The Meaning of 42

little Toy Trio

I get goofy ideas for blog posts when I am reading other blog posts, when I am reading books, and when I am letting television suck the smart out of my brain cells.  I was first inspired by reading this blog post from In My Cluttered Attic.  He was talking about why he chooses to blog in the face of a plethora of common-sense reasons not to.  “Good idea for my own blog post!” said the insane voice that inhabits the dark space behind my mind’s own creative filing cabinet #42 in the second dungeon under my memory.  I immediately filed the idea away in that cabinet because the cabinet was close at the time and I might never find it again later.  Then I leaped to a post by The Off Key of Life in which I found a beautiful song beautifully sung that made me trip over another file cabinet that was behind the mechanical letter-sorting machine on the stairway landing to the sub-basement of the second dungeon.

Some old memories spilled out on the stone steps because I used to sing that song to my three babies when I rocked them to sleep twenty years ago, fifteen years ago, and thirteen years ago.  That song, and “When You Wish Upon a Star” from Disney’s Pinocchio.  Both of those songs are about one day finding the key to happiness… or possibly the key to understanding… but definitely about the search for the key.  I always believed that those songs would give my children sweet dreams… and I prayed that the songs would never become the source of nightmares.

And then I was watching Hulu, an episode of Arrow in which Oliver Queen must decide on the reason why he was doing the whole superhero-vigilante thing and risking his life constantly.  Unfortunately I didn’t find the file box that has superheroes in it that I was looking for in hallway leading to Area 51 in the upper dungeon.  But I knew the topic was going to be “Why I Blog”.  That settled, I began to write and paste in all sorts of random stuff.

“What is the meaning of 42?” you ask?  How clever of you to ask that!  In Douglas Adams’ seminal series of Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy books

the_hitchhikers_guide_to_the_galaxy 42 is revealed to be the answer to the ultimate question of Life, the Universe, and Everything.  Practically everything that he adds to that epic trilogy of five-or-so books is basically random.  And yet, it is not.  He is telling us about the apparent randomness of Life, the Universe, and Everything while carefully explaining how all this random madness that is Everything actually fits together in a very random-mad way.  There is a certain asymmetrical symmetry about it all that has a certain contradictory sort of beauty, if you get what I mean.  (A certain ugly beauty if you don’t get what I mean.)

So why do I blog?  Good question.  I don’t really have an answer to it.  I blog because my first publisher told me I had to do it to promote my book, Catch a Falling Star.  My book has netted me $28 so far, as long as I am not fool enough to start subtracting all the money I have spent trying to advertise and promote my book.  I’m not fool enough.  I stay out of that corridor in the maze of my complicated little mind.  I blog because I can share all the private drawings and poems and insane nonsense that fills the filing cabinets in my mind without paying a hefty psychiatrist’s fee.  Your underwear drawer needs to be aired out once in a while even if you do remember to wash your underwear.  And it is liberating to walk around figuratively naked in front of an audience that potentially includes little old church ladies, God, and everybody.  I blog because writing is something that I do, have always done, and will continue to do until they put my smelly corpse in a pine box and bury it under the garbage pile out back.  All that scribbling has to count for something sometime.  And maybe that sometime is now.  If you are one of those poor souls suffering from Serial-Mickey’s-Blog-Reading Disorder (a condition the CDC has taken to labeling SMBRD… not to be confused with small-bird flu), and you actually read the posts and look at all the random junk piled into those mad paragraphs, you may just accidentally stumble across that key we have all been searching for for eons… and unlike the majority of the world, you will be giggling insanely for a reason!

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A Maker of Books

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For an awfully long time I have been filling blank pages with junk and goofy stuff and saving it in book form.  I think it began when I was a Junior in high school.  At least, that is the oldest of the homemade books I could find.  I fill these handmade and factory-made blank books with stories, drawings, poems, clipped pictures, nonsense, secrets, shamelessly plagiarized gunk, and anything and everything.  At 58 and one half years of age, I have been doing this insane thing for a very long time and have quite a pile of it.  The above is my Tales of Fantastica, a cartoon journey into my own dreams and personal life.

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I believe, based on physical evidence that the first collected writing I have done is in my Journal, Rage.  It is called that because I named it after a Dylan Thomas poem in which he “raged against the dying of the light” because he was venting on the subject of his father’s death and the dread of living a life without being allowed to really be alive… to really live.  I wanted to write down everything I noticed about being alive… my hopes, my fears, my dreams as fully as I could remember them… and it became, over time, quite ripe and fertile, as stored garbage usually will.  I was able to use it as a source for other stuff.  I have at least nine volumes of this journal composed over a period of twenty-some years… before I started depositing my daily dose of words and interior monologues in other places.

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My old drawing notebook goes all the way back to 5th grade.  I saved almost every drawing and doodle I did as a grade-school-and-middle-school doodler.  It has some of my very first cartoons and bird drawings and monsters that I filled my quiet hours in childhood with instead of doing the homework I was supposed to be doing.

In college, specifically Cow College… Iowa State University in Ames, Iowa, I first began putting stories into novel form.  These I kept in binders and neatbooks that I had to illustrate the covers of with my own story-specific logos.

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Here is the first manuscript of Superchicken, the first manuscript that I actually finished and followed all the way through with.

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This book-maker-mania followed me even into the classroom.  I collected classroom drawings from students, either as gifts from them or confiscated from them and put them into the binder I call my Gallery.  This will make an interesting post of its own in the near future.

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And I am still not cured of making my own covers, even though I am now trying to make them into traditionally publlished books.  Here is the cover for Superchicken.

superchick_novelI suppose I will never really be cured of this mental aberration for as long as I still live.  I don’t know what my heirs will do with them when they are finally rid of me once and for all.  But it is all something I don’t regret doing.  And besides, I couldn’t help it.

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Another Self-Promotional Announcement from Mickey

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I’m not bragging.  I know it is not that much.  But it’s more than twice what I had at the start of 2014.

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More Powerful than a Locomotive

There is an old saying… “What doesn’t kill us, makes us stronger.”

I have an addendum to add… “If what doesn’t kill us makes us stronger, then I must be Superman!”

Lying here now in pain after having surgery this morning, that is exactly what I have been telling myself.  No more Kryptonite today, thank you.

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I may have mentioned before on this blog that I have six incurable diseases and am a cancer survivor since 1983.  (If I haven’t mentioned it before, then it was only because I mistook complaining loudly and relentlessly about it for mentioning.)  I have arthritis, diabetes, COPD, hypertension, psoriasis, and benign prostatic hyperplasia.  Two of those diseases ganged up on me recently.  I had a sebaceous cyst on my lower back that had gotten infected because psoriasis had flaked skin off the top of it until there was an ulcerated infected hole there and it caused me enough pain to prevent sleeping.  (I know you didn’t really want to know about that… but. then, neither did I).

I got the thing surgically excised (whacked off with scalpel and scissors) and had the hole sewn back together with a few butterfly Band Aids slapped on the top.  I had been given a topical anesthetic that deadened the nerves while I was being carved up, but wears off shortly after and then all the pain that has been saved up comes rushing back to fill the void.  The doctor said I could take aspirin, but I have a big bottle of Aleve next to the bed for arthritis, and my body is so used to the medicine that I might just as easily have taken a sugar pill for the same effect.  (Of course then my diabetes would come knocking on my brain.)   So, I am in pain.

But less than an hour after surgery, I had to go in to the counselor’s office at school and discuss for 45 minutes the life-and-death future consequences of the schooling of one of three kids.  It is no kind of chicken barbecue or country fair to have to explain to a school official everything you have been doing to solve the life-or-death problem for the kiddo while pain medication is wearing off and anesthetic is wearing off and patience is wearing off and mental acuity is disappearing faster than a rabbit-man can teach irony to middle-schoolers…. wait, what?  Perhaps I should rest now and let the medicine do its work.

Naw, can’t do that.  I’m Superman.

But, wait… wasn’t I Popeye just yesterday?  Who the heck am I really?  A goofy old writer-guy, most likely.

Superman 2

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Talk Like Popeye

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I have long identified with Popeye.  Let me review that notion by re-posting a bit of an old post in which I explain while talking like Popeye;

I am Popeye, I sez, because I just am…  Yeah, that’s right, I yam what I yam.

First of all, I looks like Popeye.  I has that cleft in me chin, very little hair left on me ol’ head, and I gots the same squinky eye (what squinky eye?).  I has had that same squinky eye since I wuz a teenager and got kicked in the eye doin’ sandlot football (bettern’ sandlot high divin’, fer sure!).  I also has them same bulgy arms, the ones that bulge in the forearm and is incredibobble thin on the upper arms.

Second of all, I has Popeye Spinach-strength.  I look weak and scrawny, but I is a lot tuffer than I looks.  I go into classrooms full of wild, crazed middle schoolers, and grabs their attention, tells ’em what’s what, and makes ’em woik.  (Woik is a voib, and that means I is woikin’ when I makes ’em do it.)  I kin stands ridicule and kids what will remarks on the hair in me ears and me squinky eye.  I tells ’em that the scar on me face was did by a bloke with a knife (which it were, cause I had skin cancer and the doctor used a knife to get it off).  I has taken all kinds of nasty punches from life (diabetes, blood-pressure problems, prostatitis, arthritis) and I still keeps comin’ back fer more.  In fact, I can winds up me arm and give that ol’ Devil a good Twisker Sock right in the kisser.

Third of all, I has a typical Popeye Sweet Patootie.  My Island Girl Wife is like Olive Oyl in very many ways.  She is always tellin’ me what to do.  She compares me to ol’ Bluto.  She panics and flails her arms when there’s a crisis.  And she expects me to always save the day and never says “thank you” after.

So, I mean it when I sez “I am Popeye”.  I yam what I yam and that’s all what I yam!

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See?  I kin talk like Popeye because in many ways I AM him… He of the mangled-mouth vocabubobulary created by Elzie Crisler Segar on January 17th, 1929 for his comic strip Thimble Theater for King Features Syndicate.  He doesn’t talk right because his brain is so full of goodness and spinach that he has no room left for spelling and pronunskiation.  Ak-ak-ak-ak-ak-ak….  Popeye is just a simple sailor, and has been for 94 years.  He expresses himself horribly, but only in the very best of ways.  So when I mangle a word on purpose… or by happy accident… it is just me honoring that old one-eyed sailor.  It is not me just being a stupid addle-pated blarney goon who don’t knows how to talk right.

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Comic strip from comicskingdom.com

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The Quest for Pinkie Pie

The day before yesterday I wrote a post for 1000 Voices Speak for Compassion that basically tore my heart out.  It made me relive one of my worst defeats as a teacher who cares about teaching and students.  I have to admit that I spent an awful lot of time crying the past three days.  But I am not a sorrowful Sad-Sack with a sourpuss’ simpering sarcastic smile.  Not I.  I come back from downers by doing silly stuff… kinda like over-dosing on alliteration in that S-filled sentence.  So what silly stuff am I up to after a triple-down darkness-dealing downer like the one from that post? (When Compassion Fails)  I took up the Quest for Pinkie Pie.

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I borrowed the My Little Pony image above from Jessica Ann Hughes whose very eloquent post laments the series update as a sexualization of the thirty-year-old toy franchise in the newer series, My Little Pony, Friendship is Magic.

But I have to argue that it doesn’t sexualize anything beyond the surface.   After all, these ponies are really little girls that have charming little-girl personalities and act in stories that have little-to-nothing to do with sex.  Yes, I have seen the wedding episode where Twilight Sparkle’s big brother gets married, but that episode is about trusting your own instincts when something seems wrong.  If somebody like me is getting sexual vibes from that cartoon, then something is seriously wrong and that somebody should seek therapy to avoid becoming some kind of pedophile.  I mean, it is important to self-censor.  When I was getting a soda at QT this afternoon, I was happy to see two pretty girls in short pants for the first time in a long time.  6a00d8341c562c53ef01676098b1fd970bTexas weather has been rainy and dreary for the past few weeks and the sun has finally come out.  But… wait a minute!  Why am I looking at middle school girls’ legs?  I am a miserable, broken-down, spotty old man.  And I have been busily watching this My Little Pony show on YouTube where all these little girl ponies are walking around naked all the time!   But, am I not over-reacting?  Yes, the ponies have big eyes and shortened muzzles… but I haven’t been obsessing about ponies because of hormone imbalances or something.  I thought the whole Brony thing was ridiculous up until a very short time ago.  Pinkie-Pie-my-little-pony-friendship-is-magic-20424750-570-402I mean, grown men watching a cartoon about little-girl ponies and singing the songs and buying the toys and wearing ponies on T-shirts.  Is there therapy for that?  I am hoping so… because I think I’m going to need it.

My doll-collecting mental illness began, as I tried to explain and tell lies about yesterday, when I was a child who had been given dolls for birthdays and Christmas (I meant to say Action Figures… No!  Really!) and only really had sisters to play with at home (my little brother was eight years younger than me, and my friends from school lived in the country, miles away from town on farms.)

As a young man, I regained my dolls… I mean Action Figures, and tried to restore them (not play with them… I never said play with them).  When I got married, my wife and I actively began collecting them.  She was initially charmed by my love for my old pieces of plastic.  We began looking for what was out there.  Captain Action and G.I. Joes for me, Barbies for her.  When she lost interest (or found a cure for that particular mental aberration), I kept on.  The rules for collecting included; Twelve inch tall figures.  Never pay more than $20 for a toy.  Never spend more than $50 a month.  Find rare dolls for little money.  Rescue dolls who somebody once loved and played with, or that are on the verge of the ignominious end to be found in the department-store dumpster.

Rainbow Dash started me down the slippery slope to Brony-ism.  I just happened to find, on an after-Christmas clearance table at Walmart with all the other damaged toys that didn’t realistically survive the seasonal play-with-it-in-the-store-while- mommy-shops damage, a cheap and forlorn Rainbow Dash with extra hair.  She looked at me with those big, sad eyes and pleaded with me to buy her and save her from the dumpster (or the sadistic little girl that would buy and dismember her because she was just a cheap thing from Walmart).  I’m too stupid to resist.20150105_161300

Then I began examining my purchase because I didn’t really know what it was… the Brony-thing warning lights were going off somewhere in the back of my goofy-old-man head, but it took some research before I learned what Equestria Girls were and that there were six of them.  Six of them!  A set of six to collect!  But also the original ponies!  A set of twelve!

And the disease had me.

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So, here you see the tangible evidence that I am acutely infected.  Brony-itis?  Possibly.  Fatal?  Hopefully not.  If you’re counting, they still are not all here.  Apple Jack, Rarity, Twilight Sparkle and Rainbow Dash as Equestria Girls.  Apple Jack, Rarity, Twilight Sparkle, Rainbow Dash, and Pinkie Pie as ponies.  But no Fluttershy at all.  And… what’s this?  No Pinkie Pie?  The most popular pony with little girls, I could not find her in Equestria Girl form?  Well, I could… but not for under $20.  I went shopping at Toys R Us yesterday with the Princess in tow.  We bought toys, but no Pinkie Pie for less than twenty one.  And this collection represents $14 in January, $30 in February, and $25 already this month.  I’m guessing the rules might save me from this disease yet.  Does that mean no Pinkie Pie ever?  Well, I watch the stupid cartoons incessantly now on YouTube… I’ve learned that Friendship is Magic and as long as you can remain true to your friends, you can overcome almost all of life’s problems… together… with love.  And Pinkie Pie is totally random… and funny… and everyone’s friend.  There are good lessons being taught to little girls and old men who watch these things.  Pinkie Pie’s is probably the most important one of all…  So Pinkie is my favorite.  I haven’t found her yet in a way that stays within the rules, but I am not some creepy old man who breaks the rules.  I have the rest of my life to complete this quest.

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Why I Play With Dolls… erm… Action Figures

My daughter the Princess and I went to Toys R Us this morning to spend a little of the money I had earned by proofreading a technical paper for a grad student.  I bought a My Little Pony Equestria Girl named Rarity (I already have the pony, I just needed the girl to add to the collection.)  I also bought a Minecraft sheep thing that the Princess promptly named Jed.  Apparently, in the Minecraft game online, if you name your sheep Jed, it turns rainbow colors.  And I know I didn’t slip by you the fact that the Pony Girl was my toy.  In this post I intend to explain to you why I play with little girls’ toys… and hem and haw… and rationalize… and lie… because it is really not what it seems.

It all began in 1965, on my ninth birthday, because I had discovered in the Montgomery Ward Christmas Catalog the first Action Figure, G.I. Joe, and I begged and begged and begged it for my birthday.  There were four different flavors of G.I. Joe to choose from, representing the four branches of the U.S. Military.  You could get either a sailor from the Navy, a soldier from the Army or Marines, or a pilot from the Air Force.  Of course, I was wild about the Air Force, but I was clever enough to ask for a sailor Joe because my father was a Korean Conflict Veteran who had been in the Navy on board the USS Hornet aircraft carrier.  Dad actually liked the idea and got the Navy Frog Man uniform to go along with it.  I could change Joe’s clothes and make him a cool undersea adventurer.  It only took a half hour to change him from a sailor into a frog man, and another half hour to change him out of his swim fins and wet suit back into a sailor.  It was a doll with sets of clothes to change him into just like my younger sisters’ Barbie and Tammy dolls.  Wait… what?  I had been tricked into playing with dolls?  It is like I lost my official man card even before I earned it… or even before I knew what it was.

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Oh, well… it was all about the stories anyway.  Yes, I was a story-teller even then.  I built a submarine out of my Erector Set (a cherished toy from a previous Christmas) and my Joe led adventures through the vast undersea areas of our parents’ bedroom using Barbie (actually a Midge doll) and Tammy (little sister’s knock-off imitation Barbie doll) as crew.  We added to the stories and adventures as time went on, and birthdays and Christmases passed, and we accumulated more dolls.  I added Fritz, a Soldiers of the World G.I. Joe from Germany, an Air Force Pilot Joe, and an Astronaut Joe.  My sister Nanette added a Francie doll, a Christie (the first African-American Barbie), and a G.I. Joe nurse.  Little sister Maggie added a Francie of her own, a regular Barbie, and a Skipper doll to the submarine crew.  And then the stories went through the roof when I got my sweaty little hands on Captain Action and his Super-hero costumes!

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Captain Action was the creation of the now defunct Ideal Toy Company as an answer to the incredible success of G.I. Joe.  You could take the basic Captain Action figure (seen above on the far right… this is the actual first figure… what’s left of him.  The right hand is long gone.  He has no fore arms.  The uniform that he is wearing is not his original.  It is basically holding his severed body parts together.  I did successfully re-attach the head) and put him in a new uniform to turn him into Batman or Superman or… Aquaman!  perfect for submarine adventures with sisters!

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In the 1990’s my parents gave me the box of my old G.I. Joes.  It was like a re-awakening of childhood passions.  Several of my Joes were in terrible shape because my little brother and his semi-simian deviant friends had used fire-crackers on them a-la-Sid from Toy Story.  I began cleaning them and restoring them.  And then the internet happened.  Old guys like me that grew up with these classic toys were now trying to recapture their youth by buying and selling the toys on E-bay.  Seriously, check out this price for vintage Captain Action stuff (mint in box);

Aquaman on E-Bay  (Oops!  That $2000 toy that you can’t even play with has already sold!)

Collecting and trading dolls has become a fascinating hobby and potentially profitable (at least until age and death and bankruptcy winnow out all the old crazy guys like me who collect this sort of stuff).  And why the added obsession with Barbies and things like My Little Pony dolls?  Well, my sisters’ dolls had all been kept in a metal box.  Attics in Texas can reach 600+ degrees Fahrenheit in the Summer.  Have you ever seen a melted Barbie?  Nostalgia made me do it… that, and having a daughter… well, that’s my story, anyway.  And I am sticking to it.

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When Compassion Fails

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When I was contemplating what this post for 1000 Voices for Compassion was going to say, I read this insightful post by Melissa Firman; When the Bully is the Teacher.  It tore a few more holes in my soul.  You see, I was a teacher.  And I was not the safe, self-satisfied, sit-behind-the-desk-and-pontificate sort of teacher.  I was the walk-up-and-down-the-aisles-between-the-student-desks teacher.  I was the look-over-your-shoulder-and-care-what-you-are-learning teacher.  I took the risks necessary to connect with kids and find out what was really happening in students’ lives.  I was definitely aware of teachers who belittled their charges and used negative comments and punishments to motivate them.  I did what I could to steer those teachers in another direction.  I was involved in campus improvement teams.  I provided in-service training to my fellow teachers on methods and implementation and best practices.  I was a department head for middle school English for a decade.  I tried very hard to get other teachers to love kids too.  But I learned very early on that for every hard-won, consistently-practiced teacher super-power that I developed there was an even more powerful bit of Kryptonite lurking somewhere.  Bullying broke my heart my second year as a teacher.

Ruben was an eighth grade boy who came to my class late in the school year.  He had moved south from big-city San Antonio, Texas to our little rural school because of family upheaval.  He was a slight, short, skinny child with large, liquid brown eyes and a haunted stare that could pierce your soul.  Almost from day one he was the center of attention for one of the eighth grade attack roosters in our little school.  Vicente Feyo (not his real name) was a beginning Gold-Gloves boxer following in his older brothers’ footsteps.  He was a fairly short kid, too, but muscled like an athlete because he trained as a boxer.  The girls all loved Vicente and followed him like a flock of hens all around the chicken house.  His only obvious objection to Ruben was that Ruben existed and was defenseless against any mean thing Vicente could think of to do.  Fortunately, Vicente had been hit in the head enough that he couldn’t think of anything too terribly evil to do to Ruben.  He called Ruben a girl in Spanish, belittled his manhood, and constantly treated him to the Feyo Stare of Death and Dismemberment.  He would corner Ruben and say things like, “Just go for it, vato.  What are you afraid of?”  He forced Ruben to back down in front of girls.  He forced Ruben to back down even in front of Ruben’s own younger sister who had caught up to Ruben in grades and was in the same class with him.  The child was dying before my eyes.  I had to do something.  Our principal was a good man with a good heart, but Vicente had parents who were very prominent and powerful in our little South Texas Hispanic community.  He couldn’t handle having to risk backlash in reprimanding Vicente over something that he told me, “…is just part of our Mexican-American culture.  Boys just have be macho and strut in front of the girls.  He doesn’t really mean anything by it.”

One day, after class, I pulled Ruben aside and tried to talk to him.  “What can I do to help?” I asked.  “I am not going to put up with him acting like that in class, or in this school,” I said, “but what else can I do?”

“You can’t do anything, man.  You are a gringo teacher.  This has to be between me and him.  You just don’t understand, man.”

I didn’t understand.  I thought teachers were heroes.  Teachers are supposed to be able to solve problems like this.  Of course, I was just a second-year teacher at the time.  Maybe there was something I hadn’t learned yet.  It was not going to be beyond my power forever… but it was.

Ruben solved his problem the following year.  At the time the Bloods from L.A. hadn’t moved into San Antonio yet to become the San Antonio Kings.  The Crips hadn’t moved into San Antonio and become the Ffolks.  There was only a gang on the South Side called the Town Freaks.  Ruben moved back to San Antonio and became a Town Freak.  Nobody was going to mess with him ever again.  One night they stole a pickup truck and went for a joyride.  Ruben was riding in the back.  When the police chased them, the truck overturned.  Six Town Freaks were killed.  Ruben was one of them.  Nobody was ever going to mess with him again.

What does this have to do with compassion?  It tore my heart out.  I can’t write this post, even thirty-three-years after it happened, without tears blurring my eyesight and sobs wiggling my laptop.  I still believe  that if only we could’ve found a little more compassion in our hearts for Ruben Vela… if only more adults would’ve honestly tried to see things through Ruben’s eyes… well… you know.

I never use the real names of students in posts.  They have a right to their own stories.  They need to have their privacy respected.  Ruben Vela is different.  Somebody needs to remember that boy’s name whenever we pass off bullying as inevitable, as a part of our culture, as normal.  I have never forgotten.  Remembering what happened to Ruben made me more aware for the rest of my teaching career.  It will affect me for the rest of my life.

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Putting My House in Order

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If you don’t remember, this is what my bedroom looked like when I first rubbed the magic lamp and wished for clean from Clean Gene the Cleaning Genii.  Since that post in which my bedroom/writer’s nook (sickbed, deathbed, whatever…) looked like the picture above, the Genii has been stooping with a bad back, picking up papers and books and arcane detritus from the writer’s life of a messy, messy writer and artist.  Did I mention he was messy?  Did I mention he has arthritis, hypertension, diabetes, COPD, and two other incurable diseases?  Did I mention he is having surgery on Tuesday?  Did I say he was messy?  Oops… too much repetitive redundancy being repeatedly repeated.  (Purple Paisley Prose Paragraphs are like that.)

Did you figure out that he is me?  I say all of this incredibly boring and inane stuff because it gives context to the miracle.  Clean Gene granted at least part of the wish.  It may not look it, but now the mess is organized.

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You will notice that things that may be needed in the middle of the night are now accessible.   And the room now actually has a floor again!  Oh, and the dolls are not needed for the middle of the night… at least, not that I actively remember (or am willing to admit.)

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In this view you can see more of my organized tornado aftermath.  Under the books and Barbies in process of being repaired you see what used to be my drawing table, and is now more like a book case with attached tiny area for drawing.  My daughter the Princess put the stickers all over the drawer on my 100-year-old-plus dresser when she was two, and I have never had the heart to take them off no matter what they do to its value as an antique.  (It honestly has no value.  Antique is just another word for very, very old.)  And those are not dolls standing around in semi-action poses.  Those are ACTION FIGURES!

20150319_130953And finally, this is my work space and writing area where I am currently writing this mundane little post about something that is more about nothing than anything Seinfeld ever came up with.  Yes, I am a writer and an artist.  Am I a professional?  That is harder to say.  I was paid for many years to teach writing as a public school English teacher.  I currently am proofreading for a couple of professionals who are not writers but have to do it as a part of their jobs in health care.  I am getting paid for that.  I made at least thirty dollars for writing novels for three different publishers.  I have had drawings published before in books and comic books, but nobody ever gave me a nickel for that… those were voluntary and contests I didn’t win.  They did help other people make money, though.  Maybe, now that I am retired as a teacher, I am justified in claiming that I am even though I don’t make the big bucks people assume I do when I tell them that little white lie.  (If you thought that last paragraph was mainly about passing 500 words, you would be right.)

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Dreary Days and Darklords

joebtfsplk

Al Capp was a genius.  And he knows precisely how it goes.  And no one describes it better.  Storm clouds float directly over my little square head (I am a Midwestern German-American, and they all have cubes for heads… both literally and figuratively.)  Anywhere I wander, disaster surely follows.  The last few days have been an absolute and unrelenting disaster.  And I can’t tell you all the details because it would compromise other people’s privacy.  But I can say that no lightning stings worse than the lightning bolts thrown by aggressively profit-conscious health insurance companies.   I will not name the hated company here because they will surely raise my premiums, but I hate them with a hatred more hateful than red-hot iron-grate-hate.  I went to a doctor’s office yesterday,  a doctor I was seeing for the first time because the new insurance company handling retired Teachers in Texas didn’t like the old doctor.  The old doctor was too good and got paid too well for insurance to approve him.  So I asked them to recommend a new doctor, a specialist of the right brand to replace the old doctor.  They gave me a name and I made the appointment.  I was told this new doctor was in-network.  I got there and started filling out a small hill of paperwork that required all my personal numerology and the atomic number of several specific elements… and my shoe size.  (And this was not a foot doctor.)  As I was littering the doctor’s office with filled crossword puzzles of numbers, hard-to-spell drug names, and private information, I was called up to the receptionist’s desk and informed that the insurance company said that while the doctor was in-network, she was not in-plan.  The specific plan I bought (chosen from a list of one) only uses doctors associated with Baylor Hospital in Carrollton… and this new doctor was associated with Methodist Hospital in Plano.  I could only see this new doctor if I paid 100% of the fee.  Being an independently wealthy retired school teacher on a fixed income, I had to decline that honor.  This of course is not the only hyoomillagration (Popeye’s word for it, not mine… another explanation that requires another post and another day) that the last few days would bring.  Having half a year’s salary as a working school teacher and half a year’s salary as a doddering retired person fully capable only of puttering and nuttering, the income tax situation tipped heavily in the government’s favor..  I had to pay almost $2000 dollars on the taxes that I filed through Turbotax on Monday.  I was proud of getting the taxes done early, but saddened at the sudden deflation of my savings account to the condition of totally-flattened-balloon-hood.  Worse yet, Turbotax sends bills under the name INTUIT, which I didn’t recognize on my bank statement.  It took the Wells Fargo fraud expert all of ten seconds to figure out the mistake I made, which was two minutes and ten seconds after the previous banker I had talked to irreversibly closed my bank account and issued a new bank card and account number which will take two weeks to come in the mail.  Now I couldn’t pay that doctor even if I wanted to.  And there were other things biting my bum as well.  The electronic car key is out of battery juice and I must now unlock it by hand.  The dog is currently on another in a long line of poop-and-pee-in-the-house-sprees.  I have a benign growth on my back that the other doctor I actually got to see this week says needs to come off by next week.  It is hurting constantly and keeps me from sleeping.  I am Joe  Btfsplk this week for no reason that I know of and mad wizards are persecuting me relentlessly.

Black Wizard

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Filed under cartoons, humor, Paffooney