Tag Archives: humor

“That Night in Saqqara I Was Taken By Surprise”

That Night in Saqqara 1

Life is never quite like the way it is in your head.  Things you don’t believe are true will constantly surprise you with the reality they belt you over the head with at the most inopportune of times.

Today’s colored-pencil Paffooney masterpiece is a case in point.  I never believed it was possible to take this good of a picture of it.  It is a horror movie to try to light this picture so I can snap it with a camera and get a result with no fades or reflected glare.  It was created in 1992, when I was really at the height of my colored-pencil cartoonist super-powers.  The subtle lighting is so much better than I can convey with the arthritic turkey-claw hands I now use for such artwork.  Torchlight in a pyramid is a hard thing to convey.  And over time, this picture’s colored-pencil patina has become glossy and difficult to photograph without glare.  It has subtle waves in the paper that photograph as shadowy valleys and reveal the two-dimensionality of the piece.  You can still see them if you look closely.  But it is far better than any previous photo.  Go back and check my archives if you don’t believe me… or you wish to be bored to death with old posts that you have somehow managed to dodge before now.

But like Tanis in the Tomb, things always turn out to be surprisingly different in their reality than they were in your little mind’s eye when you went into that dark hole in the ground.

We were discussing this at lunch, my kids and I.  We were talking about how Sims 3 portrays reality and how really surprising it can be when you realize that the game has got it right.  When I walked all the way to the bottom of the stairs this morning before realizing that I had forgotten my shoes upstairs, I had to turn around and go all the way back upstairs.  This, I am told, is exactly how it works in Sims 3.  A character in the game cannot turn around on the stairs.  If you change your mind half way down, the character. or avatar I think they like to call them, must go all the way to the bottom to turn around and go back up.  So obviously this morning, God was playing Sims 3 and using me as an avatar.

Now, I don’t really like to believe God plays video games with reality… but my son Henry brought up the Rolling Stones as proof.  It is common knowledge that Kieth Richards is an un-dead creature, having so completely altered the bio-chemical make-up of his entire body with drugs that he died in 1988 and still goes on tour because his brain has not yet fully registered the fact that he is dead.  My son pointed out that in Sims 3 you can make your avatar all gray or green and zombie-looking and then play the game with your avatar walking around and doing all sorts of stuff without realizing he or she is dead.  So, not only Kieth Richards, but the entirety of the Rolling Stones who are all skeletal old druggies who should’ve passed half a century ago, goes to prove that God is playing Sims 3 with the universe.  My gasted is totally flabbered!  And I hope this glimpse into the unholy truth has not ruined your day.

2 Comments

Filed under horror movie, humor, Paffooney

An Anatomy of an Angry Argument (The Stars ‘n’ Bars Controversy)

20150716_131512

I get a little tired of friends, family, and especially online acquaintances calling me a liberal and meaning it as a severe antonym of a compliment.   They are basically conservative by nature and they are trying to hurt my feelings by calling me liberal.  (Or “libtard” or “libturd” or “liberaloon”)  They don’t like my fact-based arguments and strike out at me from the deepest depths of their deeply-held-and-so-long-stored-in-the-same-barrel-that-it-fermented set of conservative beliefs.  Often they pull potentially intoxicating talking points out of the well of watching Fox News and expect me to drink it… even though I know it has intentionally been laced with poison.

I am not offended by the Confederate flag.  It was a part of the Civil War that fascinates me and still stands for the brave regiments of Pickett’s Charge at the Battle of Gettysburg who marched into a hail of cannonball-laced death to prove once and for all that an entire way of life can be destroyed on the battlefield.  It was a terrible tragedy and those men paid the ultimate price for being on the wrong side of that argument.  I believe we should honor them and reconcile ourselves with what  remains of them.  They are indeed still out there.  But we do not have to honor the thing they were fighting for and ended up losing.  Slavery is inherently unjust and evil.  And the racism that is its aftertaste is just as despicable.  It is understandable that in that long gone culture it was normal to view black skin as the sign of an inferior creature.  They treated slaves as working farm animals, like oxen or donkeys.  It is the way they thought of those… actually people… whom they failed to accept as fellow human beings.

I am not offended by the Confederate flag.  But I am upset at the most common uses of it.  Klansmen use it as a symbol of their race-hatred.  They fly it at their protest marches along with the Nazi swastika.  The flag at the South Carolina capitol building went up during the equal rights struggles of the 50’s and 60’s as a defiance of the entire movement.  I am not offended by the flag, but I do not like when it is used as a symbol of redneck America believing they’re better than blacks and Hispanics because their skin is white, and that their conservative white values are superior to the values of Jews, liberals, and intellectuals.  I don’t like being told that their heart-felt hate trumps my nerd-boy thinking-too-much.  I don’t like the way they believe they win the argument by shouting at me in a louder voice than I am capable of shouting back.  (Watch Bill O’Reilly on Fox News and see if he doesn’t do exactly that.)  I don’t like the way they don’t listen to me in the same way that I try hard to listen to them.

People I care about and even love in Iowa are posting things on Facebook about liberals attacking the Confederate flag, and how terrible it is that liberals are trying to take away “our heritage”.  But wait a minute… At the Battle of Shiloh in Missouri, the 5th Iowa Infantry Regiment and the Iowa 13th were embroiled in the Hornets’ Nest, the intense fight all along the “sunken road” that ultimately tipped the horrible battle in favor of the Union.  Iowans were shooting at the Confederate flag.  Many of them were killed by it.  How can that flag possibly be “our heritage“?

I believe the rebel flag is not an appropriate symbol to be used in government buildings or 4th of July parades.  It is a symbol of more than one thing… and some of those things are terrible things.  I am not advocating making the flag illegal in the U.S.  But, consider, the Nazi flag is illegal in Germany.  It is the flag of a defeated rebellion against our government, fought for the purpose of defending the institution of slavery.  Why are my conservative Iowegian friends supporting such a flag?

And I refuse to be insulted by being called a liberal.  Conservative doesn’t mean “good” while liberal means “bad”.  Conservative means wanting to preserve the good things about the past and not change them without good reason.  Liberal means wanting to change things for the better.  I used to be a conservative.  I am only comfortable being a liberal now because conservative powers are trying to protect things that have to change because they are hurting us.  I love all people in general… and I don’t want to see them hurt by their government or their society.  So, if you feel the need to argue in the comments… or if you feel you have to call me a libturd… feel free to do so. But please don’t call me a libturd in ALL CAPITAL LETTERS!!!

2 Comments

Filed under humor, photo paffoonies, politics

John Green’s Book, Paper Towns (a Review)

I have to say, I was predisposed to like this book for far too many reasons to ignore it.9781410479990_l

Reason #1: I love John Green.   I don’t mean in some crazy boy-crush sort of mixed -up thing.   That would be too much like one of his characters, or one of mine.  I just find him an absolutely enthralling intellect and personality.

Reason #2; I know him from YouTube.

He posts videos for Vlog Brothers (with his brother Hank who is also someone I wish I knew in real life).  He also does Crash Course History and Mental Floss.  You can get to know how the man truly thinks and feels because he puts all of himself into his writing.  (I know the YouTube videos don’t seem like writing, but they are.  How could they not be?)

Reason #3; I know him as one of the geniuses behind the Mental Floss series of books and magazines.

71HphaORbBL._SL1024_

These wonderful books are brimming with weird and wonderful facts and narratives that are researched enough to feel like, if they aren’t actually true, they should be.

The books contain all kinds of things that make you go “Hang on there a minute, Bubba!  What the hell are you saying?”  These are things you have to reread at least twice.  You have to reread once for yourself, and at least once reading out loud to members of your family to watch their eyes pop out of their head like they are in a Tex Avery cartoon right before they explode with laughing.

Reason #4;  I saw the movie of The Fault in Our Stars before I ever had a chance to find and buy a copy of the book.  It made me laugh and it made me cry… both with the same degree of soul-punching feeling I want so desperately to put into my own fiction.  I have not read this book yet, but I already know it is on my list of top ten all-time favorite books.

51+Wr7FHRKL._SL500_PIsitb-sticker-arrow-big,TopRight,35,-73_OU01_SS115_

So, of course I have left myself only two hundred words to actually review the book itself.  And I can’t do it.

9780147517654_l

This book is a quest book.  It tells the story of Q (short for Quentin, a near-genius thinker and feeler who has to be John Green’s idea of himself) who meets a girl at his bedroom window one night.  She’s a girl who he has known and gone to school with his entire life.  But he doesn’t know her at all.  And she takes him on a whirlwind one-night adventure of doing crazy things he would’ve never done otherwise.  Then she disappears.  She is gone.  She may be dead.  And she has left clues for Q to follow and maybe find her.  She leaves clues in a copy of Walt Whitman’s poetic masterpiece, Leaves of Grass for Crissake!  It becomes a quest of one person finding another person… not just that physical person… but who that person really is… how she thinks and feels.  It is a quest to find the meaning of “Paper Towns”… places that aren’t real, even though they are.  It is about connecting yourself to other people by the roots, the same way that the “leaves of grass”in your lawn are connected to each other.  And, dammit!  I am well over 500 words again.  And why?  Simply because you have to read this book.  It is so good it crosses over all boundaries of genre and intended audience.  Yes, it is a Young Adult novel… a kids’ book.  But it was written for you, even if you are 559 years old like me.  (And that is not a typo… If you don’t already know what hyperbole is, you should look it up, because I just gave you 500 years worth).

2 Comments

Filed under book review, good books, humor

The Dangers of Knowing Female Pirates

When last I was cartooning about Fantastica, I had fallen into a dream about pirates and had been taken prisoner…

20150622_162507

20150622_162437

20150714_141444

bikinibabe2

On that cliffhanger note…  To be continued…

Leave a comment

Filed under humor, Paffooney

Have No Fear, Mickey is Here

Beauty and Beast

I have recently had more run-ins with my old nemesis… Fear.  He is a vicious animal that makes my heart race and muddles my thinking (which is ironically very hard to do considering the muddlesome nature of my brain to begin with.)

I posted a political post a couple of days ago suggesting you should shoot yourself in the foot.  Fear tells me he likes shooting.  He is a card-carrying member of the NRA.  Second Amendment rights are more important to him than the First Amendment, the Fourth, the Sixth, and definitely the 15th.  He agrees with Donald Trump about Mexicans.  We have to seal the border, and if they come across to commit crimes, steal our stuff, and mess up our lovely whitebread world, we oughtta be able to shoot them.  Fear likes conservatives in politics.  He knows they don’t really mean it when they ask us to give up stuff and give them more money in return for protecting us from all those scary “other people”, but he likes the notion of guns and military to “protect us”.  Those “other people”, they are scary. and icky, and awful.  We hate them.  Let’s kill them.  Fear really does say this to me, and I am fairly sure that he says it to other people too.  But I have decided I don’t really want to listen.

superchick2Superman 2In fact, I want to stand up to him.  I am tired of listening to people whom I care about repeat fear-fueled talking points from Fox News about why white cops who killed black youths without giving them their right to a trial… especially un-armed black youths… were probably justified and were rightfully afraid for their own gun-fortified life.  I was mortified when the white cop in McKinney, Texas threw the black girl in the bikini to the ground and put a knee on her back.  That was a girl like so many of the ones I have taught in Texas.  Sure, she may have said bad words to him… because she was afraid.  But she had more reason to be afraid than he did.  So, I need to use Mickian magical powers to punch Fear in the nose.  This monster will not beat me, even though I am naked and unarmed.  I am not afraid.

minotaur

And here’s the reason why…  I love people.  I don’t hate them.  I don’t fear them.  I particularly love some of the people that friends and relatives routinely tell me that they fear.  I have had black, Hispanic, and Muslim students that I would die to protect without hesitation.  When I stood between a Hispanic boy with a sharp metal throwing star with which he intended to commit a murder, and the boy inside my classroom he was threatening, I was ready to die.  He was not entering my classroom while I lived to block the doorway.  Fortunately for my stupid, brave self, an even braver History teacher prevented him from getting to me and got him to drop the weapon and run away.  Later that day I cried several gallons of tears and thanked God I did not wet my pants on the spot, but that is not the only time in my teaching career that I stepped between two combatants in order to protect them both and end the fight.  The secret to those victories was never having a gun or weapon to fight back with.  All I had to do to win the battle was overcome Fear… to beat him down and not let him be a factor.  You can always talk your way out of any terrible situation.  If the person you are talking to knows you are not showing fear, and you bother to tell him or her that you care about not letting them get hurt, even by their own actions… even the most wicked-hearted people are still people and still have a heart.  If they don’t, a gun isn’t going to save you anyway.  It would’ve helped Ninja-star-boy to have someone supply him with a gun.  So I say this without fear.  “Fear, you do not have a say in my life!  I do not give you any power over my faith, my politics, my daily life, or my loves.”

Now, I am not made of bricks or steel, and I am definitely not bullet-proof.  But I am not afraid to say, I am a liberal in my politics.  I believe in helping people, not hurting them in the name of Fear.  And so, if you Klansmen and white supremacists are offended by that fact and believe you need to punish me for my commie-liberal-sinner crimes, I am ready to tell you that I respect you as a human being, and disrespect every hurtful thing you stand for.  I will gladly give you your Fourth and Sixth Amendment rights, and do everything in my power to prevent you from exercising your Second Amendment rights on my poor little (Biblical-word-for-Donkey used as a euphemism).

Oh, and I am not about to tell you where I live.  I may be stupid and brave, but nobody is that stupid.

Leave a comment

Filed under humor, Paffooney, politics

The 40-Year Class Reunion

This Goodwill rescue Barbie is stamped 1966, but an irate collector once pointed out to me that is no indication of when this doll was actually made and sold.

This Goodwill rescue Barbie is stamped 1966, but an irate collector once pointed out to me that is no indication of when this doll was actually made and sold.

One of the main reasons that I went to Iowa this Summer at the time that I did was because the Belmond High School Class of 1975 was having a reunion dinner for the 40th anniversary of the high school getting rid of all of our dumb behinds all at once, an entire class full of mooks and monkey-heads and minions.  I desperately wanted to see them again… for possibly the last time in our lives.  It has been 40 years.  Seven of us are gone (more than 10% of a small, rural Iowegian high school class).  And now I want to tell stories about them and relentlessly make fun of them… though I will change the names to protect the innocent… and the ones I like… which is all of them.

We had the hootenanny at the Belmond Country-Club and Golf Course (and no, we were not eating golf balls… the most favorite of all Belmond restaurants had been destroyed by a tornado not long ago, and is now re-opened at the Country-Club grounds).  I was really hoping to see my best friend there, Dr. Bilbo Bonaduce… the mook in the lobster shirt in high school that always got my jokes in Mr. Salcomb’s English classes, but never laughed… because he always needed to top them.  (That goof-ball was willing to say out loud in front of everyone the kind of jokes I could only whisper to him behind my hand… needless to say, I only basked in the laughs second-hand.)   Unfortunately, he was not there.  He suffers from Multiple Sclerosis and may not even still be among the living.  It has been a decade since I last saw or heard from him.  Gee, this part of the story is not nearly as funny and uplifting as I had planned.  But, then, time and fortune are not universally kind.

I did get to see the boy I fell in love with in Junior High.  Now, that is not exactly what it sounds like.  Neither of us were ever gay, and both have children by the one and only wives that we each married.  I loved him because he was magical.  He relied on my big brain to help him in Math and History, and I relied on him as we played together, side by side, in football, basketball, and track.  As a teammate, he always made me better at what I was doing.  I tackled harder and shot the ball more accurately and ran faster because he was always there encouraging me.  I was actually the better athlete of the two of us (in my unbiased opinion), but he lettered in three sports when I did not letter in any.  He dated the girl I had the hugest crush of my life upon… for a while… and got all the glory.  But I shared in it because he was my friend and the “shiny” rubbed off on me.  He grew up to be the only farmer in our class who is still actually farming.  Still living the life we once knew.  God, Roger, I never envied you more, and I love you still.

This is a picture of Brent Clarke, not Roger Williams.  Character and inspiration?  Maybe.

This is a picture of Brent Clarke, not Roger Williams. Character and inspiration? Maybe.

I spent the most time talking to three people I had not talked to much in 40 years… Rachel McMichaels was one of the organizers of the dinner.  She was the brainiest girl in our class and the Valedictorian in high school.  The scuttlebutt was that if I courted and married Rachel, all our children would have frizzy white hair and mustaches like Albert Einstein.  She was as warm and caring as ever.  She asked all about my family and told me one or two things about hers.  There was never a flicker of romance between us in high school… probably because of all the teasing… but I do realize what a good thing was always there to be missed out on entirely.

Daniel Mastermill was there too.  We sat beside each other in the front row of the infamous Miss Rubelmacher’s seventh-grade Science class.  The terrifying Miss R sat us there together in her seating chart because of size.  Daniel, in seventh grade, was even shorter and scrawnier than I was.  At the reunion, he was telling me the story (which I had never heard before) of his family’s buried treasure.  It seems that his parents buried a treasure on their family farm, and told the children that it was there, but never gave them a treasure map, or told them what was in the treasure.  The old folks apparently died without telling where it was buried, and the children spent weeks digging up everything they dared to dig up looking for it before the farm was sold.  The treasure is apparently still there.

And I sat next to Reggie Simmery all during the meal.  Everybody talks to Reggie.  He was the class clown.  We were sitting across the table from Angela Oberkfell, the classmate who was also the Junior High School Principal’s  daughter, and listened to a recounting of several times Reg was subjected to paddlings, stern lectures, and even a couple of suspensions.  Reggie could never resist the temptation to say or do the most ridiculous, stupid, and pointless things his little peanut-butter-powered brain could think of.  And he always laughed about everything, even when Angela’s dad whacked him on the behind with a board of education.

The reunion was a disappointment because I didn’t see all the people I wanted to see.  Even the girl I had the greatest crush of my life upon was not there.  (Clever of her to avoid me.)  But I saw people I needed to see, and felt the things I needed to feel, about a time and place so long ago now, and my heart is full… re-filled to the brim.

DSCN5073

2 Comments

Filed under high school, humor, Paffooney

Why You Should Shoot Yourself in the Foot Rather Than Vote for Donald Trump

I confess.   I am subject to the annoying liberal belief that if I check my facts and make properly reasonable arguments, I can save the world from all the political idiots and partisan clowns that are filling the American scene with horse poop.  Of course, I just got back home to Texas from a week-long visit to Iowa, and in both places there are people that I respect and love that feel that everything conservatives and even Tea Party Republicans say on Fox News makes sense.  How deluded can you be?  It almost makes a loony liberal communist anti-Christ like me start using the other word for poop.

political insanity  The problem, I believe, lies in the -ists and the -isms.  For example, racists and racism or anti-Zionists and anti-Zionism (words that I believe Hitler chose to describe how he felt about ants who were from Zion… or something) are -ists and -isms.  The kind of -ists and -isms that makes people from Iowa argue that the Confederate flag represents culture not hatred, even though that particular flag killed a large number of Iowans in the “Hornet’s Nest” at the Battle of Shiloh in 1862 in Missouri.  Iowa was on the Union side.  That war, by the way, was a war of rebellion by the South who wanted to be a separate nation so they could keep buying and selling people like they were pet hamsters and working them like they were mules.  (See what I mean… loony liberals let facts get in the way of all the really cool ideas?)

My children and I had a discussion of -ists and -isms at the Burger King today, because the Princess didn’t want to sit next to her brother, because… well, brothers are stinky and bother you and she would just end up being unfairly in trouble for pouring her medium soft drink over his head.  We talked about how people are prone to let prejudices control their behavior instead of using civil, loving, Christian values.  The Princess was being a seat-ist and subject to seat-ism.  And then we noted that if she hopped from seat to seat, she would be a repeat-ist seat-ist.  And if she took a real disliking to the seat, she might turn into a seat-ist beat-ist.  And if she obsessively tried to clean the seat of big-brother cooties, she was being a neat-ist seat-ist.  And we got a good laugh at the expense of seat-ists everywhere.

animal.kukuchew.com

animal.kukuchew.com

And taking Donald Trump seriously as a presidential candidate this last week is the same stupid thing.  The man opened his mouth during his announcement speech and proceeded to spew horse poop about Mexicans being rapists and drug-dealers and other criminals coming across our borders to take our stuff and rape our women and do all kinds of evil horse poop… because he was reading from a carefully researched speech foot-noted with crime statistics… or possibly because The Donald would never just speak boat-loads of horse poop hatefully off the top of his head.  (Notice I resisted the temptation to use the other word for poop three whole times!  I am a slave to political correctness and need to be called out for it.)

I learned a few things about immigration over the last decade of being an ESL teacher (English for non-English speakers).  If you come from a properly white-skinned country like, say, Finland, you have a relatively easy time immigrating to the U.S.  If you come from a brown or black country, you face a barb-wire-shrouded mine field in the form of a legal immigration process, and once you make it legally to this country, any little slip-up or typo… even those you don’t make yourself… can get you re-classified as illegal and deported.  Parents are deported away from their children.  Children get deported even though they were born in this country and speak only English.  My own Filipino wife is still not a citizen after twenty years of marriage.  And most of those “illegal immigrants” that so disturb The Donald (and Ted Cruz, and Rick Santorum, and Rick Perry. and the rest of the Republican Clown Alley) do important jobs that employers have a hard time filling otherwise.  If they are actually illegal, they pay into the system in the form of income tax and are unable to claim any benefits because they risk discovery and deportation.  Thinking these hard-working, under-loved people are all criminals is horse poop.

But enough with the horse-poop discussion.  I hate when my posts end up full of poop.  Donald Trump is the worst kind of -ist and full of the most terrible kinds of -isms.  If you shoot yourself in the foot, it will heal, at most, in a couple of months.  If you vote for Donald Trump, you may end up having to live in a horse-poop factory for four years.  Do you really like man-made horse poop?  It is a lot more toxic than the organic stuff.  (Dang!  Even loony-liberal political correctness doesn’t keep the danged poop from piling up!)

4 Comments

Filed under humor, Paffooney, politics

Bits and Pieces

Having written 1000 words again for no apparently good reason yesterday, I figure I am entitled to a shorter, pithier, sissier, saucier, sillier post today (the kind where I use long strings of adjectives in order to fill up the paper… a trick learned from little darlings in English class that figured I would be happy with a page full of words, and that it didn’t matter if it made the least bit of sense).  Writing is, after all, piecing together the puzzle that is my noisy noodle, full of imaginings, weird images, and all sorts of listy-type things that I could list here to fill up more space if I weren’t so danged lazy today.  I found a good article about being a writer while my noodle was simmering and trying to cook up today’s post.  It gives insight into the tumultuous brain-scape that I am struggling with at the moment because I am (sadly) a writer.

Here’s the article from AuthorsPublish

I am trying to noodle out a cartoon that I am trying to compose from a rough draft that has more holes in it than Swiss cheese has bad smells.  I suppose you could call that cartoonoodling (but would never actually call it that because you’re not as dippy as I am).  The drawings of that composition come first.  So, here, at least, they are!

20150710_143309 20150710_143339_000I know you can’t possibly know what sort of sense to make out of these because I haven’t put the words and dialogue balloons into these pen and ink and red drawings.  (Remember, Clown Noire is a new cartoon genre I am trying to develop like black-and-white Film Noire movies, only in black-white-and-red pen-and-ink cartoons.)  So, foolishness aside, these are only raw work-in-progress Paffoonies.  Or maybe not foolishness aside, since foolishness tends to be the whole point.

I am also trying to advance through the struggles of two novels at once.  I am still trying to progress through the middle of Stardusters and Space Lizards, where I have to bring the totally evil villain, Senator Tedhkruhz the lizard-man (no relation to the real life Senator I am obviously trying to make fun of), together with his well-deserved comeuppance.   I know how the novel ends, but not how the middle-middle and the later-middle connect to that end.  Senator Tedhkruzh

And I am trying to finish the beginning of the novel When the Captain Came Calling.  I have to come up with a way for the evil mermaid that sinks the Captain’s ship to reach that condition of being righteously indignant about the wrong done to her enough for her to use her fishy mermaid powers to swamp and wreck the ship.

Voodoo Val cover

But rather than bore you with the details of my inner swordfights with the weapons master of the Pirate crew that runs my brain when I’m writing, I will leave it here… after all, I promised I was going to write less words today, and I am already at 494.

4 Comments

Filed under cartoons, humor, NOVEL WRITING

More Texas Airport Follies

I would post a picture of my son the Marine in his uniform, but I have promised him never to use his real name, or pictures of him in his military persona, or even reveal destinations where he was going for the armed forces.   He is not going on secret missions, but he likes to play like it is so, and is capable of getting very, very mad about it.  So you will have to be satisfied with the harrowing tale of delivering him to the airport, putting him on a plane to… somewhere… and finding out first hand what the term SNAFU is all about as it relates to the military and deployment.

20150708_181905

You may remember that I posted about collecting him from Love Field and what a wondrous, lovely adventure that was, at the start of his leave for the holiday.  (Texas Airport Adventures) Well, unfortunately, we didn’t have the same easy time of it on the butt end of his journey home.  We had to go to DFW… The Texas-Sized airport that makes you appreciate how loud and braggart-y and smug and foul-tempered Texas is as a whole.  Practically nothing went as planned.

20150708_182548

I used this scene to represent the airport and blurred it on purpose (yeah, right!) to protect the identities of the random airport denizens I was photographing because I obtained a release from no one and no faces can be actually visible.  (I also thought the pretty little Asian girl dressed in blue was particularly cute, but wanted no part in taking some sort of weird stalker photo.)  To use this photo to imagine what the airport is really like, you have to realize that this is one of thirty-five-something waiting areas in only one of the Terminals A, B, C, D, and E that litter this monster airport.  You have to take this particular photo times one-hundred-seventy-five-something to get an idea of how labyrinthine and utterly foul and soul-munching this cesspit of Texan humanity and lurking random monsters truly is.  And we didn’t even have the misfortune of finding the Minotaur in the middle of the maze.

We started our quest at Terminal C, not quite sure which of the many, many American Airlines spots we were supposed to find out of all the x-marks-the-spots x-es that were to be found on the GPS and Google Maps.  We checked his bags and asked about boarding, and if we could get passes to eat dinner at one of the terminal restaurants with our boy before he winged off somewhere into the military world far, far away.  Helpful little lady in the official red jacket said we had to go to Terminal B to the USO office and get passes because he was military and that was a USO responsibility.  Then she said we should hustle onward to Terminal A to catch his plane.  So we went to terminal B.  The nice lady at the USO said she had no earthly idea what red-jacket-supposedly-expert lady was talking about.  We needed to get our passes from security at the Terminal where we were actually putting him on the plane.  So by now, we didn’t trust anything that red-jacket-lady had told us and checked the ticket to see if she had given us the wrong terminal as well.  Sure enough, the ticket said we were to put him on a plane at gate D20.  There is, of course, no such gate in Terminal A.  So we went to Terminal D.  There we tried to get passes.  The ticket agent that was helping us said we had to go to the special customer services desk at the other end of the free-world side of Terminal D.  So, armed with my cane and two aching knees (from arthritis pressed into walking too far already) we stumped and slogged and slithered down to the far end of Terminal D.  On the way (during one of my frequent puffing and panting and gasping stops) I checked the departure board for number one son’s flight and saw, to my shock and dismay, that his flight was leaving not out of Terminal D, but out of Terminal A, from gate A11.

The red-jacket-supposedly-expert lady from the far end of Terminal D apologized profusely that we had been misdirected by red-jacket-but-know-nothing lady and recommended that we get our passes from the special customer services desk that was now within fifty feet of where we stood.  We went there and lucked out with a quietly competent special-customer-services guy who quietly and competently issued us each of the four passes we sought.  (The poor Asian gentleman arguing with the next ticket agent over had already missed his plane because he had been waiting in long airport lines through boarding and take-off.  I was so glad not to be in his shoes that I overlooked the fact that smoke was already rolling out of the soles of my shuffling shoes.)  From that point on, we got what we wanted.  We went to Terminal A and got in through security without being strip-searched… completely (only my feet were actually bare).  We found a nice, expensive airport restaurant and consumed enough carbohydrates that it should have killed diabetic little me.  The waitress was even a bit smitten with number one son, although the boy did not even notice her big brown calf’s eyes.  And then we got him on his plane.  And he was gone.  Of course, the SNAFU (Situation Normal, All-French-worded-Up) was not completely done with number one son.  He reached the place where he was supposed to go from American Airlines to the military transport flight, and was promptly grounded for a couple of days as there was a huge, nasty weather event across the ocean at his destination.

So, there you have it… the abridged to less than one-thousand-one-hundred-words version, anyway.  More airport follies to tickle your glee-and-giggles center in your brain.  And I may live long enough to go through similar stuff a number of times more.  Such is the life of a military parent.  But when we got home, just like the last time, the flower wagon had another surprise for us… just before the thunderstorm.

20150708_122642

3 Comments

Filed under autobiography, humor, photo paffoonies

Monster Collecting

Okay, it has been a while since I bought a new doll and was going through a bit of hoarding-disorder withdrawal.  Plus a little windfall of cash finally came through.  So, I added to the Monster High collection.  Here is the new purchase still in the package;  (Mint in package- can I resist the urge to take it out and play with it?  Probably not.)

20150708_092323

This is Lorna McNessie, daughter of the Loch Ness Monster.  I am not sure how an aquatic plesiosaur who has managed to live from the Jurassic until the present by hiding in a lake and apparently only eating people no one would ever miss can father a daughter that looks like a scaly blue human girl with a big head, but apparently he did it.  Here is a picture of Dad so you can compare and figure it out for yourself.

http://www.dinosaurjungle.com/prehistoric_animals_plesiosaurs.php

http://www.dinosaurjungle.com/prehistoric_animals_plesiosaurs.php                                                                                                 

This purchase is within the rules of collecting.  At $19.95 she comes in at a nickel under the maximum allowable price.  She is also the first and only collectible purchased in July.  So now I am closer to my goal of collecting all the daughters of famous movie monsters who fill the bizarro surrealist realm know as Monster High cartoons.  Here is a look at where the collection now stands (or sits… displayed on the corner of my bedroom dresser next to the drawing table with all the Barbie parts and Goodwill reclamation dolls.);

20150708_092426

As you have probably noticed, I have added Frankie Stein as well in the recent past, the daughter of Frankenstein’s Monster.  She has surgical seams on arms and legs and neck, along with neck bolts, so one has to question why she is technically the daughter of the Frankenstein’s Monster if she is made of dead girl-parts, sewn together in a laboratory, and re-animated.  Wouldn’t that indicate she’s Frankenstein’s Monster’s Monster?  Oh, well.

20150614_135059

I still hope to acquire Dracula’s daughter, Draculaura, and possibly Venus McFlytrap, the daughter of the man-eating plant in Little Shop of Horrors.  I am also pretty sure there is a daughter of some ghost-guy or other and the daughter of an evil genii.  I don’t know what all is pertinent to this collection.  They are somewhat oddball in nature, and I have not watched the animated cartoon (nor am I sure I can stomach it… there is no guarantee it will be a pleasant surprise like My Little Pony).

20150526_085109

Here is what they look like naked.  This is not intended to prove I am a pervert when I play with my dolls, but this does show the problems I face if I buy Goodwill rescue dolls that need repair or clothing (as most Goodwill dolls do) because their limbs and torsos are unique.  You have to have character-specific replacement arms and legs, or be willing to paint the parts.  The bean-shaped torsos are a bugbear for making your own clothing.  Standard Barbie patterns don’t even come close to fitting, and you have to accommodate things like tails and fins and neck bolts.  I may have to buy cheap ones so I can take their dresses apart for patterns.  This is why I have never been tempted to collect Bratz dolls.  Oh, well, the troubles unique to doll collectors, you know…  And besides… I am well past 500 words for today.

Leave a comment

Filed under doll collecting, humor, photo paffoonies