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Political Insanity

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I have a terrible feeling that I have become a liberal.  Born and raised in Iowa, I probably should not be such a thing, but I cannot help it.  And the most frustrating thing is, I have not changed very much at all.  In the 70’s I originally identified myself as a Republican.  My parents were Republicans, good old-fashioned Eisenhower Republicans.  Practical, pragmatic, determined that the world would continue to be a better place for the next generation than it was for the last.  Liberals were the communist-sympathizing loonies that needed to be made fun of, like George McGovern.   Liberals were other people besides the people I knew.  They lived in other towns.  Unfortunately, the world began changing.

It started when the morality of the Republican Party came into question with Watergate.  I actually defended Nixon at the start.  Nixon began as an Eisenhower Republican.  Heck, he was Ike’s Vice President!  But then it began to come out that the new Republican Party was not playing by the rules any more.  They were willing to cheat!  I was shocked.  I didn’t know at that time that politicians and idealists were antonyms of each other.  I identified the ground that I stood on as neither liberal nor conservative.  I was determined to be a moderate.  I believed the only way was the middle way.

So, I confess, I started calling myself a Democrat and I voted for Jimmy Carter in my first actual election.  He was a moderate.  Heck, Southern Democrats were almost the same thing as Republicans, weren’t they?  How else could you explain Texas?

It was then that I began to perceive that the monkeys were actually running the banana farm.  Ronald Reagan took over.  And it was my fault.  Carter lost favor with the American public when he refused to declare war on the Iranians during the hostage crisis.  I failed to note that Carter was the only president in my lifetime that was not at war with anybody.  I voted for John Anderson instead.  In my defense, although he was a Republican, he was actually a moderate Republican.  Such things still existed in the real world.  And so, the Gipper won the presidency because I wasted my vote.  Seriously, Carter lost out to Reagan and his “Voodoo Economics” because people like me didn’t vote for Carter.  The election was that close.  Reagan and Reaganomics took over.  James Watt was appointed Secretary of the Interior.  The administration wanted to change the rules so industry could cut down trees in the National Forests.  The mantra was de-regulate, de-regulate!  That means to take away the rules.  That means that criminal business behavior was rewarded with profit, rather than punished by the government watchdogs.  The Reagan administration took the watchdogs out behind the barn and euthanized them with a shotgun.

So, I had my hard-earned money in a Savings and Loan when the Savings and Loan crisis hit.  I watched Oliver North become a celebrity as the Reagan Administration got away with murder in the Iran-Contra scandal.  It was the beginning of the end for moderates.    More and more the Republicans were about giving tax breaks to rich people.  Because, of course, rich people are all naturally good and generous and the benefits will all trickle down.  But the fat cats that were supposed to throw me table scraps became far too good at pigging it all down.  Nothing fell from the table.

As a Texas school teacher, I saw educational reform start with blaming the teachers for all the problems with Texas education.  They all said, “You can’t solve education’s problems by throwing money at them.”  I really wonder how they knew that.  I don’t remember any attempts to throw money at the problems schools were facing.  They gave idiot tests to teachers to weed out the ones who were too stupid and illiterate to teach.  When the majority of us passed those tests, the Republican State of Texas decided to give students achievement tests so they could justify firing teachers when the students failed.  Well, each time we began to help students pass the tests, they made the tests harder.  In fact, they made them harder every year.  It was like we were continually measuring our growth with an expanding ruler, a ruler that got so big so fast that at times it looked like we were shrinking.  We struggled hard to catch up, and it reached a point in recent history where Republican Emperor of Texas, Rick Perry, decided he no longer needed a reason.  He cut billions from the State’s funds for education.  Many excellent and dedicated teachers lost their jobs.  Art programs, theater programs, alternative programs were all tossed out in favor of just the basics… oh, and no one was willing to cut football.  Football was safe!  When the State budget short fall was no longer a problem, Emperor Perry was given the opportunity to restore the funding he had cut.  Of course, he did not.  Billion dollar rainy day funds are much more important than education.  (He means education for poor people, by the way.  He’s a strong supporter of public funds for private schools that rich people can afford to attend.)

Being conservative increasingly means having no heart, no love for your fellow man.  Conservatives are against having a minimum wage, let alone increasing the minimum wage.  That allows corporations to keep higher profits.  It doesn’t matter that so many people now no longer have money to spend to fuel those profits.  Rather than trying to expand the economy and make prosperity available to many more people, conservatives would rather squeeze every last drop of profit out of the masses before the masses finally starve.  Instead of justice for all, conservatives are seeking justice for the privileged, and the rest of us need to learn our place.  Heartlessness, greed, arrogance… I don’t see much else in the way of qualities in the Republican Party.  Where are the Republican moderates I used to admire?  Where are the new Bob Doles of the world?  What happened to Charles Grassley of Iowa, and John McCain of Arizona?  Why did they stop being advocates of the common man?

Okay, I think it’s time I took a stand.  Einstein said that it won’t be evil people at fault when this world ends, it will be the people who stand around and watched them do it.  So what kind of stand am I going to take?  I think we all have to decide if we are going to believe in something and make whatever sacrifices are necessary to back up what we believe.

I titled this awful thing Political Insanity because politics are driving me INSANE.  People I believe in and respect tell me that George Zimmerman is innocent (even though he killed an unarmed teenager after being told by the police NOT to follow him) and if there are riots, they want the police to open fire and kill rioters.  This is coming from folks who I have always respected for their Christian beliefs.  WAITAMINNIT!  Christian beliefs!  Am I insane?  I thought Christianity was “turning the other cheek.”  I thought it was “love your neighbor”, “forgive”, and “they will know that we are Christians by our LOVE.”  I’m apparently wrong on all counts.  The Republican Party, the Christian Party, says I am.

These people are saying that abortion is wrong.  That it means killing children.  I don’t disagree with that.  But I also want our society to care about the children that already have been born.  Why are these Christians talking about cutting funds to education here in Texas where we are already near to last place in national rankings?  Why are they trying to close the clinics that also provide birth control to the poor, and pre-natal care?  Every baby has a right to life until they get born, and then they are screwed apparently.

As far as I can tell, there is no loony liberal left wing any more.  Moderates who used to be the center, are now the far left.  So, by remaining a moderate, being dedicated to the “middle way”, I have literally been forced to become a liberal.  If caring what happens to the poor, especially the working poor, and the mentally ill, and the sick who have no health insurance, and teachers like me who have to consider quitting because the atmosphere in schools is turning so toxic, political, and polarized, if all of that makes me a liberal, then okay.  I will be a liberal.  Conservatives are conservative because they want things to remain the same.  If times are good, everyone should be a conservative.  But if times are as bad as I think they are, then everyone should be a liberal, because liberals are called liberals because they are looking for wholesale change.  Like most sharks, if we liberals don’t keep swimming against the current, we are all going to suffocate and die.

Sharks, monkeys, and loons… donkeys and elephants… politics has all gone to the animals.  Either that, or I have gone politically insane.

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Valerie Clarke, Iowa Girl

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My newest novel is called Snow Babies.  It is not published yet, but I am not worried.  It is the best thing I’ve ever written, and it will endure even if no one ever lowers themselves to actually reading it.  The portrait here is the main character, Valerie Elaine Clarke, the most beautiful girl ever born in Norwall, Iowa (the fictional version of the town I grew up in, rural, farm town, population 275).  She and her mother have moved to town and left farming behind because Valerie’s father… shudder… lost the farm for unpaid FHA loans, and then killed… but you don’t want to hear about that.  She is a vibrant, sassy, and open-hearted girl living in a 1984 world of skateboards, rock and roll, and stupid people that do all kinds of stupid things.  Right before the December blizzard hits, she sees a homeless wanderer, a hobo, on Main Street.  The guy doesn’t know a bad storm is coming.  He wears a jacket made of crazy quilt material, all colorful patches and quilted stitching.  Valerie can’t let the poor man freeze to death, can she?  And her and her mother live in a modest three-bedroom home even though there are only two people living there.  She will ask her mother if they can take him in during the storm, and maybe asked if she can keep him.

Silly, right?  I’ve told people that this is a comedy novel about freezing to death, complete with clowns.  But, to be honest, it’s probably more about not freezing to death, and how a small community can come together to face a big problem, namely, a killer of a blizzard.  So, if you like comedies laced with tragedy, filled with bad snow metaphors, and stupid people doing stupid things with consequences both good and bad, then you should be looking for the novel Snow Babies… or running away screaming… I know it’s one of those.

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I included a shot of my latest paffooney held by my daughter, the Princess.  Valerie is a combination of a girl I grew up with in Iowa, a girl I once taught in a small town in Texas, and a certain young lady who gets referred to repeatedly as “the Princess”.

 

 

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Poorly Explained Bob Transformations

 

 

I haven’t posted yet this week because I was in a blue funk about finances and the general rottenness of life. I have worked incredibly hard as a teacher for thirty years, and all I have to show for it is a mountain of debt and more bills than a flock of flamingos on steroids.  As a writer I have been paid twelve dollars so far for my writing.  Considering the time and effort and expense Imageto get it edited and published and marketed, I’m at about minus six thousand, nine hundred and eighty-eight dollars.  I have to admit, I was not my usual sarcastically cheerful self. I have always been a pessimist for optimistic reasons. By that I mean I always prepare for the worst, so that I end up prepared if the worst happens, and pleasantly surprised if it doesn’t. I find that usually the worst DOES happen, so I am never truly disappointed. I appreciate all the supportive comments from those out there in the blogosphere who actually read anything that I write, but you need not worry about resourceful ol’ Mike. I have already done some things about the problems. I got doctored up to the point that I was no longer missing days of work due to illness.  Cutting down on salary dockings because my six incurable diseases keep me out of the virulent Petri-dish that is the modern classroom has made a big difference.  I was losing $900 a month for the months of March and April. But my wife did summer school and I got some overtime by working an extra week in June, the only benefit I received all year for being ESL lead teacher (a job with lots of extra work attached, but NO extra pay).  Now we are not doomed to lose the house and cars until next Fall. In fact, we were able to pay off the eight-year-old Ford Freestyle, so we won’t lose that at all, or have any more payments on it, and we can live in it this coming winter after we lose the house. Of course, it will probably break down at any moment now that it is paid for. And there is no way on earth that we will be able to pay for gas without selling the kids into slavery. Doom still looms, though further in the future now. See, I planned that well. So, my complaints and self-pity aside, I do have a plan in a typical, practical Mike-manner. Now, all I have to do is avoid getting the bubonic plague and other common diseases from the classroom where I teach, and in typical, pessimistical Mike-manner, I will be completely back on track. That is to say, if I can properly explain the current transformation I am undergoing from Mike-ism to Bob-ism. I was infected by Bob-ism when I went to the Aldrich-Hinckley Reunion this summer up in Lake Cornelia Iowa. My cousin Bob was there, healthy and happy, and living the life of no worries… hakuna matata! So now I shall endeavor to explain this Mike to Bob lycanthropy that I seem to be suffering from.

Let me tell you first what it means to be a Mike. Mike is not actually the name that my parents gave me; that was Michael. Mike is not the way I think of myself, because that would be Mickey. Mike is simply a state of mind. It is a practical-as-dirt sort of down-home-country-boy and slightly-redneck-though-not-really-prejudiced state of mind. Mike is a farmhand name. Mike is a practical, no-nonsense, fix-the-tractor-and plow-the-dang-field sort of name. Mike recalls two-fisted Mike Hammer and many other two-fisted Mike-isms from pulp fiction, TV, and other blatantly two-fisted sillinesses. A Mike is a guy in a white t-shirt to show off muscles and almost-muscles. A Mike is a well-named action hero from the comic strips, or a thug from the comic books, and tends to have a crew cut and less brains than any Brian, Al, or Chet. In Dr. Seuss, Mike rides on the back of the ole bike so he can push it up hill. (At least they LIKE their Mike!) Mike also has an impishly playful side as we can see in Mickey (himself) McGuire and even Mickey Mouse. If you tell a Mike, “An asteroid is about to hit the Earth, and we are all gonna die!” he will answer, “Okay, but I’m gonna give it a good punch in the nose first!” (I know an asteroid has no nose, but it is what gets said anyway, because, well… I’m a Mike, that’s all.) So being a Mike is probably not such a bad thing to be, as opposed to being a Gary or a Stan. I could live with it, but I am not completely a Mike. I am developing definite Bob tendencies.

Bob-ism has just got to be explained at this point. Being a Bob is something the world barely tolerates, but desperately needs. Bob is NOT practical. Think of Bob Denver or Bob Keeshan. Bob is not wise. Think of Bob Barker or Bob Dole. You don’t laugh WITH a Bob, you laugh AT him. Bob Newhart never laughs at all, and he is definitely a funny ole Bob. Bob does not give in to hardships. Bob endures. No matter how many times Bob falls on his face, landing in Mary Ann’s coconut cream pie, or loses an election to some dang Democrat, or gets ping-pong balls dropped on his head by Mister Moose, Bob still keeps right on going and doing all sorts of Bob things. Bob is capable of sacrifice. Think of what Bobby Kennedy did for equal rights and to organized crime. And think of the price he paid for doing those things. (Yes, I know we’re talking “Bobby” here. Little Bobby-boy. But Bob is to Bobby as Mike is to Mickey.) There is something admirable about being a Bob, even though there’s also something rather sad about being a Bob. My Mike-muscles are sagging down into Bob-like table muscles now. My Mike-like sarcastic wit is now becoming more of a Bob-like roll of the eyes. People are not laughing WITH me any more, they are laughing AT me. And, Bob-like, I am relishing it. People are always ready to put up their dukes and take a swing at Mike. Just ask Mike Tyson. But a Bob is not nearly so tempting a target. People tend to feel sorry for ole Bob, because, well… after all, he is a Bob. So, from now on… put me down as a Bob. It’s a whole lot easier than trying to “Be like Mike”.

So, now I’m sure you understand my cloying self-pity and recent lack of wit. It has to be as clear to you now as it is to me. The cause of all my troubles has been being a Mike. To solve my problems, I will just be Bob.Image

 

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Snow Babies

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The day before yesterday I completed the book Snow Babies.  This is a novel I have been working on and off on since 1978.  It is a comedy about orphans freezing to death in a blizzard.  Not really funny you say?  Not packed full of yucks because of the orphan-dying thing?   Well, needless to say, no good comedy is free of tears, just as no tragedy works without its lighter moments and occasional jokes.  And did I tell you there are clowns?  I promise you clowns.

Now, if you are honest about it, you know clowns don’t all come in face paint.  Some are ordinary bumblers, schmucks, and goofy guys doing the bumbling, schmucky, goofy things that bumblers, schmucks, and goofy guys do every day.  You will notice them as easily as you notice them in Shakespeare’s works because they are always the ones taking the header center stage.  If you can’t tell the clowns, then maybe in a future novel I will put them in face paint.

There are scary things too in a good comedy.  I have witches, snow ghosts, and mysterious strangers in my story.    It’s part of that Midwest heritage where we Iowegians go slightly insane because of the long cold winters and the lack of citified entertainments.  Give a yokel or a hick from the sticks enough time to sit and diddle, and you will get weird stories.  How else do you explain how a dude from Kansas named L. Frank Baum could come up with a wonderful world like Oz?

So now that I’ve told you all these wonderful, interesting, and goofy things about the book I just wrote, let me pop your bubbles with the publication pin.  I have not got it published yet.  And I am looking for a better deal than last time around, because it’s an even better book.

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D&D Gallery Two

I have spent a good many hours over the years painting metal miniatures and drawing illustrations for the old Dungeons and Dragons game.   I love it, and simply can’t stop.  So now I will inflict more colored pencil foofram on you…

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Whitebeard began as a rumor, a character’s father who had long been lost at  sea, a ship’s magical artificer who used wands and energy tools to make practical magic flow through the ship, a man with many secrets and a dark, buried past.

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Of course, I borrow heavily and steal like a pirate to create characters.  These two came from a cartoon show on Cartoon Network, a roguish waif and his blue goblin crony.

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And there have to be bad guys.  This sinister sightless mage came from a published adventure in Dungeon magazine.  I heavily modified him and gave him powers the original author never intended.

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These two are mirror people, having been trapped in a magic mirror for over a hundred years, a gold-digger barbarian wench and her actor/suitor who turned out to be a werewolf. The players in D&D can always be tricked into releasing the baddies just when you need them in the on-going story of sword and sorcery.

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D&D Gallery

Here are a few D&D character portraits created for my home campaign with my two sons and one daughter.

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Dungeons and Dragons

Back in 1982 I first started dungeon mastering for my younger brother and two sisters.  We bought a family set with both the red book and blue book.  It was the beginning of a lifelong love of storytelling games.  You can’t give fanboy dynamite to an Ubernerd and not expect some kind of big old explosion.

The thing that caught me so completely was the way that you could share the development of the characters and story, everybody at the table adding their two cents until you had a whole lot more than six cents… More like priceless.  And you never knew for sure how it would turn out, no matter how much you planned the plot and plotted the plan.  Events could turn out entirely opposite to what they should have, and inspiration on the spot could alter the essential course of a campaign.

In the beginning it was all about wizards.  The original game featured power that left wizards weak and vulnerable in the beginner levels, but fearsome with fire-balling ferocity after only a few levels of experience.  My brother’s wizard, LeRoy became powerful enough to make himself the king of all of Balindale.  When the dungeon master raised up armies of undead and ogres and undead ogres to bedevil old LeRoy, the bearded Lord of Balindale could simply summon meteors from the sky and burn them to the ground.  If I presented him with rival wizards who had armies and kingdoms of their own, he pulled a fast one and used his diplomatic dipsy-doo to make them into allies… even the evil ones.  He convinced them to sign treaties with him and eventually to accept him as their sovereign lord.  Thus the Wizard Ganser from mighty Gansdorf was tamed and turned.  When the evil Morgo refused to cooperate, Ganser and his army helped to invade and destroy the Kobold Kingdom.

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So stories came to be dominated by wizards and wizard personalities.  And then I began recruiting former students to play the game.  The personalities changed.  Goofy Gomez chose to be the wizard, the typical classroom clown who could never do anything straight.  Armando Coronado, a particularly destructive personality, also took up the way of magic with Asduel the Sorcerer.   So in some games, Asdok the Bumbling made jokes and got his fellow adventurers into situations where only the last minute appearance of a kindly, all-powerful Titan could keep them from being roasted in a pot with carrots and potatoes.  In other games, Asduel the Merciless burned cities and castles, made orphans into servants and slaves, and generally frowned quite a lot when the dungeon master  suggested that some Non-player characters needed to be spared or the over-all adventure would be lost for all players.

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So, because of the power of wizards, we all learned that stories could be easily unbalanced and abused by the personalities in them.  We learned how important it was to learn to work together.  When Hogan, the Knight of Tol Arriseah, and Sin Gard, the fighter of the many magic swords got sick of old Asduel, they let the bullywugs and locathah of Eary Marsh first take him prisoner, and then roast and eat him with carrots and potatoes.   And when Asdok the Bumbling set fire to the base of the tower in which he was trying to wring the treasure from the top, trapping his little thief friend, Artran the Halfling up there with him in the body of the ugly girl he had turned him into with a polymorph spell, they allowed him to take a ride in the tower-turned-skyrocket into another dimension entirely.

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Dungeons and Dragons taught us that the difference between good and evil can be learned.   We learned that hitting your problems with a sword or dropping a fireball on top of them did not always solve them.   We learned to negotiate, to feel what others feel, and how to become a different person than the one you are.  I truly believe that the most important lessons you can learn about life can be learned playing D&D.  Morality, camaraderie, and cooperation are not really taught in school, but they can be taught in D&D.

And now I play Dungeons and Dragons with my own children.  How better to get to know them and mold their characters?  How else can you let them learn why you shouldn’t blow up your neighbors or slay your uncle with an axe except in an imaginary world where the ultimate oops can be fixed with a lawful-good cleric who knows a convenient raise the dead or resurrection spell?

So now I can officially post my Paffooney where Samosett the girl archer and little Prince Robin have murdered Unkel the Magical Ogre to get his chest full of treasure.  Oh, I shouldn’t forget Boffin and Bimbur the dwarves.  They are the ones that brought the group through the Wilderness of Zekk to find Old Unkel’s tower.

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Welcome to the Monkey House (Unfortunately, not by Kurt Vonnegut)

In my effort to create a proper field guide to all the critters and flitters and animals you find in the modern schoolroom, I can’t neglect to talk about the Monkey House.  I was, after all, a middle school teacher for 24 of my 30 years in teaching.  One simply cannot take that many blows to the back of the head from spit-wads and other assorted classroom projectiles without going a little bit ape-happy.  (I once knew an eighth grade science teacher who liked to use the ape-happy expression to describe student behavior.  But he didn’t actually say “happy”.  He substituted the magic s-word.  It is magic because no matter how many times the teacher hears, or over-hears, or gets assaulted by that word in the classroom, the teacher can never say it himself… It will make him disappear… permanently.  I know it’s true.  It happened to my friend the science teacher.)  Sorry, I digress sometimes.  Too many spit-wads to the back of the head.

In the Monkey House, especially the seventh grade version of it, there are certain essential behavioral characteristics that you have to be aware of.  First of all, and with malice aforethought, the monkeys like to throw poop.  Now, I don’t mean that literally… (Although in one case I remember about fourteen years ago…  No, wait, I don’t really want to go back there again.)  It is only in the figurative sense.  The monkeys have big monkey eyes.  They see everything.  And what they see, they will TELL you about… in all capital letters.  If your fly is open, especially if you’re the teacher, they will tell you about it, loudly, “YOUR FLY IS OPEN!” at precisely the same moment that the gung-ho lady principal and the curriculum director with the scary glare walk in together to view this innovative teaching style they’ve heard so much about in faculty lounge.  In a Texas Monkey House like the ones I’ve taught in, kids will tell each other to be quiet in the rudest possible way in the loudest possible voice.  They say it Spanish, which of course, both the principal and the curriculum director spoke as their first language.  They say it in words that literally mean “shut your dog-mouth”.  And they add the magic p-word in Spanish for good measure.  (The students will all tell you that the magic p-word really just means “stupid person”, but to translate it more accurately, it means “one who routinely thinks only with that body part that only boys have access to”, or possibly, “your brains are full of poop!”)  And they don’t only throw their poop out of their mouths.  They can also fling it with fingers, especially that one magic finger, but also in rude gestures, using both hands, the elbow, and even throwing around gang signs that can get you killed in the wrong parts of San Antonio or Dallas.

The second behavioral characteristic in the Monkey House is the ability to be the dumbest dumb monkey in the classroom.  Nobody wants to be smart.  That is the kiss of death.  Bullies beat you relentlessly throughout the school day and for the rest of your natural life (as short as that will probably be) if they learn that you are a smart monkey.  Even the girl monkeys adhere to this rule.  To be smart makes you a “teacher’s pet” and a potential stool pigeon.  To be smart makes you radioactive, and likely to get anyone around you killed as well.  A smart girl will never have the necessary boy friend because what boy wants to hang around with a girl that knows too much and can probably out-think him?    A smart boy had better keep his head down, and in the classroom, his hand down.  The universal truth is this… the big monkeys EAT the smart monkeys.

The third, but most important characteristic in the Monkey House is that somebody has to love the monkeys.  Monkeys don’t thrive in a pack, or left to their own devices.  They don’t just live in the Monkey House at school.  Their home life is just as crazy.  The monkeys at home throw just as much poop, and they also EAT the smart monkeys (all in capital letters… truly).  Somebody has to be willing to talk to the monkeys, to learn their language… to deal with them one on one.  They need somebody to understand them and sympathize with their horrible monkey lives.  Somebody has to show them how not to be a monkey… even if they’re one of the big ones who eat other monkeys.  Monkeys have value.  They make you laugh and they make you cry.  (Sorry.  I didn’t mean to make you cry too.  You weren’t ever a monkey, were you?)  So you teach in the Monkey House and the principal doesn’t fire you for having no proper classroom discipline and for having monkeys who misbehave, because if the principal is any good at her job, she realizes that you are the kind of teacher who loves the monkeys and the monkeys need you.

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A Busy Day Off… World (A short short Paffooney)

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Commander Biznap was the most over-worked Telleron aboard Xiar’s mother ship.   Given the fact that he was the most competent spacer on board, in fact the ONLY competent spacer on board, it was easy to understand why.

Corebait was gone.  The foolish Fmoogian foul-up had gone and disintegrated himself while on Earth using a skortch pistol and an Earther mirror.  That meant no one on board was competent enough to do the astrogation calculations it was necessary to complete for the Tellerons to travel from the ancient Mars Base back to Barnard’s Star where their orbital living complex was located.  It was very possible the entire crew would have to learn to live on the space cruiser in orbit around some other fool planet in this solar system. 

“If you don’t want to live on Earth, dearest,” said Harmony Castille, Biznap’s new Earther “wife”, “then maybe we should just live on Mars.  There’s a perfectly good planetary base there.”

“You must forgive me, honey, but I don’t want to live anywhere even remotely near your people.”  Biznap’s frown told it all.  He had learned to love this woman of another species.  Now that he had used the de-evolutionizer to make the old Sunday School teacher young again, she was ravishingly beautiful… so much so that Bizzy had decided to take up the same strange Earth custom that had so appealed to Captain Xiar and his new Telleron wife Shalar, and married her, binding her to him for the remainder of their lives together, however many centuries that would be.  But Earth people were strange primates with such weird customs.  They didn’t eat their own young, but they ate meat, even (shudder) frog legs.  They used machines on a regular basis, but they also relied on muscles and physical labor far more than any Telleron could stomach.  And since they didn’t absorb moisture through their skin like a Telleron, they preferred dry rooms and refused to run about the spaceship naked the way Tellerons preferred to.  Harmony insisted that Biznap wore clothes at all times, except when they actually had time to be intimate.  She was a bit of a prude.

“Well, what will we do, then, if we don’t find a way to get back to your Bernie’s Star?”

“Barnard’s Star,” corrected Biznap.  “You people named it, after all.”

“Okay, okay.  But it will just be living on a space station, won’t it?”

“Um… yeah…  The artificial swamp in the interior is very realistic, though.”

“Wouldn’t it be better to live with real ground under our feet?  I mean, I think I’m going to miss the birds singing in the early morning, and the lovely fall colors of maple trees.”

“I really don’t think so.  I mean, I don’t even know what those things are.”  Being a Telleron who had lived his entire life aboard some form of space vehicle, and her being a planet-raised monkey-person instead of a proper amphibianoid, might just not have been ideal for getting “married”.  Bizzy loved her bare legs and the wonderful Earther invention known as “breasts”, but did that really make up for having to live your love-life with an alien monkey-person?

“Look here, Bizzy.  You forgot to carry the one in this equation.”

Biznap looked down at the tablet computer.  “I think I know a little more about Sleer Mechanics and Advanced Sylvanian Geometry, thank you.  …Oh, look at that.  I, um, forgot to carry the one.”

“Does that help our problem?” she said sweetly.  “I mean, the same mistake is right here in Corebait’s old equations?”

“Yes… yes, I think our problem is solved!  The numbers match and flow properly for a change.  Thank you, dearest one.  Now we must try it.”

Biznap went to the primary jump control board and began inputting the numbers just as Harmony had corrected them.  The machine purred and glowed with its inherent bioluminescence.  It was a happy machine for the first time since Biznap could remember.  It chugged and farted, and then they were physically lifted through space and time and light-years of travel.  Suddenly a planet appeared on the view screen.

“Oh, no!” gasped Biznap.

“What’s the matter?” asked his lady love, gaping at the blue, green, and brown ball of dirt slowly rotating in space before them.

“This is Galtorr Prime!  The one planet in the area of the Telleron Empire that’s more dangerous than Earth!”

“It’s that bad?” asked the clueless Sunday School teacher.

“They are reptile-men!  With big teeth!  And they’re more aggressive than humans.  If they ever learn space travel, we’re DOOMED!”

“Yep,” she said.  “Maybe we don’t want to live here either.”

Biznap smiled a crazy smile.  A thought had occurred to him.  Living on Galtorr Prime couldn’t be any more difficult than being married…

 

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The Making of Paffoonies

ImageAs creative projects go, I think the best ones I am currently undertaking are the Paffoonies. These, of course, are the colored-pencil and ink cartoon-o-matic creations that come out of my fevered little-boy mind as it has been stretched and contorted to fit into my old-man brain.  

There are rules to this stupid creation game.  First of all, a Paffooney must tell a story and have a piece of writing to go with it.  Naturally, though, the picture must come first.  The tortured elements of the Sci-fi or Fantasy that comes out of it result from the need to explain every oddity, punkitation, and warped perception that went into the picture.  I draw pictures from dreams.  I also draw from the monkey-shine metaphors that well up in my overly-wordy conscious mind.  I do not take drugs to accomplish this.  I do not drink alcohol.  I am on numerous medications for numerous medical conditions… but I like to think there is no pharmacological element to my creativity.  I am just your basic goofy old man with an exploding right brain.

You remember the writing that went with the first Paffooney in this post, don’t you?  If not, you can still see the post here on WordPress where I wrote a poem that convicts  the average school teacher of being a serious clown and puppet master.  Some Paffoonies are poetic in nature.  Others require a piece of fiction, like the one I wrote about Mai Ling’s encounter with the plant people of the planet Cornucopia.  Here is a another version of it…..Image

So, a Paffooney is a creative project, a game, an exercise if you will, that will hopefully make me a better story-teller, writer, and cartoonist.   I hope to post a lot of them on the web.  So-called social media marketing experts tell me this kind of thing will get you, dear reader and viewer, to buy my book Catch a Falling Star, a sort of extended Paffooney of its own.   The theory is, if you like the stuff I give away for free in these posts, you will want to actually pay money to see more of what I can do.  I really think that is a big black Hoo-Ha, though, as I have not seen any evidence that social media marketing experts know anything more about marketing than I do.  Are they really worth that expensive salt I put on their tails to trap them into to telling me their secrets and lies?

Ah, well…  here is one last Paffooney that does not yet have a story to go along with it.  At least, I am not aware of a story yet.  Hmm, I think something is coming to me even as I post this picture.

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