First Novels and Hard Lessons Learned

My first published book was a Science Fiction novel called Aeroquest.  It was a story that came about because as a young teacher I liked to play pencil and paper role-playing games with kids.  It started with Dungeons and Dragons in 1981, but because I was in South Texas at the time, Baptist and fundamentalist Texas, I had to change away from any game associated with dragons and demons.  I turned instead to the RPG called Traveller, a space game inspired by Star Wars and other Sci-Fi of the time.  Most of the characters in the book, especially the Mutant Ninja Space Babies, were actually the kids I played the games with.  They are characters that were created by them and given life by me.

51ABNW+RWlL._SL500_AA300_ Aeroq1 Aeroq2 Aeroq3 Aeroq4 Aeroq5 Aeroq6 Aeroq7

So, I sent this book to a new publishing company in 2007 called Publish America.  They seemed excited to publish my work.  They paid me an advance of one dollar.  They whipped me through a publishing process whereby I had to do all my own editing, proofreading, and supervising.  They provided no aid with anything.  They only tried to sell the book (for a grossly inflated price) to my friends and relatives.  Through this whole process, I made a total of twelve dollars.  Well, that didn’t seem like such a bad deal, except for the way mistakes were created in my story that were not there before.  They copyrighted my work and told me that they owned the rights for the next seven years.  I was originally supposed to include illustrations like I posted here, but decided to hang on to those when it became clear that I might lose ownership of them.  So, all in all, I got two free copies of the book, a chance to annoy all my friends and relatives, and twelve dollars cash.  That in exchange for two years’ work.

Aeroquest is the story of the Aero brothers, Ged and Ham.  They start out as hunters, travelling space in a safari ship that belongs to Ham Aero.  The third member of their crew is the super-goofy engineer, pirate, and fool named Trav Dalgoda.  They elude pirates, conquer a couple of planets, make enemies of the entire Imperium, and Ged becomes the teacher of a ninja school on one of the planets they conquer, the planet Gaijin.  I like this story.  It’s full of ridiculous and off-the-wall humor, adventure, and some of the weirdest characters I could possibly put together.  But, truth be told, it is not very good.  I did a much better job on my second novel.

It was a learning experience.  I learned that you do need to work with an editor to help you craft and polish the work.  You do need to work with publicists and social media experts to promote the book and sell it.  None of what I really needed to be an author rather than just a writer came through the PA experience.  I didn’t get soaked for a lot of bucks, but they cheated me never-the-less.  In another year I can have the novel rights back and I can try again with that story and related tales.  I got cheated, but I learned valuable lessons that I hope will serve me well as I continue to destroy my own life with the desire to be a story-teller.

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Flash Gordon is My Hero!

I have to say, there are few things that stimulate my imagination more than Science Fiction.  I was raised on it.  I read Brick Bradford daily in the funny pages for most of the sixties.  I loved anything and everything I could bet my hands on about Flash Gordon and Buck Rodgers.  I loved the Sci-Fi behind Spiderman and the Avengers.  And Star Trek!  My Dad didn’t let me watch either Star Trek or Lost in Space because it had monsters in it and would give me nightmares.  In spite of his loving restrictions that strangled me weekly, I saw those shows quite a lot.  Every episode of Star Trek in syndication during the 70’s!  And I got hold of a book in full color of Alex Raymond’s Flash Gordon from the Sunday funnies of the 40’s.  Play in the sixties was always about exploring alien worlds, fighting alien monsters and menaces, and battling Ming the Merciless and the forces of Darkness. 
My friend Marco the Methodist Minister’s Son would always take the role of Prince Barin.   We both secretly loved the beautiful Alicia Stewart, so she became Dale Arden or Princess Azura, even though she was never actually there.  Dickie Tyler, the local bad boy, was always drafted to play Vultan, leader of the Hawkmen, and when we could get fat, old Tiger Bates to play along, he was always Prince Thun of the Lionmen.  The funny thing that you may have already noticed is that we never had any badguys.  We didn’t fight each other as we Flashatized constantly through our little rural Iowa town.  We would explore and conquer the alien realms in the weedy ditches along the Rock Island railroad tracks.  Or we would establish a beachhead on the jungle planet of Sumpter Park woods, leading to an inevitable war of conquest against the dried ragweed Dragonmen of Mongo.  Once we collected alien spawn from the planet of the Rockmen, though they looked suspiciously like tadpoles from the snail pond down by the railroad underpass.  We tended to work together when we played Flash Gordon games.  It was different when we were World War Two soldiers or comic book heroes and villains.  Dickie made a great Green Goblin and Sheriff of Nottingham.  He had a chilling evil laugh.  But we were all on the same side in space.
I guess that’s why I always preferred the Sci-Fi games.  I got to be Flash Gordon because I could get the guys all working together.  Play was about story-telling for me, and I could enthrall them with what my mind’s eye saw.  Besides, they wouldn’t let me be Robin Hood or Spiderman.  I wasn’t the biggest and toughest kid in the group.  Now, as I work on my Science Fiction novel, I remember my Sci-Fi childhood fondly and try to capture some of the flavor of it in my prose.  I need to write as much as I need to breathe, and I figure, maybe I can bring our fractious, violent world together just a little bit more by making readers look outward for a bit of fun rather than looking menacingly at each other.  Besides, the resemblance between Ming the Merciless and Osama Bin Laden is all in my head, not yours.  Right?

Image

http://bennypdrinnon.blogspot.com

 

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Icarus

My teenage son and I have been through some rough times.  One time, though, we sat down and talked about him wanting to be a music composer.  I realized then that the things I have been through as a writer, being discouraged by other, more sensible people, having to defend my art, and not even being believed in by my own family, were the very things that he was talking about.  So I wrote a poem about it.  The central metaphor is Icarus from classical mythology.  I even suggested he use it as lyrics and turn it into a song.  Of course he told me how stupid that idea was.  So let me put the poem here and see what you think.

Icarus

“You never once believe in me,

You only hear the lie,

You never once believe in me,

You never even try,

You never see the good in me,

You only fear I’ll die,

You never hear words I say,

You never tell me why,

You never care how well I plan,

Or why I touch the sky,

You’ll never even lift me up,

You never let me fly,”

That is how it always was,

Between my dad and I,

Until the day I reached the sun,

And burned my hands on high,

And so it is he’ll never know,

How much his son was worth,

Because he couldn’t understand,

The day

I fell

To Earth.Imagehttp://www.bits-quark.org

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March 27, 2013 · 6:32 pm

Ugly Flowers (a short short science fiction story)

Mai Ling was swiftly learning the ninja skills that Master Aero taught the students in his dojo.  Unlike the majority of the Mutant Ninja Space Babies, Mai was completely in tune with the skills of movement, attack, and defense she was learning at the dojo because her psionic mutant power was telekinesis, the ability to remotely move things with the mind.  Her mental ability complemented her ninja attack skills in that she could alter the course of projectiles in flight.  If she threw a ten-pointed shuriken at someone, it would not miss.  The picture in her inner eye, the secret of psionic control, was always the flower-like shuriken rotating through the air at the target, even if it needed to make a ninety degree turn to hit the precise spot she aimed at.

Shu Kwai, Master Aero’s lead student, had worked with her hundreds of times, helping her to see the power to control movement of objects as part of a wondrous dance.  He was also a telekinetic and could also do the dance.  It was a dance that could protect others from harm, or if the need arose, destroy them.

At twelve years old, Mai was already developing into a shapely young lady. 

“You can’t be ashamed of your body when you are doing the dance,” reminded Shu.  “We wear hardly any clothes not because we are immodest, but because we do not wish to impede the dance in any way.”

Mai frowned at him.  Shu could be such a prig at times.  He stood there wearing only a white loincloth.  Except for that, his light orange-yellow body was functionally nude.  Boys could get away with that, especially scrawny teenage boys with practically nothing to show off anyway.  Shu and Mai were both natives to the planet Gaijin where Master Aero’s dojo was located.  That meant that they were descended half from the Japanese humans of Earth, and half from the nearly human Sylvani of deep space.  Mai herself had bare feet, bare legs, and a bare midriff.  She was not about to leave breasts exposed, or even her arms.  She wore a computerized ring-sleeve on her left arm, which helped give gauss-magnetic acceleration to objects she threw.  And the magnetic arm bands on her right arm gave her a magnetic shield she could shape and manipulate with telekinesis.

“I am not going out into the jungle without any clothes on,” she stated firmly to Shu.  “You don’t know if these strange aliens will attack.  Besides, I fight better with clothes on.  I’m not a pervert like you.”

At fourteen, Shu was definitely vulnerable to insults like “pervert”.  He cast his eyes downward to scan the ground and blushed furiously.  It was entirely possible, Mai thought, that Shu had a secret crush on her.  With the red flower in her hair, she was definitely beautiful, at least, in her opinion.

“Okay, but you better obey orders while we are on this weird planet.”  Shu sniffed imperiously for added emphasis.  That was okay.  Mai accepted the fact that he outranked her.

Cornucopia was probably the strangest planet Mai had ever visited.  Master Aero had discovered and named the planet.  Little Gyro the Nebulon inventor and one of Master Aero’s favorite students had discovered that all the intelligent creatures were plants and had a special scent language unlike anything in the known galaxy.  The first alien they had been able to communicate with was a strange, onion-like creature that Gyro’s computer translator named, “Luigi the Onion-Guy.”  Why the plant-man had an Italian first name was a complete mystery, but there was a clue in the fact that Gyro’s computer also dubbed the language of the Cornucopians “Stink-Talk.”  Nebulons were known for weird senses of humor.

“Are you sure we can’t take any weapons?” Mai asked.  Luigi the Onion-Guy had pleaded with Master Aero to come to Cornucopia to help battle evil fascist creatures that he called “Throckpods.”  Actually it was Gyro’s translator that called them that, but that was quibbling with the facts.

“Master Aero doesn’t want us to anger or frighten any of the flower-people of this planet.”

“Flower people?  They look like walking thistles and weeds to me.”

“Still, Master Aero only wants us to locate a Throckpod and convince him to come back with us so our group can study it.”

“So it’s a spy mission.”

“Intelligence gathering.”

“Oh, yeah, that’s very different.”

The jungle was different than any other jungle Mai had ever been in.  Instead of trees and vines and shrubs, it was made up of salt pillars, living crystals, and mold.  Mai’s ring sleeve indicated that large parts of it were toxic and deadly.  The two young ninjas proceeded cautiously.

Each time they encountered a carrot-guy or a potato-guy or a corn-stalk-guy, they were told to take a different trail through the toxic jungle.   Fortunately, Mai’s ring sleeve was programmed not only to interpret the plant people’s Stink-Talk, but could make a map of their progress as well.  Otherwise, Mai and Shu would be hopelessly lost.

Finally, a radish-guy with a puffy red and purple face pointed to a large stand of weeds.

“In that spot you will pinpoint a Throckpod.”  The ring sleeve translated the smells and spoke the message aloud in a voice that sounded like Mickey Mouse.  Darn that Gyro!

Shu looked at Mai and nodded.  They walked over to the stand of weeds.

“One of you is a Throckpod?” asked Shu.  The translator device made the word “Throckpod” smell suspiciously skunk-like.

“Who is asking?” said one of the flower-headed weeds.  “You appear to be skoog monkeys.”

Skoog monkey was an insult on most planets, at least, when used to describe a humanoid.  They were vicious little primates from the planet Misko Skoogalia.  Human beings were much more like the little poop-throwers than any human was comfortable admitting.

“We are students of Master Ged Aero,” said Shu.  “We think you may have heard of him, because other Cornucopians came to our world to seek him out.”

“We have heard of your head monkey, yes.  But we do not recognize his authority.”

“All we want is for a Throckpod to come and meet with him.  We wish to learn more about your planet.”

Everything went silent and smell free.  Mai wondered if they knew that the translator device in her ring sleeve would pick up and translate any smells they used to talk about the situation.  Maybe, however, they used telepathy or something.  Mai wished Sarah the telepath was with her at that moment.

One exceptionally large weed came over to Mai and bent down over her head.  Mai realized that it was examining her red flower with little seed-like eyes.

“You have killed a seedling!” said the possible Throckpod.  “You must be killed in return.”

Mai’s heart leaped.  Shu was obviously surprised too.  They had no weapons, but both of them could pick up and throw rocks, pebbles, and crystal shards with only a thought.  Mai could propel one like a bullet with her ring sleeve.

The rest of the weeds gathered around them too.

“It’s a flower from my own world,” said Mai, lamely.  How could she make these plant people understand that, not only was the flower not intelligent like them, it was an artificial hair decoration and made from silk?

“A flower is a flower,” said the Throckpod, “and a monkey is a monkey.”

“Pick up a score of pebbles and rocks, Mai,” said Shu.  “It’s time we gave them the old lawnmower treatment!”

“Lawnmower?” asked the Throckpod.

“A machine for cutting grass,” said Shu.  “It cuts plants down close to the roots.”

If a weed could turn pale, then these Throckpods were suddenly gray.  They knew about human technology apparently, and were completely unsure of what Mai and Shu were capable of.  It was at that very moment that Mai had a bright idea.

“Why do you assume the flower is dead?” asked Mai, looking into the seed-eyes of the weed standing over her.

“Because it doesn’t move.”

Mai smiled.  She used her telekinetic ability to make the petals of the silk flower move.  In fact, she made the delicate little thing do a spinning dance just above her brow.  “This flower is alive and it is my good friend and companion.”

“Have it say so,” the Throckpod replied menacingly.

“It is a tiny flower,” said Mai, thinking quickly, “and tiny flowers on my planet have not learned to speak.  Can you not see that it is alive?”

“Accept her word, brother,” said one of the other weeds.  “We don’t want to risk this lawnmowing thing.”

The plant-man relented.  “Very well.  I will go with you to see this master monkey of yours.  You will remember that Throckpods are the natural rulers of this planet, and we are to be treated as king-things.”

“King-things?” asked Mai.

“Royalty,” suggested Shu.

“Oh,” said Mai.  It was Gyro’s crazy translator program again. 

So, finally, Mai’s Cornucopia adventure was ending as she trudged back to the Mutant Ninja Space Baby camp.  She had found and mastered a walking weed known as a Throckpod, and she left with the melancholy realization that it would be nice to have a talking flower to put in her hair, but that wish could never come true.Image

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Sense and Nonsense

So, here’s the situation, testing has once again laid waste to lesson plans.  Because of an important State Test that determines how well high schoolers read English, I have to spend more time in the test administration room than I was originally scheduled to do.  My mind is elsewhere.  My own personal son is home ill with the bubonic plague again for like the fourteenth time this school year, so I not only have to worry about whether he has passed away or not before I can make a doctor’s appointment, I have to worry that my congested nose and throat are the same plague taking hold in my buboes.  I have not had the time I planned on for lesson planning as I am walking in the door for the start of second period.

“Mr. B, what are we gonna do today?” asked Girly-Go-Getter who always has to have challenging work in front of her, or her parents will be knocking on the school door with subpoenas in hand for a little friendly lawsuit.

I shrug.  No time to prepare, right?  Am I supposed to teach out of my head or something?

“Let’s watch a movie,” says Slow-Poke Rodriguez, a cartoon Mexican mouse who is so politically incorrect he probably does have a gun in his backpack.

“A movie?” says I, “You want to watch a G-rated probably-a-cartoon movie not from Disney (because they sue teachers for using their property without licensing agreements) because you haven’t seen any movies in class at all this week during testing?”

“We watched movies in all our other classes,” says Bad-Donkey Jones who is bipolar and mildly schizophrenic.  (He has a special form from the counseling office that forbids me from punishing him or even talking mean to him in any way, which I would never do because I am old and he can probably kill me with one hand anyway). 

“No movies,” I said.  “Teachable moments only.”

“Aw, gawd!” say several students at once.

“Praying to me won’t help,” I answer, only partly in jest, “I am not God.  If I were, there’d be lightning.”

“So what will we do?” asked Girly.

“Let’s talk about thinking skills again.”

“Aw, that’s soooo boring!” croon several.

“How does that help us pass our tests?” whine the rest.

“It may never help you pass a test,” I admitted humbly.  “But it is a key to success in life.”

“How?” says Slow-Poke, assuming that if he keeps asking questions, I will wear down and show him the movie Shrek again.

“Okay, let’s take the thinking skill of questioning.”  General groans in response, especially from Rodriguez who realizes that the selected strategy is his fault.

“You can’t use questioning on the State test!” says Girly.

Actually, you can, but I look around at the mostly vacant stares and nodding heads with earphones in both ears.  Oh, yeah, there is at least one that only has one ear plugged, and he will contradict me if I tell them all they are not actually listening, that he can listen to two things at once.  I don’t really feel like giving any more praise to the lovely State test anyway.

“Maybe you can’t use questioning as a thinking skill on the State test,” I craftily admit, “But the State test we all love and honor so much is mostly about spitting out facts and figures and spotting spotty spelling.”  Some of the actual listeners chuckle when they notice the rhymie little alliteration I slipped in there.  “Is that the only thing you need to know in life?  Facts, figures, and spelling?”

“It sure, hmm, ain’t!” says Jones.  I try real hard to make my eye twinkle to let him know how much I appreciate the way he fluffed over the spot where he could’ve used his favorite f-word.

“When you have a question in Science class, especially on lab days, what do you have to do?”

“Aw, gawd,” says Jones, “You need to make up all that stupid hypothesis sh… stuff, and find a procedure or something.”

“You mean, in Science class you have to come up with an idea to answer the question and then test that answer?”

“Yeah,” says Slow-Poke, “You gotta do stuff just like that.”

“So you need to answer questions by asking more questions?”

“Questions like what?” says Jones.

“Hey, that’s a good one right there,” I say.  Fortunately, when they all laugh at that, Jones doesn’t think they are laughing at him.  “You have to ask questions like; what questions do I need to ask to find each possible answer, and what experiment could I do to tell me one way or another how good my possible answers are?”

“Yeah,” says Jones, “Learning to ask questions is about all we do in Science Class.”

“That’s what Mr. P, the Physics teacher says Science is always about,” declares Girly, “finding the right questions to ask.”

“Well, good,” I say, exhausted beyond belief.  “I have now taught Mr. P’s lesson for him.”

Everyone laughs again.

I look at the clock.  Fifty gazillion hours to go before the dang bell!  How do you fill it?”

“Okay,” I say to Slow-Poke, “so you want to watch Shrek one more time?”

That, of course, is the entire essence of being a public school teacher.

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6 Little Incurable Diseases

I know you may find this hard to swallow, but I live on a day-to-day basis with six incurable diseases, and I am a cancer survivor.  From worst to least I have; diabetes, hypertension, COPD (emphysema), arthritis, psoriasis, and a prostate gland the size of a grapefruit.  I survived malignant melanoma in 1983 with no recurrences in the thirty years since.  The doctor had to cut a hole clear through my cheek and sew the hole shut with twelve stitches.  When I tell classes about my spotty medical history I always remind them that every day of life left to us is a gift.  No, change that, I tell myself.  

Diabetes is the worst of my diseases because it makes me feel bad daily.  Everybody who has diabetes can tell you that no two people have the same diabetes.  It treats everyone a little different.  Mine will take my blood sugar briefly to the high side and then plunge dangerously low.  The lowest reading I have ever gotten on the blood sugar meter is 35, which doctors say can’t be right, that monitors don’t read accurately at extremely low levels.  So I guess it may have actually been lower than that.  When it is low, my head feels like a beehive full of angry bees.  I am desperately hungry at that time and must eat, but I must eat the right thing and in the right amount.  If I do get at least eight grams and protein and twenty grams of carbohydrates, I am in for an hour’s worth of pounding headaches as the blood sugar levels even out again.

Psoriasis is one of my least life-threatening incurable diseases, but it is by far the most annoying.  Dry patches of skin turn into itchy, bloody nightmare sores of purple and green.  Infected, one of them could easily cost me an arm or a leg.  The disease keeps me awake at night, and when I do sleep, I am liable to make more sores by scratching without realizing.  You have to learn degrees of self control that I would never have believed possible fifty years ago as a kid.

I know this post has not been exactly hilarious so far, but I think it is meaningful never-the-less.  The silly and somewhat stupid statement that I intend to stupidly make about it is, “I never could have been so alive for the past few years if it were not for my six incurable diseases.”  Stupid statement, I know, but it is true.  I have never learned a more important lesson than the one I learned in multiple emergency room visits.   Staying alive is a privilege that must be worked at, must be earned.   There is deep within all of us a willpower, a force that drives us to be alive that can be dug down to and ignited in times of crisis.  If I had never been ill, I might never have learned that.

I have also learned that you must admit that you do not stand alone, and, at times, you must rely on other people to pick you up and even carry you when the need is evident.  I am not too proud to say that if I hadn’t been able to rely on friends, family, and even good-hearted strangers, I might not still be here.  It is humbling, but it is good to feel the connections we all have with the people around us.

So, what can I say to make the grim seem acceptable?  I know full well I may not be here come tomorrow morning.   I value every second of being alive.  I will continue to take my four medications every day for the rest of my life.  I will continue to count proteins and carbs and juggle them properly.   I will continue to do everything the doctor says that I can possibly afford to do.  And why will I do it?  Because I must not waste a single moment of God’s gift, no matter how much it may hurt, itch, or ache.

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Touchstones

Have you ever noticed how sometimes all we really need to make it through a horrifically difficult time in our lives is something incredibly simple and easy?  A memory, a feeling, a sweet-sad something from deep inside makes all the nightmares, villains, and boogeyman go away?

I came to this conclusion recently in the face of overwhelming stress and anxiety.  I am a Texas school teacher, at the end of my career.  I fear I may also be coming to the end of public education in Texas.  Let’s face it; this State is not education friendly.  The rich elite in Texas want to send their progeny to high-performing private schools, and they demand that the funds culled from everybody’s pockets by property taxes pay for it through vouchers.  They are in favor of doing away with public education all together if they can.  To tell you the truth, if they will let poor and troubled kids into their top-flight private schools, and everyone still has a fair shot at an education, then I am in favor of vouchers and the privatization of schools too. 

But fat chance of that, huh?  So right now the political system is forcing an agenda on public schools.  The new State-mandated tests are arriving in full force.  Now, instead of passing one high-stakes test to get a high school diploma, kids have to pass as many as sixteen end-of-course STAAR exams.   Kids are up against it.  Frustrated and over-stressed, more than half of them are giving up and dropping out.  It is the main reason the prison industry is booming in the Lone Star state.  So, about the time I am ready to declare total bankruptcy and retire for the year and a half before I croak, they will be putting a huge fence around the city of Dallas and telling all the non-criminals to move to the wealthier suburbs of Austin.  I will be forced to stay with the ax murderers, drug dealers, and democrats because I can’t afford to move. 

Schools will be run for profit, and the blame will go not to the politicians who gave us these impossible accountability goals and cut our funding at the same time, but to teachers like me.  Studies show that teacher’s do have a very large effect on student success or failure.  I’ve been at it for thirty years already, so at least thirty years worth has to be my fault.  I am increasingly responsible for paperwork and documentation for everything from learning outcomes, to lesson plans, to student handicapping conditions, to Texas Essential Knowledge and Skills, to… well, you get the idea.  I have to fill in all the numbers for politicians so they can prove Texas teachers are not doing a very good job and they are reducing my classroom teaching time to allow me to complete the paperwork.

So, what does that have to do with touchstones, you ask?  Ah, I’m glad you asked that!  I have been sinking deeper and deeper into despair for the last few weeks.  Money is running out even though I and my wife both make a teacher’s salary.  How could we be having a hard time while making such a boat-load of money?  Why is the boat sinking?  Food has been going up in price.  I paid more than sixty dollars today for less than twenty food items.  I had not realized I had been eating so much gold-plated food.  Gas has been going up.  Gold-plated gas too maybe.  And I only have a forty minute commute to school, one way.  Job stress and home stress and stress stress have all been conspiring to kill me.  And something had changed to make it all worse.  What had changed?  I wasn’t sure until I was on my way to work last Monday.  As I drove past the Richardson Public Library, which I do every school day, I saw the answer.

Clifford the Big Red Dog!  Yes, the children’s section of the Richardson Library has a big red stuffed toy dog that sits on one of the shelves.  Every morning as I drove past for the last three years, I have been checking to see that Clifford was still there, giving comfort to young readers with his big dopey grin.  It was important to me.  I know, I know… it’s like having to sleep with a teddy bear, but it did actually make me feel a lot worse when Clifford was gone for washing or some other unknown reason.  He disappeared from the library window early in January.  That was about the same time when the tired-old-teacher blues hit me.  I needed to see that silly stuffed toy every morning in order to feel good about my job and whatever difference I might still be making.  He was my touchstone, my reminder of what is essential, those things that the fox in St. Exupery’s The Little Prince reminds us are invisible to the eye. 

Now, I head to work in the mornings, see Clifford, and feel easier in my mind, ready to teach the world and hang on to my job for the next one hundred years… or at least the one more year it takes for this Texas governor to truly kill public education in this state.

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The Conspiracy Theorist

Yes, I freely admit it, I am one of those kooks who pursue conspiracy theories about UFO cover-ups by black helicopters and CIA members of the Illuminati who will soon try to kill off 89 per cent of the Earth’s population in order to eliminate all the “eaters” and establish a “new world order” that they’ve been planning since the extermination of the Knights Templar.   

Why, you ask?  Are you insane, you ask?  Are you a nutter who hears voices and should probably be locked up in a mental institution, you ask?  Well, there is no good answer other than to reveal some of the really loony theories that I have come to believe.

First of all, I live in Dallas.  Yes, that’s right, the City of Evil Wizards where the King of Camelot was assassinated, a red Mobil Pegasus flies among the tall rooftops of skyscrapers downtown, and an evil dwarf named H. Ross once tried to overturn the Texas education system to produce free-market trolls to be his minions happily ever after.

I have to tell you truthfully, I believe that Lee Harvey Oswald did not kill John Kennedy.  Not with that feeble gun, from that impossible angle, and being the mediocre gunman that he was in the armed services.  Oswald was connected to the CIA.  There can be no doubt that a man who defected to Russia and then came back to this country with a Russian wife and had no legal difficulties at all was assisted at some higher level to be in the proper place at the proper time to be blamed for the killing and be conveniently slain before anything could come out at trial.  So there’s a sentence made needlessly complex to make you work way too hard at coming to a simple conclusion.  Do you know about the photo of the three “tramps” who were led away from the Grassy Knoll?  The old tramp in the back of that photo looks amazingly like E. Howard Hunt.  Yes, the same E. Howard Hunt from Watergate.  That particular “plumber” was also CIA.  Who killed JFK?  Hmm.  Well, George H.W. Bush was in Dallas that day and claimed he couldn’t remember where he was when the shooting happened.  He later became the director of the whole CIA.  And who benefitted the most from the killing?  Obviously LBJ and Richard Nixon, who both later became President.  And Nixon plus Hunt equals BANG! In my book.  Tell me I did that math wrong!

Did an alien spacecraft crash near Roswell, New Mexico in 1947?  No.  Two of them did.  How do I know?  Especially after years of disinformation and cover-ups?  I looked into everything I could read, view, or research about  Major Jesse Marcel.  Remember the man with the basset hound eyes in the picture with the tinfoil remains of a weather balloon?  That poor man was involved with the first reports of debris on the Mack Brazel ranch and subsequent newspaper article proclaiming that the army had a crashed flying saucer.  Both the rancher and the major would be bullied, ridiculed, and have their credibility totally shredded because the decision was made not to reveal what actually happened that night.  Everything was covered up.  The Majestic Twelve  Committee was formed by Harry Truman to take control of the alien artifacts and keep the government’s secrets.  Okay, I admit that there are a lot of inconsistencies in all the books and supposed “eye witness” reports about the matter.  The writers who wrote the books were all prima donnas and feud constantly even to the present day.  But does that mean I should suddenly give up my belief in the truth of it?  Well… okay, you got me there.

Do the Illuminati exist?  And are they about to launch an extermination campaign against us?  Did the 9-11 tragedy really happen because of airplane hijackers from Al Quaida?  Or was it the work of our own government aided by the Israeli Mossad?   How did evidence of thermite get scattered all through the WTC wreckage?  Is the world gonna end in 2012?  Yep, I’ve snookered myself again at least on that last one.  Believing in conspiracy theories makes me wrong most of the time.  But, I can’t help it.  It’s in my nature to ask “What if…?”  Wouldn’t it be neat to prove any of these things?Image

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The Liar’s Club

I am a teller of lies.  Yes, I can’t help it.  I do it for a living.  Telling stories is simply what I do.

Now, for those of you who know the secret, that I am employed by a Texas public high school as a teacher of English, I must confess that Texas teachers are all expected to be liars.  Not merely the tellers of small, innocuous white lies, but big, powerful, dark black hoo-haws that would curdle the innards of those you have to tell them to if they ever found out the truth.  In Texas, all teachers must tell these particular lies by State mandate; 

  • Texas values education.
  • We put the students first and make our decisions based on what is best for them.
  • We only put smart people in charge of education in our state.
  • We only put smart people in charge of our state.
  • We don’t let politics affect the quality of our education.

If I just shot down your illusion balloons of sacredly held beliefs, I’m sorry, but you must not have paid attention when our State Emperor for Life tried to step down a notch in his career and run for President of the U.S.  The man with all the tact and wisdom in Texas said that he wanted to do away with the Department of Education at the federal level.  At least, I think he said that… or was that the one he forgot during the debates?  I don’t remember.  Oops.  I guess it rubs off. 

Teachers in Texas have had to deal with billions of dollars in cuts in our education budget.  Yes, I actually meant BILLIONS.  I know the difference between M and B.   And, of course this exercise in thriftiness comes at the same time that the yearly state test by which all programs are evaluated, trimmed, and ultimately obliterated is being morphed into a harder test of higher level thinking skills, and multiplied by four core subjects so that high school seniors will have to pass not one, but TWELVE (or possibly sixteen, the state has not made up its mind yet about what number will do the best job of improving graduation rates) high stakes, pass-or-no-diploma tests.  Sorry, I meant to say TESTS.  We have to shout things in Texas education or no one listens…  No, that’s wrong too.  No one ever listens.

So teachers are professional liars.  That’s the truth of it in the modern world.  You have to go into the classroom every day and tell lies right and left.  You have to say things like; “Welcome to English class, all thirty five of you.  Ask me any question at any time because I have to make sure each one of you individually understands each and every one of the three thousand points of Texas Essential Knowledge and Skills.  I am happy to see all your smiling faces.  Don’t carve your name in your desk with your Bowie knife or I will have to call the principal, knowing I dare not lay a hand on you or your property, and confident that the administration will back me up and do something about your behavior instead of lecturing me about classroom management skills (assuming I survive this) and sending me to the teacher re-teaching center to re-teach me how to handle dangerous, aggressive, un-motivated, belligerent, and bad-smelling students with learning disabilities (who are not more than eighty per cent of the student population.)

Now that I am old, and parts of me are drying up and falling off, I am seriously trying to take my talent for lying like a rug and turn it into a new career, a fiction author for young adults.  I mean, I do have some knowledge of youths and adolescents, having taught them for a quarter of a century plus half a decade (sorry, thirty years for those of you who are used to actually being listened to when you talk).  I am also very good at telling narrative lies from having to recount what happened when we had the fight in the classroom because Bozo looked at Bozina from behind and she went into a screaming fit because he’s a creepy guy and she could feel his eyes on her behind even when she was only looking at the girl ahead of her, Bozolette, who was turned around talking to her without permission about how ugly Bozinga is whenever he has to wear shorts for Phizz Ed Class.  Of course the principal sends me to the teacher re-teaching center for more re-teaching even if he believes my little black hoo-haw.  Therefore I hope that means that I really ought to be able to mash together a bunch of my brilliant, witty hoo-haws, put a nice pink ribbon on them, and sell them as a young adult novel.

So, there you have it.  I am a liar.  I freely admit it.  And I am trying to make the transition from one liars’ club to the next before all my parts dry up and fall off.  Dang!  There went one leg already!Image

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Excerpt from Canto 34 – In the Drawing Room of Harmony Castille

Biznap and Corebait had managed to locate a television to watch.  They wanted to monitor the local news for reports on anything bizarre.  Biznap needed clues if he was going to execute his mission swiftly.  The monitoring device was in the middle of an ornately decorated room.  An excess of doilies graced the polished wooden furniture.  Overstuffed chairs and sofas were covered with plastic dust covers.  The whole room was guarded by one small Lassie-animal that registered on Corebait’s sensors as being near-sighted, mostly deaf, and highly flatulent.  It was extremely aged for its species.

Corebait opened a screen window so that he and his commander might both climb into the room.  The little guardian sniffed at the air and added more odor to the atmosphere to express his nervous puzzlement.

“What do we do if an Earth primate is in residence here?”

“Have your sensors picked someone up?”

“Nothing I can accurately interpret.  I’m not a psychic super-genius like that Mr. Spock fellow with the pointy ears.”

“Well, if someone is here, just stay silent.  We’re invisible to Earth primates who don’t know what signs to look for.”

Ceramic figurines from the mantelpiece began to float magically through the air.  Corebait was examining little Dutch boys, Buster Browns, and Snow White with her seven dwarves.  The guardian Lassie was staring myopically at his own reflection in a piece of hearthside brass.  Biznap noticed a large mirror mounted on the wall for purposes he was unaware of.  It was a well-tooled device, however, flawlessly executed and perfectly silvered on the back.  He turned off his cloaking field for just a moment so that he might admire his fine Telleron features.  He had cool blue eyes and an aquiline profile.  His chin was much more firm and well-defined than that of the average toad-faced Telleron.

“Jiminy Christmas!” hollered the widow Castille as she dragged her electric vacuum sweeper out of the hall closet and into the drawing room.  She picked up a handy curtain attachment and fell to bonking the alien intruder on the back and shoulders with it, showing the ferocity and determination of a samurai warrior defending his home province.

Harmony Castille was a small, dour church lady with no sense of humor and no tolerance for mess and disorder of any kind.  She had white hair done up in a bun, dramatically out of style.  Her dress was a green, flowered affair that proper, church-going women had adopted as their proper uniform back in the Sixties.  It was light, sensible, and loose-fitting enough to allow for a great deal of athletic action which she was applying vigorously to reducing Commander Biznap to a pile of chopped steak.

Corebait had not been as truthful about his sensor readings as he should have been.  He’d not read the human presence correctly because of Mrs. Castille’s pacemaker.  The electronic device had confused the signature of her bioelectric radiance.  And Corebait was certainly no Mr. Spock.  He had, however, registered considerable movement indications from the hall closet, and simply decided to ignore them.  He readied his molecular disintegrator in order to fix the problem.  It was known among Corebait’s friends as emergency procedure B.  “If you don’t know what to do, skortch it.”

Mister Lafayette, the aged poodle with severe stomach gas, had suddenly become aware of the intruders when his mistress attacked.  Immediately he launched an ill-timed and poorly aimed assault that fixed four ancient fangs into the meatiest part of Mrs. Castille’s ankle.

Harmony Castille reached down for the sudden pain in her leg at the very same moment that Corebait pulled the trigger.  A blue beam of exotic energy passed neatly over the top of Mrs. Castille’s gray-haired bun and reflected perfectly off the wall mirror behind her.

Corebait never actually became visible, but Telleron-shaped electrical flashes revealed where the Sindalusian Fmoog had been only milliseconds before.  The room filled with the sort of smell you get when you put an alligator-skin handbag in a microwave and nuke it until it burns.

Harmony Castille was surprised by the sudden thud of the skortch ray pistol as it landed next to the hand she used to squeeze the ancient poodle’s throat.  She picked up the weapon and pointed it at the green-skinned intruder.  She kicked Lafayette deftly with her good leg and booted him out of harm’s way.

“Now, Mr. Spaceman!  You are my prisoner.  I used to be a Sunday school teacher, about thirty year’s worth.  I know how to handle hooligans!”

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