to be locked up to protect him from himself.

But no conspiracy theory worries me more at the moment than one about the existence of German ninjas who advance the neo-Nazi agenda by the use of the secret martial art of der Ententanz. That’s right, they do violence to opponents (and possibly themselves) by aggressively doing the Chicken Dance.

You really have to watch the video above to truly appreciate the perfidy of Ententanz Fu. Notice how it starts with the pinching-fingers castanet attack, useful for grabbing the opponent’s nose or other sensitive protruding appendage. It is followed by the flapping elbows move that can stun the enemy by its sheer ridiculous flappiness. And then the bouncing butt attack, which can potentially paralyze the adversary by bouncing them around the room. All of this is followed by the dancing in a circle maneuver which renders the viewer unconscious with insane levels of laughter. Yes, the aggressive use of the chicken dance can literally make you laugh yourself to death.

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Now, if you truly believe I am not totally serious about the dangers of ninjas doing the chicken dance in order to assassinate ordinary tax-paying citizens, I should warn you…

I mean, most people think of Ententanz Fu as merely another way German-themed tourist traps like the ones in Fredricksburg, Texas make relentless fun and ridicule targets out of clueless white people during Oktoberfest, but in reality… Yes, it is that, but it can be so much more. Take it from somebody who narrowly escaped from a chicken-dance-induced coma fairly recently, it is possible not only to die laughing from this dancing-poultry scourge, or be embarrassed to death, but you can also accidentally tie yourself up into a German pretzel… at which point, chickens will dip you in mustard and eat you.

So be warned. This is a danger not even Alex Jones on InfoWars has warned you about. (Though, if you give him enough time alone with hammers to hit himself in the head with, he may come to the same conclusions soon enough.)

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Filed under birds, conspiracy theory, goofiness, goofy thoughts, humor, Paffooney, sharing from YouTube

Tagged as Alex Jones, chicken dance, conspiracy theory, Nazi chickens, Nazi chickens are really a thing... honest

February 17, 2017 · 11:59 am

Marching Ever Onward

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I am still fighting diabetes wars and barely holding my own. So rather than write through headaches, I am posting this today to keep my string of every-day posts going after two years and two months of posting every single day. I need time to rest and regenerate thinking ability. So here’s an old picture that like re-posting. I like to think of myself as being the drummer boy in the lead of the march, but in reality, I am probably one of the wooden-heads plodding onward.

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February 16, 2017 · 12:33 pm

Follow the Yellow Brick Road

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For the past two weeks I have been battling the Wicked Witch of the Diabetes. Her armies of flying blood-sugar monkeys have been snatching away my healthy hours and leaving me with pain, headaches, and depressing blues of worry. I have been combating the disease up to now with diet and exercise only. But even the miracle of a handful of peanuts filled with good diabetes-bashing niacin is apparently not magic enough to make me feel better. I probably have to go back to the doctor and get put on insulin injections. And that is probably more expense than I can afford. Health insurance loves to collect ever-higher premiums from me, but they really hate to pay for anything.

In answer to my problem I have started a new art project. Dorothy with a bit of attitude has flown in on the latest twister to start bashing heads and murdering witches. It is probably the worst kind of magical thinking to believe drawing pictures can make health problems go away. However, you don’t just let flying monkeys run wild. The pen and ink will get a colored-pencil treatment and I will show it to you here on this blog as we proceed down that yellow brick road of life. And I will get better somehow and someway, even if I have to pull that little con man out from behind the curtain and call him names until he cries. He’s going to find something in that bag of tricks to help me.

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Filed under angry rant, battling depression, feeling sorry for myself, illness, imagination, Paffooney, pen and ink, pen and ink paffoonies

February 15, 2017 · 3:44 pm

Artsy Fartsy Endeavors

As I get older… losing my hair… well, okay… growing my hair long to cover psoriasis sores… I don’t get to actually use Beatles’ lyrics in this post except for the opening of the misleading lead sentence. But as my life and movement is limited more and more to one room of the house (okay two rooms, the bathroom is practically an equal partner in my life story) I have expanded outward by turning inward. I look inside at all that is creative in me and commit acts of gaseous art. “Art farts” is the term pointed to in the title. I spend some of my more difficult sick days making art out of the clutter and doll collections that surround me in my bedroom.

This is what the clutter of old “Art Farts” looks like lingering at my bedroom door at the moment.

Small bits and pieces when I am in too much pain to draw can make interesting still lifes or collection-clutter documentation.

The bustling city that has grown up on my upstairs bookshelves is also fascinating.

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And it isn’t a matter of always being in bed and never getting out. I managed to get several pictures of Anselmo the cattle egret that lives in the park. He has gotten used to me taking his picture as I walk the dog five times a day so she can load the park with poop (which I do pick up in plastic bags, by the way).

And why do I call him Anselmo? Well, look at him, that pointy beak, that staring eye… He just looks like an Anselmo. I taught three Anselmos in 31 years of teaching, so I ought to know one when I see one.

So, what exactly is an “Art Fart”? Well, making artwork out of the things you see every day around you. Like fart gas, it is a natural outcome of digesting stuff. And why am I surrounded by so many toys and weird things? Well, I am a Mickey after all. And this is my second childhood… or third… or tenth… of three-hundred and thirty-fifth… but who’s counting?

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February 14, 2017 · 12:03 pm

Stardusters… Canto 34

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Canto Thirty-Four – The Main Flower Garden

The five tadpoles and two Earther primate adults with the bodies of children were all together again, with a very concerned lizard-girl genius in the center of the circle lost in thought.

“I can’t answer for what the plant did,” Sizzahl said, shaking her head. “It should not have done what it did.”

Brekka was being held tightly between Tanith and Menolly, the slime was almost gone from her bare green skin, wiped off by a concerned George and an even more concerned Davalon.

“You mean it shouldn’t have eaten anybody?” asked Tanith.

“No. It shouldn’t have spit Brekka out.”

The tadpoles all glared, either at the plant, which was happily munching on the scabby it was eating, or at Sizzahl.

“What do you mean?” asked Gracie Morrell.

“It is an alien life form brought here by the wise ones and left behind when they returned to their home systems. It has never let anyone live before. It ate my father and the Great General Gohmurt as they fought over the fate of this very Bio-Dome. It has eaten every naked scabby that found its way in here, including the intruder tonight. I have never known it to spit anybody out.”

“How is that a problem?” asked Alden Morrell. “We have Brekka back safe and alive.”

“Well, yes… that is a very good thing. But it means we don’t know everything about what it will do next. Can it move about and eat us at will? Who will it eat, and who will it not eat? And can we learn why?”

“I can tell you that,” said Brekka.

“Really?” Sizzahl looked skeptical.

“Yes. It can speak inside my head now that its saliva has penetrated my skin.”

“What? Perhaps you are having a delusion caused by the trauma of nearly being eaten!”

“No, it’s true. He says that in the language of the people who put out the I Love Lucy television broadcasts he is named Lester. His other two blossoms are Thing One and Thing Two.”

Gracie bent over Brekka and put a concerned hand on her cheek. She looked into Brekka’s eyes. “Are you sure you weren’t dreaming?”

“It’s true. I can prove it. Lester, make Thing Two waggle its leaves.”

The blossom that was not munching the scabby wiggled all eight of its leaves in a way that reminded Davalon of how Earth people wave at one another. Everyone but Brekka gasped a tiny bit.

“Tell me more,” insisted Sizzahl. “Why didn’t Lester eat you?”

“Well, it’s kinda because I don’t taste very good.”

Menolly and George giggled at that, then both looked embarrassed.

“I mean,” said Brekka, “Tellerons are more amphibian in nature and not as warm blooded as Galtorrians and Earth people. He could happily eat Sizzahl and the Morrells, but Tellerons have a body-chemistry that could make him very sick. And besides… he’s been wanting to be able to communicate with Sizzahl for a very long time, and I gave him a way to do that… or, maybe, gave her a way to do that… I guess Lester is both a boy and a girl plant at the same time.”

“Me?” said Sizzahl. “Why did he want to talk to me?”

Brekka looked up at the blossom that had engulfed her. “He says he’s sorry that he ate your father. When he ate your father, he absorbed all of your father’s thoughts and feelings… as well as the General’s thoughts and feelings. He says he knows that your father was one of the good guys… not evil like Gohmurt.”

Sizzahl began to cry. Davalon had not been certain before that moment, but now he knew that Galtorrians could feel love and have emotions just like Tellerons… and Earthers. She was not the self-sufficient little super-genius she always seemed to be. She was an orphan who missed her parents.

“Will he eat me or the Morrells now?” Sizzahl asked.

“He’s determined not to,” said Brekka, “but don’t get too close and cause temptation. His blossoms get very hungry waiting for the next scabby to wander in.”

“Is he willing to help us in trying to save this planet?” asked Sizzahl, the tears drying up.

“Of course he will,” said Brekka. “He likes the plans your father had to re-make this world into a better place for all sorts of people. And he hates plant-destroyers like Gohmurt. He promises to eat all the scabbies he can in order to help you make your father’s dream come true.”

*****

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Tagged as novel, science fiction, Stardusters and Space Lizards

February 13, 2017 · 3:50 pm

The Curse of Being Creative

“Oh, I just hate you, you can draw so well! I always wished I could draw like that.”

Yes, the perfect thing to hear when you are a twelve year old boy in the sixth grade, and you are hearing it from the girl in your class whom you most want to have a chance to see naked when you grow up. Being smart, creative, and according to Alicia when we were twelve, “You’re so funny,” is not really as fun and wonderful as you might imagine. There’s a downside to being highly creative.

First of all, there’s that. Yes, the naked part of the illustration above. An artist, especially one who also writes and knows how to write from the heart, makes himself or herself naked all the time. The secret parts on the inside come out constantly. You can’t have a private, embarrassing, or secret thought without it being obviously discernible somewhere in the artworks you create. Even the perverted ones like the one about wanting to see Alicia naked when I was twelve. If nakedness is one of things that is on your creative little mind even though it is the one thing that you wish really wasn’t there at all, guess which of the many things on your creative little mind is going to come out first. Artists walk around naked in front of the world all the time, no matter how many clothes they put on.

Secondly, you don’t seem to be able to think like normal people do. Normal people are not divergent thinkers. They are not constantly trying to stand on their head before looking at the world, connecting bizarre things together and seeing the world in constantly shifting and highly exotic colors. I imagine normal people probably walk around all the time with Elton John tunes playing in their head, thinking only about what they ate for lunch and then posted pictures of on Facebook. The lights are not always on in their attic, and they certainly don’t have ghost dogs and booger-men named Douglas playing noisy games of full contact tackle Parcheesi in there during the middle of the night. They don’t have wake-up-sweating nightmares about being attacked by ducks with gigantic white dentures.

There are no Clowntown Kops throwing pies at them in their daydreams about rescuing naked Alicias from sinister bald villains with trained seals for evil minions. Their minds go round and round on a single railroad track on an ordinary oval path. Unlike my mind that is a multi-tracked switch yard where you have to approach going at least ninety miles and hour, losing a single car at every switch, nearly careening sideways off the track at least three times, and having to come together as a train on the other side, collecting all the cars again at high speed and chugging down the tracks to destinations unknown.

And it is all too easy to see the future when you are both creative and at least mildly perceptive. I knew the Cubs were going to win the World Series. I knew Trump would become our leader. I still pray that I am wrong about the whole world-ending thing.

Being creative is not easy. Sometimes it hurts more than it makes you laugh. It leaves you naked and vulnerable. It makes you think in abnormal ways that are studied by abnormal psychiatrists. And it makes you see and understand things that you really wish you were still ignorant of. But would I trade it for anything else? Hmm… let me think about that one for a few more years.

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February 12, 2017 · 2:31 pm

Still Collecting Sunrises

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I am not by nature an early riser. I have been far more of a night owl than a morning lark in my sixty years on this planet. And yet, as a school teacher and father and dog owner (which also means dog-walker and dog-poop-picker-upper), I have been forced to become an early riser. But I like to look at sunrises. We are never guaranteed waking up alive in the morning. One day soon I anticipate waking up quite dead. But in the meantime, I am still looking at sunrises and collecting them. Proof that I still ain’t dead.

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And I am trying hard this winter to think and write about other things than Donald Trump. As bad as he is to have to deal with, life goes on… at least, until it doesn’t. And each day I am older and wiser than I was the day before… at least by a day’s worth, if not more. Good things still happen even if they don’t happen as often as they used to… or as much as the bad things still happen.

I am watching more than one kind of sunrise. This statue was molded and fired in a kiln at school by my daughter, a rising sunshine of art talent. In fact, all my kids can draw… I wonder where that comes from?

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My daughter sometimes draws weird cartoon characters like this boy with a band-aid on his nose riding on a dinosaur/dragon/thing with a laser eye and a mechanical right leg. That is about as goofy as it gets. And I wonder, too, where the heck does that come from?

And you can stop shouting at the computer screen. I only pretend to be as thick as rock for comedic effect. In truth, only my head and my really old unwashed socks are that hard and dense and thought-resistant.

But I keep going while I can. There is still lots to do… novels to write… pictures to draw… dogs to walk and poop to pick up… being retired, even being forcibly retired for health reasons, is like a bag of Saturdays, with no real work responsibilities hanging over my head except for the ones I put there for myself.

And I keep on collecting sunrises, one after another… simply because I still can.

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February 11, 2017 · 4:51 pm

The View From My Little Town

An aerial view of Toonerville in Winter

As immigration officers round up school children and their families blocks from a school in North Carolina, Trump minion Flynn is being accused of violating the Logan Act over discussions with the Russians before Trump took office, and DeVos is being chased away from a Washington middle school by angry protesters who don’t want her sucking the intelligence out the students, I am reminded there are quieter places to go and get away from all the insane noise that is trying to kill us. Thus I head back to Toonerville, my HO scale model train town that has been packed away since we moved to Dallas in 2004. I have laid the downtown and part of the residential area out on a snowfield on the spare bed in my bedroom.

I am reminded, as I revisit Toonerville (with the Toonerville Trolley waiting down front from the train station), that I am a humor writer that writes about small town experiences and the teaching of children. I am imaginative and creative, and I have working strategies for dealing with the stress and insanity caused by all the political baboons doing the politically-charged things that political baboons do baboonishly every baboon day. There are places to go to get away from the Trump Circus’s endless monkey-house of horror.

In Toonerville, none of the clocks keep the correct time and none of them agree what time it is. Certain things are timeless. The village works together to solve its problems. What the wits and twits who chew Red Man tobacco down at Al’s General Store think about politics never leaves the checkerboards in front of the fire place. Mayor Moosewinkle at City Hall has no plans to run for State or Federal office. (Thank God for that, he’s a nut.) And officer Billy Bob Wortle, formerly from Texas, has never shot anybody of any color. The County Sheriff doesn’t even trust him to own bullets for that big old gun of his. As far as executive orders from Washington go, we mostly don’t give a damn.

Down at the Post Office, Mr. Murdoch the postman has never “gone postal” and wouldn’t hurt a fly. He loves to gossip, though. And Mr. Santucci, the hot-headed Italian owner-operator of the Farmer’s Market (who looks just like Santa Claus in the Coke ads, but is one very foul-mouthed Santa at Christmas time) secretly believes that it is the many differences between the various residents of town that keep life interesting. And old Ben Johnson, the town’s only black man, is his very best friend.

It’s a truly good feeling to live in a small town where all the people bicker and throw fits, but no one would every want to throw anyone out of town. People belong together, working for the common good. And it is a rather sad thing if the only place such a town can exist is inside my goofy old head. But if we bicker a little less and throw fits less often on the inside, won’t we be better people on the outside too?

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