Tag Archives: humor

Goofy Squared

Mickeynose

There are a number of really, really goofy facts about me that I will reveal in today’s post…  No one is trying to blackmail me over these things, believe it or not.  I have no money.  And I have no reputation to protect.  I am nobody.  Just a silly, goofy, loony old nobody.  But I have a few chuckles now and then at my own expense.

Revelation #1; The clown nose in the picture was a souvenir from Cirque du Soleil.  We went to see them in a parking lot in Frisco, Texas.  They had an actual circus tent.  When I was five, I told my parents I wanted to be a clown when I grew up.  Nobody believes me when I say it, but I achieved that goal.  They say, “But you were a school teacher!”

And I say, “How is that different?”

Honestly, I have worn a clown nose and played harmonica in front of a classroom full of twelve-year-olds.  I can make teenagers laugh so hard the principal has to check to make sure they are not gleefully setting me on fire or duct-taping me to the wall.  (Duck-taping sounds funnier, but you have to be accurate when describing real events from modern schools.)

Revelation #2;  I am a closet nudist.lil hunter2

I used to be associated with the AANR, a nudist/ naturist organization in the latter part of the 1980’s,  I met the nudist publishers through stamp collecting and they tried to recruit me.  I bought books and videos from them.  I have actually been naked for an entire day… once.  I knew nudists in Austin where a former girlfriend stayed over several weekends with her sister who lived in the clothing-optional apartment complex on Manor Road.  I am not brave enough to walk around physically naked in front of people on a regular basis though.  So, I am a closet nudist.  Only a nudist in my closet.  I get a lot of mileage out of naked jokes in my fiction, though, because, well… naked is funny.

Goof  Revelation #3;  I keep scrapbooks filled with collages made of pictures from magazines, newspapers, photos I’ve taken, pictures I drew myself, poems, short snippets of things I find funny or ironic or autobiographically important, and secrets like I am sharing with you today.  (The picture of Goofy seen here is one I colored myself from one of the old coloring books left over from my kids’ coloring book days.  I hate to see unused coloring book pictures go to waste.)  I call these my magical tomes because I use them as source material for the spells I weave in my fiction.  I also use many of the images for drawing and painting as models.  I also discovered I can borrow whole images and make new art using my cheap-o substitute photo-shop program.

Revelation #4;  It is totally by accident that I have come to look like the most important character in Snow Babies, the novel that PDMI is slowly publishing for me.  Catbird Sandman is an old hobo who wears a coat that has so many patches on it that it Catbird Mehas become a patchwork crazy quilt.  He wanders around the country, appreciating the world and its people, and using his considerable store of mysterious abilities to charm, help, and change people.  He carries around a book, a well-worn copy of Walt Whitman’s Leaves of Grass and quotes from it, treating it like a sort of Bible-like source of spiritual wisdom.  The character looks like Walt Whitman.  And now, though not intentionally, so do I.  I grew the beard and long hair because of psoriasis.  It attacks me under the edge of my jaw line and all around the back of my head.  It is easily scratched and bloodied, and then infected when someone cuts my hair or I try to shave.  So I have given up that battle and gone all hippy-dippy.  It sorta fits with the whole jobless, shiftless, former nudist sort of persona that I have been cultivating as an author.

So what is the equation Goofy Squared all about?  Well, if you take the square root of the four Goofy revelations in this post, you come up with Goofy times two.  So Goofy obviously equals one.  And I think I have clearly proven that I am the goofy one.

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Blue Monday Visit to the QT

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I have to admit to having cheated on my first love.  But I have come back now to be faithful from here on out.  Last Summer I bought one of those free-refill cups at RaceTrac.  But it was unfulfilling.   You only get 20 oz. in the free refill cup.  And the free refills expired at the end of July.  So I have come back to the daily, or even twice daily, 32 oz. cup of Diet Coke from QT.  You knew that’s what I meant, right?

I know all the employees at QT at least by sight if not by name.  I don’t even have to tell them any more that the plastic cup I am using is a carefully saved and cleaned cup so that I deserve the refill price.  (I am not a curmudgeon who has to save ten cents on every purchase.  I do it to re-use and recycle and save the planet Earth from wasted plastic.  Really I do.)  They also know without my saying that even though it says “debit card” on the front, it works as credit.  (Except for that one kinda stupid guy who only works the really late and really early shifts.)  One of the workers there is a neighborhood kid that was in my class for two days when I was a substitute history teacher at Long Middle School nine years ago.  He’s changed a lot from when I first knew him.  He has turned from a goofy, bean-bodied twelve-year-old with big brown myopic eyes and a fly that never stayed zipped into a massive hulk of a twenty-one-year old service station associate worker.  He doesn’t even realize that I knew him when…

Grandma, Henry, and the Princess on the Beach

Grandma, Henry, and the Princess on the Beach

…and I know it is kinda pathetic that I am now so limited in my contact with the rest of humanity, especially with the family away in Florida for Spring Break, me stuck at home with illness and a pooping dog, and being retired without any working-man’s daily duties any more, that a visit to QT is the highlight of my day.  But it isn’t.  The highlight occurs when I start writing.  I enjoy laughing at my own funny-bits in this post, and the novel that I am working on… well, flights of fancy is putting it mildly.  I have been up in World War I biplane, in the midst of a dogfight between a promising young Allied pilot for the Lafayette Escadrille  and a German ace who represents evil incarnate and is being controlled by an evil alien-designed robot from the future.  I also have been in the tunnels under Castle Sinistre, or Château Sinistre as it is known in the Somme.  There I have been with the time-travelling heroes who are trying to rescue a rabbit-man created by an evolutionary science experiment gone wrong and an insane brother-in-law of the scientist who created the rabbit-man.  My imagination breaks free of the stifling cage my old, lame body and my current life have become.

Snowboy

This little essay quite accurately reflects what I write and why I write it.  Happy people and healthy people and normal people would all be on the beach instead of where I am now.  They would never be home-bound Emily-Dickenson writer-people whose daily highlight is a cup of Diet Coke from QT  But I am in the clouds now, somewhere over the rainbow, and I am content, because that’s the corner I’ve written myself into.

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We Are Not Alone

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The Photo Paffooney I have provided for today is one I have been sitting on and pondering over for several months now.  It isn’t the cloud formation that is troubling, it’s the light.  You see, the problem is, it was early morning.  The sun was in the east, not far above the horizon.  This picture shows two bright lights glowing behind the clouds in the southern sky.  So, what were they?  Lights that merely hovered there.  We are in the zone flown over both by DFW and Love field.  These weren’t airplanes.  I checked UFO reports continuously.  Three times unidentified objects were reported in the Dallas Fort-Worth area.  The reports were online, but not covered by local media, newspapers or TV.  In fact, they rather swiftly disappeared from You-Tube.  So, what does it all mean?

Well, you know I am a nut-case.  If you’ve read any of my tinfoil hat posts, you know I think the Roswell incident revolved around at least one crashed ship from another star system.  I also think the primary proof that we have that we are not the only intelligent beings in this universe is the very fact that the government has worked so hard to convince us that it is not so.   Liars tend to protest too much.  And there is an ever-increasing pool of whistle-blowers that have risked everything to come forward with tales of close encounters and government programs to conceal the science we have learned from back-engineered alien space-crafts.  You don’t have to believe me.  Look up the Disclosure Project and Dr. Steven Greer and Astronaut Edgar Mitchell.  Hear it in their own words on You-Tube.  I am a kook, but I’m not the only one… and some of them have impressive resumes.

Am I claiming, then, that my picture shows UFO’s from outer space?  Of course it doesn’t.  It is an unidentified phenomenon that would be easily explained if I just had a few more facts… like the amount of facts I have looked at that make me think that We Are Not Alone.

Not Alone

So, was the purpose of this post merely to remind you that I have an idiotic faith in flying saucers?  Not at all.  I am in the midst of week of total isolation at home.  My family went to Florida for Spring Break to visit my oldest son.  I stayed home with the dog (somebody has to feed her and pick up poop).  Actually, I am not well enough to travel and I convinced them that it would be okay to go without me.  And it is okay too.  I may be full of self pity and feeling lonely and blue right now like some sort of fool, but I am not alone.  By myself, sure, but not alone.  I got to thinking about all the people my life has touched over the years.  I have known teachers in four different school districts, people in five different communities, workers at QT where I buy my Big Q cup of Diet Coke every morning, family members by the freight-train-full, cousins, nieces, nephews, uncles, aunts, great aunts, grandparents long gone, and over 2,500 students who sat in my 31 years of classrooms.  I guess I know a few people, huh?  And none of them have truly left me… not even those who died.  As I continue to deteriorate and die… and continue to put my wealth of life experience into silly fictional forms, I realize they are all still with me.  It is the only real wealth a human being ever has.  I, like you, like all of us, am never alone.

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Snow Day Again… In March?

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20150305_083349It is truly amazing how little snow it takes to totally paralyze a city like Dallas.  Chicago would be embarrassed to death at having to close school down on a sunshiny day with less than a foot of snow on the ground.  But Dallas likes to build major roadways up into the air so freezing air can hit the underside as well as the upper side of roads that, once shut down by a hideous three-car five-death accident on sheets of super-slippery ice, totally prohibits movement from one side of the metroplex to the other.

I have considerable pain from my arthritis, and I am shut down most of the time anyway.  But with the city closed around me, there is not much left to do but sit and write and make fun of southerners who can’t drive on snow because they don’t realize that speeds below seventy miles-per-hour do exist in the real world.  I have had time to further work on the final edit of my novel, The Bicycle-Wheel Genius.  I also had time to submit my novel Magical Miss Morgan to the Chanticleer Book Reviews’ YA novel-writing contest called the Dante Rossetti Awards for Young Adult Fiction.  265469780

I don’t have a head full of straw and really believe I am going to walk away with a top prize.  But I did enter this contest before with Snow Babies, and that book made it into the final round.  It will help my manuscript get published.  Who knows?  I may score something bigger than an Indie publisher this time around.  Maybe I can get an agent.  (Okay, there’s a little straw in there.  I will have to clean more carefully next time.)

But old, broken, bed-ridden me with nothing but time to lay around and fiddle with the computer am definitely making good use of my snow day.  I took pictures of the snow.  I walked the dog in it.  And I didn’t have to drive to any schools or school events.  Hot dang!  What a fine life.

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Naked and Nude

Be warned… this is one of those art things that people use to post naughty pictures on the internet.  Some of my conservative Christian friends will tell you that the local art museum is one of the most atrocious sources of pornography and images of naked people you can find.  It is a terrible thing.  People being exposed to what people look like if they take their clothes off!  How could I do such a dastardly thing as to draw people… naked?

Beauty and Beast

It is difficult to rationalize my terrible crimes.  I mean, the “Beauty and the Beast” picture is clearly the depiction of mental depravity and sex addiction from the mind of a fiend.  There could be no other explanation of it, right?  I mean, Beauty’s stark nakedness can’t possibly represent fearless innocence in the face of ugliness… or a compounding of meanings that have to do with the notion that true beauty exists also under the outward ugliness of the Beast.    After all, I am a cartoonist.  How dare I think that I have the same right to draw naked people as some great painter or long-dead artist?

eve

It doesn’t count for anything that I had art training in college and sat through at least two courses in anatomy drawing where I not only drew skeletons and body parts and clothed people, but also sat down in front of live nude models (mostly fellow art students, but all were paid for modeling… I think I posted elsewhere about what happened when it was my turn to model… but I also think you have to search my posts yourself if you want to know more about that embarrassing episode).

I must also confess that I have had some experiences with naturists.  Here we are talking about those crazy hippie-inspired folks who go camping in the wilderness with their kids, take off all their clothes, and go hiking and biking and playing volleyball in front of real bears.  It was there that the artist in me first noticed there was a difference in anatomy, shape, color, and form between bare kids and bare adults.  There are distinct differences between my pictures of Eve and Artemis here, based solely on the fact that one is an adult and the other a child.

Artemis

I am not trying to depict something evil and horrible that will strike you in the eyes and corrupt your very soul.  I am not a pornographer or a pervert when I create these drawings and share them with you.  They really represent only about one per cent of all the drawings in my portfolio.  They represent mainly my need to get the form and lighting right on the most fundamental level.  They are an attempt to share something about what is like to be human.  Being naked is a part of the life of everyone except the most monumental of prudes who don’t ever get naked and probably wear long underwear in the bathtub even in the summer.  Let me end with the first paragraph of Kenneth Clark’s 1956 book, The Nude; a study in ideal form.  

“The English language, with it’s elaborate generosity, distinguishes between the naked and the nude.  To be naked is to be deprived of our clothes, and the word implies some of the embarrassment most of us feel in that condition.  The word “nude” on the other hand, carries, in educated usage, no uncomfortable overtone.  The vague image it projects into the mind is not of a huddled and defenseless body, but of a balanced, prosperous, and confident body: the body re-formed.  In fact, the word was forced into our vocabulary by critics of the eighteenth century to persuade the artless islanders that, in countries where painting and sculpture were practiced and valued as they should be, the naked human body was the central object of art.”

So, you see?  I am not merely making excuses for posting naughty pictures on my blog.  At least, not unless all artists are making the same excuses and there is a vast world-wide conspiracy to put pornography in every art museum…  Conspiracy?  Wait a minute… let me think about that some more.

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Fantasy Worlds

If you saw my post yesterday, you have probably already noticed I am not in love with the real world (and for those of you who naturally assume every conspiracy theorist is a nut job, I don’t love the world as I perceive it through my goofy senses).  So what is the alternative?  How about the world of the imagination?

Like many youths of the late 70’s and early 80’s, I trained my imagination with the Dungeons and Dragons game from Gary Gygax and TSR.  I played first with my brother and two sisters, then with kids from the school where I first taught (middle schoolers when I taught them, but mostly high schoolers when they played in the vast worlds of my dungeon-master’s imagination).  I first started buying and painting metal miniatures.  Later I supplemented them with plastic figures, paper cut-outs, maps,  and dungeon tiles.

fantasy world1

I can now lay out a pretty impressive scene to play out the stories that I and my three goofy kids love to spin.  Of course, you know that, although I lay out the potential story as the dungeon master, the players each pick a character and input their own directions and choices through that character’s point of view.

fantasy world2

The characters face the monsters and problems they must overcome, and they must decide when to hit it, when to kill it, or when to try to charm her way through it.

fantasy world3

After the monsters are dead you have to choose again.  Do you cut up the dead Cyclops and eat it?  Do you accept the gold from the princess who is thanking you for saving her and her children?  Do you kill the bratty kids and take all their gold earrings and arm bands?  Of course, the DM tries to squelch option three.

fantasy world4

And then you gather up the group again in the castle courtyard, and away you go.  Another adventure.  Another problem to solve.  It is so much easier than car repairs and school schedules and dealing with a dog that is a walking poop and spare-hair factory.  Dungeons and Dragons life is so much more heroic and fulfilling than real life.

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And then Mom shows up and says the game is over for today.  Time to wash the dishes, vacuum the carpet downstairs, and walk the dang pooping dog.  “Go away, Mom!  We are busy learning about the important things in life.”

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Sanctuary

I am trying to hold everything together.  I have made my plans, including plans for dealing with irrational things that some people might do.  And so, it is time to go visit the rabbit people.

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The Rabbit people represent the people and personalities from my past, fortifying me with good memories and pleasant thoughts.  I depend on my interior mental life more and more as my body breaks down and my present life is more and more limited.

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The hero is a younger me, leading the way to places I have been before and ready to defend me with old truth.

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But there is no such thing as a perfect sanctuary.  No castle of willpower and mental toughness is ever impregnable.

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A thousand things now assail me.  Unpaid tax bills, surprise expenses, continued struggles with illness, and other horrible goblins of chance and bad fortune continue to hound me.

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fmoog13

The battle is not over.  I have not yet lost, though I have not won yet either.

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Rabbit People

castle carrot

On days when I am still recovering from life-altering blows, I often try to find new realms, alternate realities to live in.  (Retreating into a fantasy world is one of the reasons she gave for leaving.)  And since, as a youth in Iowa, I raised rabbits for a 4-H project, I know rabbits better than I do human people.  Rabbits are people too.  So, I have been walking among the rabbit people.  Seriously, bunnies are better people than most human people.  They are not trying to profit off you.  They are not trying to get everything they can off you.  They are merely there to wiggle their whiskers, sniff for food, poop, gnaw on stuff, and make more bunnies.

Mr. R Rabbit

I often see myself as a rabbit person.  In cartoon form, I am the bunny-man teacher known to the Animal Town School System as Mr. Reluctant Rabbit.

As a teacher, I am always pulling out carrots of irony and gnawing on the ends of them in front of students.  If they complain that eating food in class is supposed to be against the rules, I ask them, “Do you want a carrot of irony?”

“Oh, no, thank you sir.”

“They are good for your eyesight as well as your insight.  You really ought to chew on healthier things like that.”

“Oh, no sir,” they say.  “We prefer Hot Cheetos.”

And so, I taught on like that… like a rabbit, fast and frumious (a Jabberwocky sort of word), and never really bit anybody.  Teaching is like that.  You offer the good healthy stuff to nourish their little animal minds, and they always choose the junk food instead.

Millis

And so life goes on like that.  Looking to rabbit people to ease my pain and need for good, wholesome carrots of irony.

I have started on the final edit of my novel The Bicycle-Wheel Genius.  One of the main characters in the book is Tommy Bircher’s pet rabbit Millis.   During the course of the story about invading aliens, Secret Agent Robots from the CIA, and making friends when you need friends, Millis is turned into a rabbit-man by a lab accident.  He teaches Tommy that you don’t have to be human to be a good, caring, self-sacrificing person.  He also teaches him to eat his carrots and greens like a good boy should.

So, I will spend more time with the rabbit people and heal a little bit.  That is what you do with the tragedy that life brings you.  You spin it into whole cloth, making humor and poetry out of everything bad that happens… wrapping yourself up in a comforting blanket of lies (you can also call those fiction stories), and eating a little chicken soup on a cold day to heal your soul.  (Oh, I forget, rabbits often gag on chicken soup.  Let’s make that bean soup with carrot chunks.)

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Why Space-girls Come from Iowa

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Yes, Iowa is a State with very little going on.  Not overly populated.  Not a center of arts and culture and the avant garde.  In fact, it is a State so literally boring that it is a perfect place for someone like me with cancer of the imagination to live.  I grew up in the town of Rowan, Iowa.  275 people if you count the squirrels (and believe me, some of the squirrels are premium corn-nuts).  I confess to peopling the place with the characters and creatures that welled up from the crazy, dark depths of my imagination.  Yes, they were real people, but the things I knew about their secret lives as international spies and alien invaders masquerading as humans were probably not provably accurate.

There was a time when alien potato people gave me an embryo to guard that would be raised as a human being.  When I showed it to my friends, they claimed it was a carved potato with spherical-headed pins for eyes.  Now how were they going to pass off a carved potato as a human being when they wanted him to take his place as a Russian cosmonaut to interfere with the space programs of two countries?  And how did they expect a twelve-year-old boy to make a carved potato grow up to look and act like a human being?  Alien potato people never adequately explain themselves.

And Iowa girls are something else that you have to see to believe.  Are they pretty?  Well, I went to Moo-U, Iowa State University in Ames, Iowa.  Why did they always call it Moo U. or Cow College?  Well, more than one of my friends told me that it wasn’t because it was an agriculture and mechanics sort of college.  Oh, it was definitely that.  But they suggested all the girls at Moo U. were fat and desperate and at college to get an M.R.S. degree with a specialty in ball-and-chain.  I must admit to being chased by a couple of cow-shaped co-eds, but I always found Iowa girls to be absolutely fascinating.  I always imagined them in bikinis and nearly nude, even though, with Iowa weather, there is really only about fifteen minutes a year in August when you could really say we had bikini weather.

I was thirteen in 1969 when Neil Armstrong first stepped on the moon.  My dreams were space fantasies.  My connections with alien invaders were nearly exposed by the potato-people’s embryo snafu, but most of my day-dreams took me to Mars alongside Alicia Stewart, the prettiest girl in my sixth-grade classroom.  She was always wearing a bikini when we explored Mars… usually underneath her space suit… her see-through glass-and-plastic space suit.

So, as I claimed in the the title, space-girls come from Iowa.  At least, in my mind they do.  In my feverish retro teen-aged imagination they do.  And if I can continue to successfully put fiction into print before I die, you will probably see a lot more of them.

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Snow Day 2015

Snow panic has hit the Dallas area.  Schools are all canceled.  Idiots are out ramming their cars together on the freeways.  TV reports plead for Texans to stay off the roads if travel is not actually necessary.  We are snowed in by a light dusting of snow and a serious patina of ice.

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We Iowegians transplanted to Texas laugh at storms like this.  It should not stop school.  I drove through worse than this last year when I still worked for the only school district who refused to cancel school on an icy, snowy day over a year ago.  But, a break to daily plans is a welcome thing, except possibly for the fact that you are stuck in the house with family all day with nothing to do.  Hopefully we can stand the togetherness.

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