Tag Archives: paffooney

Fiascoes in Gingerbread

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I believe I did warn you that I had serious Gingerbread House plans.  I had high hopes and spent more money on it than I should have.  Such is life in Mickey World.  But I had a plan, and not even disaster was going to stop me.  And it didn’t.

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I didn’t intentionally choose a time when Mom was away, but maybe that was at least subconsciously a factor.  You see, as sober Jehovah’s Witnesses we are not allowed to celebrate Christmas.  And no one says gingerbread is specifically Christmassy.  So we broke out the necessary supplies and started down paths of frosting and sugar plums.

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I warned them that the main objective was to write a blog post.  The Princess broke out a fake smile for the occasion, but Henry decided to duck out of pictures to the best of his ability.  Hands are okay, I guess.

We proceeded with great care according to my evil plan.  And everything seemed to be going well.  Of course, da Momma had to show up to say, “What’s this?  You’re celebrating Christmas?”

“No, Mom,” we all lied.

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It was really starting to look like a success.  But Mom started eating building supplies.  And the whole thing was constructed according to directions, so the weight of the heavily frosted and decorated roof was supported only on the strength of quick-drying frosting that didn’t really dry fast enough.  The dream began to slowly slide apart.

Furious finger supports became absolutely necessary.  We battled to keep it from slipping apart into sugary oblivion.  But what could we ultimately do?  One final picture before the inevitable maybe?

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And then… the end.

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Ah… Phoobah!

But, I think in looking back on it, even though clean-up would prove nearly fatal for old diabetic me… it was a success.  We got away with a bit of Christmas.  My family (except for Dorin who is away this holiday overseas with the Marine Corps) got to spend some quality time together.  We got to make something we were proud of, if only momentarily.  And we had enormous amounts of fun and laughter.  The best things in life are like that.  They are only with us for a moment.  But the memory is a treasure to keep for a lifetime.

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Humbuggery

Technically I am not supposed to be celebrating Christmas.  Jehovah’s Witnesses have institutionalized “Bah, Humbug” and made it a religious offense to celebrate Christmas or any other birthdays.  And I have not yet been disfellowshipped from the JW religion.  That is, however, a mere oversight on their part.  They have not read this blog enough to be offended with my worldly views.  I have suggested here that I am a Christian existentialist… something that any JW who understands what that philosophical term means would call an atheist.

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Fozzie tells really bad jokes, which isn’t necessarily irredeemable, but Alf not only tells bad jokes, he also eats cats. How can they be saved by religion?

I definitely understand why atheists avoid proactive religions like the Witnesses.  For one thing, JW’s believe in the redeem-ability of the human race.  Open the door, listen to the proselytizer’s mini-sermon, read the infallible Bible verse, and paradise in an everlasting life on Earth is yours for the taking.  So, get out there and knock on some doors with a Bible in your book bag!  These redeemable Texans whose doors they knock upon being the same ones that have the police arrest Muslim clock-making teens for showing their project to a teacher, and throw hungry school children’s lunches in the trash in front of their friends if they owe $1.70 over the limit for their reduced lunches.  These redeemable Texans are also the ones who sent Ted Cruz to the US Senate and may help elect him president.  Despicable is too good a word for that type of human being… unless Sylvester the cat is the one saying it with extra sloppy spray coming out of the sides of his mouth.

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I confess that I have been working on a comedic science-fiction novel about a planet-wide civilization destroying itself for greed and despicableness.   I even put Ted Cruz in that story as lizard-man alien (which I am not sure if it is an insult or a complement to Cruz).  I also idolize Mark Twain, and often wonder if he isn’t right about the “damned human race”, and how Noah should’ve let them drown.  So I should be embracing humbuggery for so many reasons…

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Senator Tedhkruzh, the lizard-man from the doomed planet Galtorr Prime.

But today I re-connected on Facebook with a former student from not so long ago.  Ronan Pablomia was an ESL student from the streets of Manila in the Philippines.  As a teacher, I normally love students, even the stinky ones, and I tried for three years to get through to this kid.   He was repeatedly in fights in school with other students.  He was disruptive in the classroom, saying intentionally horrible and insane things during class.  He was probably an un-diagnosed bipolar person, but he was definitely diagnosed as having a learning disability and a rage disorder.  He was hostile and made life so miserable for his classmates that they begged both the principal and me to expel his sorry behind from our high school.

Today he had the remarkable good sense to tell me on Facebook that I was the best teacher ever.  He said he finally acknowledged his fighting problem and got help (after getting out of jail).  He has a job now and is helping to support his parents.  He apologized for how stupid he acted in class, and I ended up reminding him that the best students are the ones that learned the most.  He was not the smartest kid ever, but he was bright, and if he has learned to control his bipolar temper, he definitely qualifies as one of kids who came the farthest down the learning path, and probably learned the most after all.

So Ronan gave me an excellent and unexpected Christmas gift.  He added one more hint that my career as a teacher was not in vain, and three years worth of patience and suffering did not go for nothing, even though he never graduated high school.  Maybe the aggressive and carnivorous primates that populate this planet are not all that irredeemable after all.  So have a happy Christmas.  Frohe Weinachten.  Feliz Navidad.  And God bless us, every one.

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A Miss Morgan Sampler

Miss Morgan one

 

I told you yesterday the wonderful news about my novel, Magical Miss Morgan.  Since I am still celebrating that, I thought I would share a little peek into that competition novel.  This is chapter two, called a canto in Mickey-speak.  And though it is not the first chapter, it is the place where the largest pile of main characters are introduced.  Chapter one is full of fairies mucking about and searching for a human to help save their kind.

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Canto 2 – Miss Morgan’s Class

“All right, kiddie-winkies,” said Miss Morgan, “now that we have the space for our talking circle created, we must take off our shoes and socks.  Bare feet only!”

“Why must we do that, Miss M?” asked Blueberry Bates, a cute little brown-eyed girl with a very concerned scowl.

Miss Morgan loved the Six-Twos better than any of her other classes… and that was saying something because she really loved them all.  Six-Two, however, had the most Norwall kids in it of all her classes, and Norwall kids were a little more imaginative and empathetic than the Belle City kids, or the Goodwell kids, or the Klemmens kids.  Those other little towns were charming, but not nearly so wondrous.  Besides, she had once been a Norwall kid herself.  It was a very special little Iowa farm town to Miss Morgan, and it meant more to her than all the other three towns in the rural school district combined.

“Who can tell Blueberry why we have to have bare feet for this discussion?” Miss M asked the whole group.

“Well,” said Mike Murphy, a Norwall rapscallion and a Pirate, “we’re studying the Hobbit by Tolkien.   Hobbits all go barefoot all the time.”

“Very good, Michael.  He’s right.  But why does it help for us all to be barefoot?”

“Maybe it helps us feel like the main character Bilbo,” said Billy Klatthammer, the plump son of the Klemmens, Iowa farm implement king.

“Right.  But why is it important to feel like Bilbo?”

“He’s an every-man character,” said Frosty Anderson, a Norwall farm kid.  “We have to identify with him as we travel through the world of Middle Earth.  He’s supposed to be just like us.”

“My, my… Someone was listening when I was talking about the book yesterday.  Thank you very much, Forrest.”

“And I think,” said Barbie Andersen from Belle City, “that people are more sensitive when they are barefooted.   You want us to feel what Bilbo feels and think like Bilbo thinks.”

“That’s very good, Barbie.  I hadn’t thought of that.”

“The real reason,” said Tim Kellogg, Norwall boy and most difficult child in the class, “is that you like the smell of stinky feet.”

Everyone burst out in a belly laugh, including Miss Morgan.

“Okay,” said Miss Morgan, “Now that I can smell all of your stinky feet, I need you to gather around in a circle.  As we take on each question from the study guide, we will go around the circle and get an answer or a comment from each of you.  We will talk about each question until everyone has said at least one thing and we have made an agreement on what the best answer is.”

At that moment, the first-year teacher from next door appeared in the doorway.  “Miss Morgan,” said Miss Krapplemacher, “the noise from this classroom is eroding my standards of discipline again.”

“I’m sorry, Miss Abby,” said Miss Morgan, smiling and speaking through gritted teeth.  She resisted the urge to call her Miss Krabby, the way all Krabby’s science students did.  Miss Krabby insisted on a silent classroom and made students fill out worksheets all period.  “We will try to be quieter.  We are doing a discussion assignment, though.”

“Well, okay.  But stifle the laughing.  It’s hard to achieve serious learning with all the laughing going on next door.”

“We promise we will only talk about depressing things this period,” piped up Tim Kellogg.  “No more laughter this period.”

Bless the little black-hearted teacher’s kid.  Yes, Tim’s father was a teacher, one of the main reasons that Tim was difficult to handle.  Miss Morgan silently appreciated the imp with his special insight into teacher-buttons as Miss Krapplemacher made vibrating fists with both hands and stormed out.  Tim was Miss Krabby’s least favorite science student of all time.

*****

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I do promise you too that this book is a fairy tale as well as a story about being a school teacher in the United States.  I have included a Paffooney of Donner and Silkie in this post to show you what some of the main fairy characters look like.  You have to imagine them as less than three inches tall, however, because fairies are no longer big in the modern world.

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Wonderful News!

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My novel, Magical Miss Morgan, in manuscript form has made it to the final round in the Chanticleer Book Reviews’ novel-writing contest called the Dante Rossetti Awards for Young Adult Novels 2015.   It is listed as one of 29 finalists that have been identified so far, and this year the competition judges are still reviewing manuscripts for possible inclusion in the field of finalists.  The judging has actually run past the announcement deadline.  So it is a large field to compete against for the actual prizes, but it is a huge honor to make it this far.

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The Finalists Authors and Titles of Works that have made it to the Short-list of the Dante Rossetti 2015 Novel Writing Contest are as of Dec. 15, 2015. (Please check back often as we are still processing the Rossetti 2015 Finalists. We will add OFFICIAL FINALIST POSTING to this post when it is complete. Thank you for your understanding.)

  • Gail Selvig for O.W.L.S. and Other Creatures of the Night
  • Luke Evans for Hex
  • Jo Swanson for The Last Rodeo in Kingdom Come
  • Lis Anna-Langston for Tupelo Honey
  • KB Shaw for Neworld Series
  • Alix Nichols for What If It’s Love
  • Glen Alan Burke for Jesse
  • Ben Hutchins for Lackawanna
  • Jesse Atkin for  The Flying Man
  • Verity Croker for May Day Mine
  • Robert Joseph for Long Ago and Far Away
  • Aiden Riley for The Red
  • Pamela Beason for Race with Danger
  • Melissa A. Craven for  Emerge: The Awakening
  • Nikki McCormack for The Girl and the Clockwork Cat
  • Patrick Hodges for Joshua’s Island
  • Michael Burnam, MD for The Last Stop
  • Kathe Maguire for The Harriet Club
  • Suzanne de Montigny for The Shadow of the Unicorn II: The Deception
  • Laurisa White Reyes for Memorable
  • Mike Hartner for I, Mary: Book 3 in the Crofter Saga
  • Olivia Wildenstein for Ghostboy, Chameleon & the Duke of Graffiti
  • Suzanne de Montigny for The Shadow of the Unicorn II: The Deception
  • Stephanie DeLuca for Pilgrims 
  • Danielle Burnette for The Spanish Club
  • Cody Wagner for Camp NO Where – A Healing Home for Gay Kids
  • Michael Beyer for Magical Miss Morgan
  • Michael Sarrow for Mistress of Marrowglen

LIST TO CONTINUE — Thank you for your patience. We are working through the Dante Rossetti entries for 2015. 

This marks the second time one of my works has gotten this far in a writing contest.  In 2013 I was able to get my novel Snow Babies on an even shorter short list of finalists, though it did not win any of the available prizes.  But Snow Babies is now soon to be a real book published by PDMI LLC publishers.  I have hopes that before too much longer, Magical Miss Morgan will be too.

class Miss Mcover

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Crying All The Time

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The horrible truth is, life would not be very funny and filled with laughter if no one ever cried.  And I am not just saying that because saying something is its own opposite is a cheap way of sounding wise.  You honestly can’t be happy if you have never been sad.  Nothing makes you appreciate what you have more than the experience of pain and loss.  I call everything I write “humor” because I defend myself against the darkness with a wacky wit and an ability to laugh when I am in pain.  Some of the funniest men who ever lived were creatures of great sadness.  Robin Williams may have died of it.

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A beautiful portrait by artist Emily Stepp

And isn’t it true that the funniest movies are the ones that have at least one part of the story that makes you tear up?  I have been avoiding Downton Abbey even though my wife loves it, because I knew it was good enough to make me cry… a lot.  My wife makes fun of me when movies make me cry… or TV shows… or television commercials during the Superbowl.  She grins at me while tears are gushing.  And therein lies a connection between laughing and crying.  At least somebody gets a laugh out of the pain from a sensitive heart.

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So, you may have noticed that I confessed to avoiding Downton Abbey.  But I must also confess that I gave in.  She is watching every episode from the beginning in preparation for the final season coming up.  She made me watch it with her.  That goofy British soap opera set a hundred years ago is most definitely a comedy.  It is a comedy of manners.  Servants versus the upper class.  Scheming footmen like Thomas Barrows are almost cartoon villains as they plot their nearly infinite schemes of advantage and subterfuge.  You laugh when karma catches up to them, and they take a beating or lose their job.  And yet, like soap opera villains of the past, they never stay defeated.  Thomas found a coward’s way out of World War One and made his way back into the good graces of the Crawley family, achieving a higher rank in the staff than he had before.  And Dame Maggie Smith as Dowager Lady Grantham is the scathing-est of wits, surprising us with her shallow upper-class prejudices one moment, and showing a depth of humanity and compassion the next.  It is a comedy in that it plays off the soap opera form with exquisite self awareness.  But it drops the bottom out from under your feet constantly.  You fall directly into the tiger-traps of tragedy.  I cried when favorite characters died, like when Lady Sybil unexpectedly dies in childbirth, and when Matthew Crawley is killed in a car accident immediately after the birth of his long-awaited son.  When Valet John Bates goes to prison for murder though his first wife actually committed suicide, I became a fountain of gushing tears.  I cried again when he got out of prison.  I cried when his wife Anna was raped by a visiting lord’s valet.  And as that part of the plot works itself out in the next few episodes, I’m sure I’ll cry again.  My wife has been having a barrel full of belly laughs at my expense.  But because I have struggled through the depths of personal pain with these characters, and love them like they were real people, I laugh all the harder at their wit and ready comebacks and ultimate victories.  The only difference between a comedy and a tragedy is the comedy’s happy ending.

So I will continue to laugh and cry and call everything I write humor.  Forgive me when I’m not so funny.  And laugh with me sometimes, too.  Even laugh at me… because that’s laughter too.

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Filed under humor, Mickey, Paffooney, review of television, Uncategorized

The Devil in the Details

There tends to be a good reason behind certain expressions.  Let me take a moment to explain it to you in the vaguest sort of way meant to protect the innocent, the privacy of the sufferer, and my privacy, and yet still get at that little old devil who is making my life a living hell.

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The problem stems from factors beyond my control, and the mental health of a family member who is not me, but I am responsible for paying for, because I can clearly see what the problem is (as can doctors and licensed practitioners)  while other members of my family (mainly for religious reasons) can’t see.  And, of course, you can imagine who the insurance company, who is supposed to pay for at least part of it, wants to believe.  I am the one who sat through the day in the ER two years ago, giving the best support and care I could while footing the bill.  (The truth is, Jehovah’s Witnesses have a complicated time in the ER because they don’t accept blood transfusions, and they worry about the practice of Psychiatry leading to some kind of evil mind control.)  In the ER it was determined for the sake of safety and protection of the patient, we needed to be sent to a psychiatric hospital.  Of course, the insurance gets to tell you where and what doctors you can work with, so we were sent to University Behavioral Health Hospital in Denton, the one facility that my family has determined CANNOT perform any more services for my family on pain of religious condemnation and angry black stares that ripple through time from then to now.    A weeks’ worth of time in UBH, determined by UBH to maximize profits, led to a bill of over a thousand dollars payable by me.  That, added to my own medical bills (from six incurable diseases) and the bill from the ER that the insurance pays less than half of because of deductibles, added up to a debt that maxed out my credit cards and brought me to the brink of bankruptcy. (A thing I narrowly avoided by engaging a lawyer for debt-reduction services).   I was forced to retire from teaching at that point because the time away from my job for the family member’s illness, plus the work missed from my own illnesses, was reducing my income to the point that I might’ve owed the school money at the end of every working month otherwise.  I was fortunate to have enough years in service to have a good pension.

Now, of course you know that mental health conditions aren’t the kind of thing that goes away by taking a pill… or even a hundred different pills.  It requires constant monitoring, prescribing, and proper therapy.  UBH will not even release a patient unless you can prove that you have set up appointments with both a psychiatrist and a therapist.  We found excellent ones of each.  But, of course, along comes the insurance company to have their say.  (This insurance company shall remain nameless… but it rhymes with FAetna… and that is not a capitalization error, no matter what the spell-checker says.)  We lost the services of one of the best adolescent psychiatrists in North Texas because he refuses to take the crappy insurance.  I don’t blame him.  I blame him less now that I know so many more of the devilish details than I did then.  So, I tried to replace the good doctor.  I called the insurance provider for a list of doctors we could use.  I was given only two names.  The first doctor, a well-respected lady psychiatrist, let us make an appointment.  When I was filling out the required paperwork in the office on the day of the visit, we were informed that due to a technicality, the only way we could see that doctor would be to pay 100% 0f the bill.  The receptionist graciously let us end the appointment without charging us the late-cancellation fee.  We went to the other doctor, one that had unpleasant memories of my family from UBH, and were rejected by the doctor.  So… no psychiatrist anywhere in the State would treat my family ever again thanks to the crappy insurance.  (I tried to think of another adjective besides “crappy” to use here, but couldn’t think of any I could use that would not melt my keyboard.)

Now, recently, we have lost our only other professional help.  We had been seeing the excellent therapist weekly for over two years.  Previous insurance had no problem paying for the preventive services he provided.  I got by with a simple co-pay every week.  But when we had to transition to crappy FAetna, a stealth problem occurred.  Apparently there was a form that needed to be filled out to transfer the payment obligation from one provider to the next.  The form had an expiration date on it that absolved the crappy insurance from any payments at all once it was passed.  They, of course, did not tell the poor therapist about the existence of this critical document until long after the expiration date.  All claims during that time were recently nullified and payments denied.  We actually owe the doctor doing the therapy well over a thousand dollars. But he knows we can’t afford it, and he feels bad that it was caused by an error that was technically his.    We are still trying to dipsy-doodle through the nightmare health-care system to find needed services.  I have had my fill.  I don’t try to call Satan’s member-services department for the crappy insurance any more.  They won’t tell me the truth, and they won’t do anything helpful… only things that are harmful.

If I were to go to the main offices of FAetna Crappy Insurance Corporation, I would fully expect the front doors to be guarded by a massive three-headed dog-thingy.  The receptionists would all be red-skinned succubi with fangs and horns.  You would have to descend in an elevator to the Pit of Hell to see any of their superiors… You know, like Beelzebub, Asmodeus, and Lucifer.  Apparently all the premiums we pay to health insurance companies entitle us only to arguments with intractable employees who don’t even know what the word “approved” means.  So, the Devil is indeed using the details to rule in Hell… and he is doing a Helluvah job.

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Flu Season

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The very real possibility exists that it is illness that will end me.  I have six incurable diseases (diabetes, arthritis, COPD, hypertension, psoriasis, and an enlarged prostate).  I am also a cancer survivor (malignant melanoma in 1983).  My fragile, diseased body is like a house made of straw, and the Big Bad Wolf came knocking at my door yesterday.

The Girl with the Red Bird

My daughter, the Princess, came home from school yesterday noon with the flu.  She moaned and cried and was burning with fever.  She vomited on the bathroom floor.  Of course, the retired guy who stays home all day is the one who had to tend her and clean up after her.  But he is also the one most at risk of dying from the flu or from pneumonia as a side-effect of the flu.  I am the son of a registered nurse who worked in the ER and still gives excellent medical advice.  I have been taught how to care for the sick with proper precautions.  The poor Princess is already feeling better today after the overnight miracle of Theraflu.  I am no longer worried for her.  Now it is me that is at risk.

I identify myself with the cardinal.  Yes, the bird is the mascot of my favorite sports teams.  But it is more than that.  It is the resolute little bird who doesn’t fly away when the winter comes..  No flying south with the snowbirds when the world is covered in pure, white, cleansing snow.  It stays through the ice and cold to watch over its personal territory.  But it is not invulnerable to the ravages of winter.  Many of its bright red and pugnacious kind succumb finally to old age and the cold, and die in winter.  But I have no regrets.  If the final winter has come… well, I cannot exactly say I have no regrets, because I have goofed up a lot over rime… but I am satisfied.  If my life has to be complete from this moment, then it is a good life, well-lived.  And I am satisfied.

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The Underdog

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Yesterday I failed to add to the list of magical powers I possess the ability to make football teams lose.  I have always believed that all I have to do is root for a team to win and they will lose.  I have tested out this power thoroughly over the years.  Through most of my life I thoroughly detested the Dallas Cowboys.  I hated the way they always seemed to have the advantage, the way they would always injure players on my favorite teams and force them out of football for the rest of the season, and they would always win.  Even after moving to Texas and, still rooting for the St. Louis Cardinals even after they moved to Arizona, I rooted against the Cowboys in every game they played.  I am amazed that they didn’t go undefeated for three decades.  But a little miracle called “General Manager Jerry Jones” happened to the Cowboys.  I moved to Dallas at a time when the team was being dismantled and dismembered by a magical ability of Jerry’s that seems very similar to my own.  The Cowboys became the underdog.  So much so that I actually began to root for them when they were not playing the Cardinals.  This, of course, magnified Jerry’s magical gifts tenfold.  The Cowboys became the same kind of perennial losers the Cardinals had always been.

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So, you can easily see that I am one of those superstitious nerd-body nincompoops who always pulls for the underdog.  I admit to helping the Boston Redsox win their first World Series at the end of “Babe Ruth’s Curse”.  Those perennial also-rans benefited from playing my beloved Cardinals’ baseball team.  So I rooted against them fiercely, and they won.  In fact, underdogs sometimes win even in spite of magical ability.  Some times they just have to win.  In 2006 the Cardinals won the World Series on the strength of Chris Carpenter’s throwing arm and Albert Pujols’ bat, along with a team of underdogs and ne’er-do-wells who all played far above themselves.  I rooted for them every step of the way.  And we lost some battles, but we won the war.  Such is the way it must be in this world.  The ultimate victory belongs to the Underdog, the unlikely superhero that is sometimes confused with a flying frog.

The football Arizona Cardinals came through for me again in the same way last night.  They were up against another good team in the Minnesota Vikings.  And in spite of the fact that I was rooting for them every step of the way, I saw them pull victory from the jaws of imminent defeat.  With mere seconds left, they created a fumble and recovered it, preventing a game-tying field goal that was practically in the bag.  The Cardinals are now in the playoffs with an 11 and 2 record, poised to make another run at the Superbowl.  That may not seem like an underdog to you, but if you look back over the years of rooting for a team that was often the butt of jokes and were usually losers like the current Cowboys are, then you can see that these are underdogs at the end of a long, long uphill climb.  And aren’t we all like that most of the time?  Aren’t we all climbing the mountainside in spite of numerous avalanches, storms, and falls?

Listening to the radio station KLUV doing their annual radiothon for Children’s Hospital while taking my daughter to school this morning, I heard the heartbreaking story of a little boy who is both autistic and epileptic.  Apparently he collapsed in school, and when taken to Children’s ER, was found to have leukemia as well.  I had to stop the car and cry for ten minutes.   It never seems fair to have to listen to stories like that.  You want to help the underdog to win.  But you feel totally powerless.  I don’t have enough money to pay my own medical expenses, and my daughter had to come home early with a fever.  But believe me, I had to donate $20 to Children’s Hospital.  It is a tiny, meaningless amount… but the magic is in the doing and the believing.  I will continue to use my goofy magic to the very best of my ability.

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Gosh I Love Maps!

There are so many places in this world (or maybe out of this world) to visit and become a part of, that it really helps to have a map to navigate the places (especially imaginary places) with the mind’s blurry eye.

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If you are ever lifted up into the stratosphere in your house by a twister, bonked on the head so you see wicked witches flying on brooms, and set down in a place filled with magical dwarfs called Munchkins… the above map might prove very useful.  I found it’s like as a kid to be thoroughly helpful as I read not only Frank L. Baum’s first book, but also his second and fifth books.  It really helps to know where you are in Oz.

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Edmond Hamilton’s hero, Captain Future, needed a map of worlds like Futuria as well as Mars, the Moon, and Venus in his 1940’s Science Fiction Adventures from Captain Future Magazine.

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This is Fritz Lieber’s city of Lankhmar where giant Fafhrd and the Gray Mouser commit numerous acts of stealing, wenching, fighting and drinking.  A map like this would help them in their many dealings with wizards, magicians, and strange beings.

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This map could easily prove to be the salvation of Robert E. Howard’s hero, Conan the Barbarian.  The well-traveled Conan was a peerless fighter, but not much of a thinker.  So barring the odd smart girlfriend and witty, fast-talking sidekick, Conan couldn’t do without it.20151209_110653

This whole map thing was inspired by this old book that I have thumbed through so much the pages are falling out.  It contains maps of Middle Earth, Pern, Pellucidar, Atlantis, the planet Arrakis from Dune, and Narnia.

It is now the inspiration for my holiday art project.  I will create my own imaginary map from my hometown novels, a map of Norwall, Iowa, that will include the homes of many characters, fairy battlefields and secret lairs, the Gingerbread House where the witch lives, and more.  As you can see… I have only just begun.

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The Current State of My World

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I am busy reinventing myself.  There are things that have to get done.  I have to raise my finances phoenix-like from the abyss I found myself in three years ago after five hospital trips in five years devastated my bank accounts and credit rating at the same time I was forced to retire from my teaching career by health problems.  I went through a debt-reduction program with the advice of a law firm in California that has helped me reconcile 35,000 dollars worth of credit card debt.  I am nearing the end of that painful belt-tightening process, which can be likened to putting a pumpkin in a vice and cranking the handle tighter than you ever believed was possible, and I did not pop the pumpkin.

Health matters are better too.  I am farther away from doom’s ultimate doorway than I was when I retired.  No longer teaching has kept me from getting the four cases of the flu yearly that I had become accustomed to when I was in the germ-filled giant Petri  dish commonly known as a public school classroom.  Lovely Aetna health insurance people decided they would no longer pay for my maintenance medications for diabetes, depression, blood pressure, and cholesterol, so I was forced to cut down and cut out medications.  Ironically, the less I take the meds, the better I feel.  Maybe… just maybe… I am not going to drop dead tomorrow.

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I am stuck indoors quite a lot, because COPD and not using an inhaler and sensitivity to every allergen in Texas makes for a less than wonderful outdoor experience.  So I have taken to reorganizing my library and various vast collections of junk.  I am rereading old and beloved books.  I am playing with my toys more than ever.  I am winning computer baseball games.  I just pitched another perfect game.

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I have been painting the house too, when the weather allows, making the outside of things look a little better too.  The football Cardinals have been winning.  And the Iowa Hawkeyes were perfect up until the narrow loss to Michigan State.  12-1 is still the best they have ever done.

I have recently been able to shave and look a little less Santa-like, though psoriasis is trying to peel my lower face away again, so I will probably be growing my author’s beard and Gandalf hair back again.  And I have completed collections and written up a storm.  My work is not yet complete on this Earth, and there needs to be a new Mickey in town to clean up this cowboy-infested heck-hole where I live my life.

I know this has been a rather goopy-goose of a post, but I am feeling good for a change, and it is hard to do humor about everything going too well.

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