So, You Did the Thing…

You really chose the criminal over the prosecutor? Why? Now the Pumpkinhead Felony-Master President has pulled a Grover Cleveland. And you obviously wanted this. Everywhere the votes fell Trump’s way. Because you can’t have a woman president? You can’t have a second black president? You want to pay the Tariffs because the eggs are too expensive?

Stupid people vote stupidly. And if you vote against your own interests, you are being stupid.l Republicans don’t love poor people, or middle-class people, or people who are not white-conservative Christians. I’m a liberal. They hate and persecute me. And I am married to an immigrant. And they hate minorities even if they are Christian and conservative.

“Oh, Mickey. You shouldn’t talk bad about Trump voters. You are being a bad sport about this. The choice we made should be respected.”

When did you never respect me when my candidate won in 2008. 2012, and 2020? I remember the name-calling. You demand respect from me, but you never do anything to earn that respect. I should never suggest you are a racist or a fascist, but you can call me a commie libtard worthy only of execution. And you don’t know what the word hypocrite even means.

I know my complaining here is being read by nobody. The people I am talking to don’t read my blog except to make comments I must delete, and this is too uncomfortable for the ones who would agree with me. But I suffered under Don Cheetoh Trumpaloney the first time. I was lucky to survive long enough to vote for Biden. Thanks be to Covid vaccines. I really don’t deserve another four-year sentence. Unlike the President, I have committed no crimes.

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Just In Case You Haven’t Seen It…

My sisters and I as kids loved old movie musicals with dancing in them probably as much as any genre.  This video making the rounds on Facebook is something I have seen posted and re-posted and have personally watched at least five times already.  I have shared it twice on Facebook, and it continually gets re-shared, especially by friends my age or older.  Why does something like this go viral?  Well, Bruno Mars is a popular young Michael Jackson clone with an amazing musicality that appeals to all ages.  And the video is beautifully edited so that all the dancers from old movie musicals are actually in sync and appear to be dancing to the beat.  But the game-breaker for me is the fact that the dancers are all the old stars that used to fascinate me with their dance moves on PBS back in the 1970’s when old movie musicals got played on Friday, Saturday, and sometimes Sunday evenings.  I recognize Fred Astair, Gene Kelly, Buddy Ebsen, Donald O’Connor, Ginger Rogers, Judy Garland, Cyd Charisse, Mickey Rooney, Groucho Marx, the Ritz Brothers, and many more from the movies I loved like Anchors Away, Singing in the Rain, New York New York, and so many others I can’t even begin to name them all.  This mash-up brings back a whole lost world for me and gives me joy.  It connects the past with the energy of the present.  It gives me something to long for, to sigh for, and to fondly recall.  I want to see all those movies again.  But it wouldn’t be the same without my sisters there.

Blue Dawn

One has to wonder if all the time we spent on entertainment during our lifetime was a lost cause or not.  I have a rich tapestry of memories of other people’s lives, gained through movies, television, and books.  But has that enhanced my life?  Or has it taken away from my life’s work?  I know work puts food on the table and makes continued life possible.  But it also has to define the value of our lives.  I have never, though, lived a moment as a teacher when something I learned from movies or a book has actually interfered with delivering instruction.  And I can name innumerable times, looking back, when being able to recall entertainment experiences led to a unique teachable moment.  Those things can actually be the most important things we teach.  And what an entertainer in any medium manages to communicate to me validates their life’s work.

This flash mob concert makes me weep for joy every time I watch it.  It makes me realize what marvelous fulfillment there is in the act of committing a work of art.  How must poor demented and deaf Beethoven be soaring in spirit to have his work take so many people by surprise like this?  It gives me chills to think about that kind of immortality even though the composer is long since dead.  He is still giving astonishing gifts to little girls who put a coin in a hat.

You don’t even have to be Beethoven-levels of famous to create moments that will live forever in the memory of the universe.  I have watched this video of street performers across the world so many times I have it memorized and can sing along.  I have shared this video so many times that I expect others to tell me, “Just stop it already!”  But they never do.  We learn the value of art by being an audience… by being consumers of art.  And it gives me hope as well for my own artistic endeavors.  Making money is not the point.  Sharing my work with others… even long after my own personal time on earth is up… is the precious thing.  I am reminded of the culmination of the long and glorious career of Charlie Chaplin.  And the movie clip that gets circulated so often now after another tragedy like the one in Paris.  I dare you to listen to this speech and not be moved… to hear it out and not learn something important.

Thank you for letting me waste your time today.  I intended to commit no further evil in the world today, than to let you share a few of the things that everybody seems to be finding beautiful and worth the effort of sharing.

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Nerd Class

Skoolgurlz

Back in the 1980’s I was given the gift of teaching the Chapter I program students in English.  This was done because Mrs. Soulwhipple was not only a veteran English teacher, but also the superintendent’s wife.  She was the one gifted with all the star kids, the A & B students, the ones that would be identified as the proper kids to put into our nascent Gifted and Talented Program.  That meant that I would get all the kids that were C, D, & F in most of their classes, the losers, the Special Edwards, the learning disabled, the hyper rocketeers of classroom comedy, and the trouble makers.  And I was given this gift because, not only was I not a principal’s or superintendent’s wife, but I actually learned how to do it and became good at it.  How did I do that, you might ask?  I cheated.  I snooped into the Gifted and Talented teacher training, learned how to differentiate instruction for the super-nerd brain, and then used the stolen information to write curriculum and design activities for all my little deadheads (and they didn’t even know who the Grateful Dead were, so that’s obviously not what I meant).    I treated the little buggers like they were all GT students.  Voila!  If you tell a kid they are talented, smart, and worthy of accelerated instruction… the little fools believe it, and that is what they become.Aeroquest ninjas

Even the goofy teacher is capable of believing the opposite of what is obvious and starts treating them like super-nerds because he actually believes it.  I soon had kids that couldn’t read, but were proud of their abstract problem-solving skills.  I had kids that could enhance the learning of others with their drawing skills, their singing ability, and their sense of what is right and what is wrong.  I had them doing things that made them not only better students for me, but in all their classes.  And I did not keep the methods to my madness a secret, either.  I got so good at coercing other teachers to try new ideas and methods that I got roped into presenting some of the in-service training that all Texas teachers are required by law to do.  And unlike so many other boring sessions we all sat through, I presented things I was doing in the actual classroom that other teachers could also use with success.  The other teachers tried my activities and sometimes made them work better than I did.

Teacher

Yes, I know this all sounds like bragging.  And I guess it probably is.  But it worked.  My kids kept getting better on the standardized tests and the State tests that Texas education loves so much.  And Mrs. Soulwhipple was still the superintendent’s wife, but she did not stay a teacher forever.  She eventually went to a new school district with her husband.  And guess who they started thinking of when the question of who would be the next teacher for the nerd classes was considered.  That’s right, little ol’ Reluctant Rabbit… that goofy man who drew pictures on the board and made kids read like a reading-fiend… me.

So, a new era began in Cotulla.  In addition to still getting to teach all the deadheads (because they weren’t going to trust those precious children to anyone else, naturally), I began teaching at least one edition of Mr. B’s famous Nerd Class every school year.  We actually assigned long novels and great pieces of literature for the kids to read and discuss and study in depth.  Novels like To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee and Across Five Aprils by Irene Hunt were read.  We began talking about “big ideas”, “connections to the wider world”, and how “things always change”.  We began taking on ideas like making our world better and how to help our community.  Kids began to think they were learning things that were important.  We did special units on Exploring Our Solar System, The World of Mark Twain, Finding the Titanic, and The Tragedy of Native American History.  And we spent as much as a third of the year on each.  I am myself cursed with a high IQ and a very disturbing amount of intelligence.  I am the deepest living stockpile of useless facts and trivia that most of my students would ever meet in their lifetimes.  And even I was challenged by some of the learning we took on.  That’s the kind of thing that makes a teaching career fun.  It kept me teaching and meeting new students and new challenges long after my health issues made it a little less than sensible to keep going.  And if I manage to tell you a few Nerd Class stories in the near future, then at least you stand a chance of knowing a little bit about what-the-heck I am talking about.  So be prepared for the worst.  I am retired now, and have plenty of time for long-winded stories about being a teacher.

 

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Good Wishes… In Spite Of…

In 2016 the election result really hurt me in several ways. My number two son was not yet of voting age, but he liked Trump. Trump appointed Betsy DeVos as the head of education, the lady who practically destroyed education in Michigan with her “school choice” charter school/private school/ defund the public schools plan. The plan that Texas promptly imported. And then the 2017 Trump Tax Cut. He passed that @#$%!!! plan in December and made it retroactive for the whole year. The 1% made millions in tax breaks. I owed an extra two hundred a month in higher taxes because “pensioners ought to be paying their fair share, especially teachers!” And that was charged times twelve for the entire year without having had the option to have it withheld month by month. I don’t normally hate anyone, so I hope Don Cheetoh Trumpaloney appreciates his special status from me.

34 felony convictions, four indictments, two impeachments, one insurrection…. I liked Gary Hart. He was taken out of the race for President by a single photo. I liked Howard Dean. He was taken out by a single yelp. Oy vay!

If the Trumpalump wins again… well, I don’t imagine I will survive it. But all my conservative friends who hate the people who he hates and approve of punishing trans kids and poor kids and minority kids in schools and hate me for being a liberal… I forgive them. I do believe in Christian values. And it is unfortunate that the Pharasee’s notion of stoning sinners is not actually Christianity because that is how they read the Bible. Still, I don’t condemn them for their mistakes. I will not throw the first stone. I am not without sin myself.

I hope for a better outcome tonight. But I am by nature a pessimist. I am preparing for the end of the world.

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Tess of the D’Urbervilles (by Thomas Hardy)

9781411433267_p0_v1_s260x420I decided I wanted to be a novelist because of Charles Dickens.  I loved the way he told a story with vivid characters, rising and falling crises, and story arcs that arrive at a happily-ever-after, or a how-sad-but-sweet-the-world-is ultimate goal.  Sometimes he reached both destinations with the same story, like in David Copperfield or The Old Curiosity Shop.  I have wanted to write like that since I read The Old Curiosity Shop in 9th Grade.

Thomas Hardy has a lot in common with Chuck.  I mean, more than just being old Victorian coots.  Hardy knows the Wessex countryside, Blackmoor and Casterbridge with the depth and understanding that Dickens bestows on London.  Hardy can delineate a character as clearly and as keenly as Dickens, as shown by Diggory Venn, the Reddleman in Return of the Native, or Tess Durbyfield in the novel I am reading at the moment.  These characters present us with an archetypal image and weave a story around it that speaks to themes with soul-shaking depth.  Whereas Dickens will amuse and make us laugh at the antics of the Artful Dodger or Mr. Dick or Jerry Cruncher from a Tale of Two Cities, Hardy makes us feel the ache and the sadness of love wrecked by conflict with the corrupt and selfish modern world.  Today I read a gem of a scene with the three milkmaids, Izz, Retty, and Marian looking longingly out the window at the young gentleman Angel Clare.  Each wants the young man to notice her and fall in love with her.  Sad-faced Izz is a dark-haired and brooding personality.  Round-faced Marian is more jolly and happy-go-lucky.  Young Retty is entirely bound up by shyness and the uncertainty of youth.  Yet each admits to her crush and secret hopes.  Tess, meanwhile, overhears all of it, all the time knowing that Angel is falling in love with her.  And worse yet, she has sworn to herself never to let another man fall in love with her because of the shameful way Alec D’Urberville took advantage of her, a quaint old phrase that in our time would mean date rape.  There is such bittersweet nectar to be had in the characterizations and plots of these old Victorian novels.  They are more than a hundred years old, and thus, not easy to read, but worth every grain of effort you sprinkle upon it.  I am determined now to finish rereading Tess of the Durbervilles, and further determined to learn from it, even if it kills me.

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Art Permutations

On a track made with Picsart AI Photo Editor, the racing nudist.

An edited racer made with my original drawing and AI Mirror.

The racer becomes a skinny-dipper.

My original pen-and-ink drawing was made with colored pencils.

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The Inner Clown

HarkerSometimes it is entirely necessary to acknowledge the fool and the helpless, hopeless clown that lives inside us all. Okay, I hear what you are thinking.  Not you.  There is no clown inside of you… only me.  That is one of a myriad of mistakes that makes me acknowledge that I am far short of perfection.  I am not a know-it-all.  I am a know-it-sometimes who too often tries to bluster his way through like he isn’t completely unsure of himself and terrified that other people will see what he truly is and laugh him out of business.  I am a pratfall, butt-of-the-joke, snicker-at-snidely sort of buffoon who never gets it right and deserves every guffaw thrown at him.  Clowns are often all blue, squishy, and sad on the inside.  That is often the only thing that makes us funny.  Do you know what brought on this wave of self pity?  Of course you do.  No man ever went through a day of stumble-muffs and misquotes, goof-ups and stubbed toes like I did without feeling at least a little bit that way.  Oh?  Not you, again?  I hear you.  It must be nice to never make mistakes.   clllown  I have my car registered with the wrong registration sticker.  When I tried to get the State inspection done, I found out my car is now supposed to be the old van my wife destroyed in a car accident last spring.  My bank’s bill-pay service has twice sent money to the electric company which somehow lost the electronic check.  I can’t even handle idiot-proof details anymore.  My son who was home on leave went back to the Marine Corps early this morning.  I took him to the airport and had to bring all his deodorant spray, shampoo, and toothpaste back home with me because soap on an airplane equals terrorist.  Apparently, that should’ve all gone into the bags we checked, because that stuff only explodes in the carry-on bags, never the baggage compartment.  I am called out for my many writing mistakes, even the ones I made on purpose trying to be funny, and my self-editor let me down on several occasions in the past week.  So I am depressed.  At life I am, at best, a .125 hitter, barely making more than one hit in every ten at-bats.  I am a rodeo clown trying to play in a basketball game, and the bulls are all Michael Jordan.  (How’s that for a mangled metaphor?)  Francois  But it isn’t all the blues that I am singing.  Good things have happened too.  Life continues in my unlikely body afflicted with six incurable diseases, and I am a cancer survivor since 1983.  The golf-ball sized growth the surgeon removed from the back of my head last week was benign, no sign of cancer.  My son was home on leave.  Every day is it’s own miracle.  And I have gotten some writing done.  So what if every editor and every reader doesn’t fall in love with every single word?   The story goes on for at least another day.

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What Little Wisdom There is in This

Yes, she was made with AI Mirror and Picsart AI Photo Editor, but it was still built upon a drawing I did with my arthritic right hand, and yes, that’s why she is a little bit cross-eyed.

I am at the very end of a long life with a complete 31-year teaching career, childhood trauma, three kids when who are now adults, an interest in knowing about the answers to both mysteries and ordinary things, and an imagination so vivid I have to wonder how much of all of that is real. Like Socrates, I don’t really know anything. Everything I have in my head that is even remotely akin to wisdom is based on observation and experiment, wrapped up with Reason, and boiled in a broth of Skepticism. I am well aware that imagination can skew everything if you let it.

Of course, this is a simple pen-and-ink line drawing. I used Picsart to put it on blue “paper” because my printer was down, and I didn’t have any blue paper anyway.

Here’s something I believe to be true based on experience and evidence;

Lucid dreaming is a real thing that some people do. I have done it numerous times. It simply means becoming aware that you are actually dreaming in the course of the dream. You can then take total control of the dream. Most of the dreams I have had like this involve flying without an airplane. I have also had a dream of running naked through the old grade-school building where I went through grades K through 6. Everyone was laughing at me, but I took control and made all my classmates run naked with me, even the girls I never saw naked in real life.

I have also experienced a Close Encounter of the Third Kind although I strongly believe that, even though the aliens were exactly like the ones that Whitley Streiber described in his book, Communion, it was really only a very vivid dream. I have learned about such dreams over time that many of them are the result of childhood trauma, like the trauma of being sexually assaulted by a sadist, which happened to me at the age of ten. Many of these so-called alien abductions, then, are no more than vivid trauma dreams that under hypnosis get recalled as reality. I have also had trauma dreams about tornados caused by the Belmond Tornado of 1969, a night I spent fearing that my parents were dead. These dreams can seem so real that you can feel the wind on your dream face or a campfire warming your bare feet outdoors at night. I am pretty sure that my encounter with gray aliens from Zeta Reticuli was like that. The fear it gave me up and down my spine was the ghost of the fear my assailant gave me when I was ten.

This is an AI-generated image that looks like me because it was created from the data set available in my phone’s picture gallery.

Dreams can also Predict the Future. This I believe due to a large number of strange experiences. My tornado dreams often come right before a major tragedy like one of my car accidents, or my Great Grandma Hinckley’s death. One night in college I dreamt of my childhood friend Bobby falling out of the back of a blue pickup truck. Less than a week later I was told in the family phone call that Robert had actually been hospitalized when he fell out of a truck. And the pickup was allegedly blue. I also dreamed of being in the home of another of my high school friends where a number of his relatives were gathered to mourn the loss of his stepfather. It was a Friday night dream. The following Monday at school I learned all about his stepfather’s Friday night motorcycle accident. Eerily, some of the relatives I saw in that dream were people I only later learned were his relatives.

Of course, you cannot change the outcomes of things by a prediction-based dream. And none of this nonsense may actually be true due to the random nature of real life and the faultiness of my own stupid perceptions in my own stupid head. So, I can’t really know these things. I may have all the conclusions wrong. But the best wisdom I have to offer here is… well, it all MAY BE TRUE.

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Mickey Gets Older… and Older… and, well, you know…

5.0.2 http://disneyparks.disney.go.com/

Mickey Mouse was born on November 18, 1928 in the film “Steamboat Willie”.  This month will be his 96th Birthday.  He’s still pretty spry for such an old guy.  My own father is pretty close to the same age, born in about 1932.

And I… I was born in a blizzard in 1956, on November 17th, the day before his 28th birthday.  Don’t do the math.  I don’t really want to know how old I am.  I have six incurable diseases, and I may be adding a seventh to that, depending on what my cardiologist finds out.  I survived malignant melanoma in 1983.  I am deeply grateful for every day of the 41 years I have lived since.

This post started out as something about birthdays.  Mickey’s and mine (who am also Mickey)…  But I think it is really about numbers. There are still important numbers to consider.  I have published twenty novels, two books of short essays, a book-length essay on nudism, and a book of poetry.  Aeroquest and Catch a Falling Star are the first two books I published.  But I have since turned  Aeroquest into four novels with a planned fifth and possible sixth book. This was done because Publish America was a criminal publishing scheme and held my book hostage for seven years. Snow Babies is the best story I ever wrote.  I have written a number of hometown stories about the little town in Iowa in which I grew up.  The Bicycle-Wheel Genius, Superchicken, The Baby Werewolf, Recipes for Gingerbread Children, Sing Sad Songs, and The Boy… Forever are a few of theseThe Magical Miss Morgan is the last book I published with a pay-to-publish publishing scheme.  From here on I only publish for free with Amazon.  Even the literary agents that call me only want to charge me money to promote my books.  So, I want to write and publish more for free.  People are reading my books and I am having precious little success as a mostly-unknown author.  How much time do I really have left?  I confess to having at least five novel-length stories that are only written in my head and outlined on paper.  The clock is ticking.  I want to share all of these stories, but I know I probably do not have 86+ years.  I truly believe that both this Mickey and that Mickey are capable of speaking to the ages, but it can only happen if I get my words shared so that somebody I do not know will read them, smile a little, laugh a little, maybe cry a little, and understand what I tried to say.

So here’s a self-portrait of what Mickey once looked like (before the beard and long hair) along with Valerie Clarke, the main character of Snow Babies, and the most beautiful little girl ever born in Norwall, Iowa.

SnowyPortrait

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Mickey’s Current Halloween

Is that the Grim Reaper knocking at my door?

My body is nearly 70 years old.

With all my incurable diseases and conditions, it sometimes seems more than 100.

But my mind is still twelve.

I was fully prepared to meet death today. I thought it might happen because of the driving I needed to do on top of the passing out I had been doing for no identified reason.

But my daughter took care of the night driving on the drive home. And no passing out.

I have been struggling to draw and write anything.

My blog readership fell off a cliff this month. I suppose because I have been writing about nudists more and probably being mentally weird and indecipherable due to old-man craziness.

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