Catch a Falling Star

A balloon filled with loony baboons piloted by a buffoon poltroon with a laugh like the State bird of Minnesota (the common Loon) was whipped round and round by a cyclone (an Iowa State alum like me) until it worked like a blender to tender the gruel (or is that grool?) that makes the makings of a Paffooney. Yes, I took letters from many of those words and pasted them together with Elmer’s glue to create a new word to apply to a picture that accompanies a short piece of Mickian writing.

The girl in the Paffooney above should not be construed to be the poltroon who pilots the balloon. Breanna laughs more like a canary than a loon. That particularly pallid poltroon looks more like Ted Cruz, hence I chose to put Breanna in the picture in place of the Grandpa Munster look-alike that would otherwise offend your eyes. Paffoonies should be interesting to look at. Not sickeningly horrid.

The idea of a Paffooney is that it must contain a little bit of me… Illustrate a piece of my soul so to speak. It has to show a little bit of the self-examination that makes me bend and twist who I am until it fits into the pretzel-shaped container of who I am meant to be. I suppose I am meant to be an artist. Michael was, anyway. Mickey? Well, he’s a cartoonist. Don’t believe me? You could go to Google Image Search and search Beyer Paffooney. You will get a collection of what the algorithm thinks a Paffooney is, and hopefully at least a few of the ones I have created with my magic word attached that the algorithm judges you are mature enough to see.

D

I was battling high and low blood pressure for two days. Today I finally leveled out at normal again. That cuts into my ability to read and write every day. Will get back to normal… I promise.

I miss her mightily. Two months now she is no longer a part of my daily life. Today a visit to a urologist yielded a diagnosis of prostatitis and two antibiotics that it turns out I am allergic to. I threw up everything inside me at about four o’clock this afternoon and spent at least ten minutes with the dry heaves. So, I had to call the doctor about it, and new meds will be on their way tomorrow. And I am sick as a dog. She would’ve licked my hand in sympathy, as she did so often, and looked at me with worry in those big brown eyes. And then ate everything I threw up because I was too weak to stop her. But all I am left with is the ghost of her. The memory of her. The illusion that she’s still here to care.

Retired doesn’t mean “tired again,” or you are moved backward into a rocking chair on the porch. Retired means you have a new set of wheels on your go machine and many new places to go.

**You should note, this portrait was done entirely with digital tools. The background had AI assistance, but my hand drew the picture of “Retired Guy” entirely.

The AI Mirror version would have looked something like this;

This book is my most popular seller once again. Somebody bought another paperback copy with color pictures in it.