Tag Archives: paffooney

The Coat of Many Colors

Denny&Tommy1I am nearing the completion of my novel Snow Babies.  The editor, Jessie Cornwell, sent it back to me with the third read-through completed.  I am now closing in on a completed final draft ready to go to print.  And I am posting this post to acknowledge that the character of the hobo with the quilted jacket for a coat is indeed me.  Well, as close to being me as a fictional character who may or may not be an angel can come.  I admit I am probably not as good as Lucky Catbird Sandman is good.

But I am a man who is basically a Walt Whitman-type poet-y sort of man in a cartoony sort of way.  That is what the Catbird really is.

ragged man

He wears a coat of many colors which is made up of many varicolored patches.  Each patch in the crazy quilt of his coat stands for a memory of the many people he has known and the problems he has solved.  He helps the main character of the story, a small-town Iowa girl named Valerie Clarke, as her little town is besieged by a terrible blizzard.  The Trailways bus is stranded near the town, and on the bus are four orphan boys, running away to nowhere and desperately needing the intervention of the angels to help them escape the lives they’ve left behind.  Catbird spins miracles out of random things and random snatches of Walt Whitman’s poetry.  He carries around a copy of Whitman’s Leaves of Grass, and he quotes from it like a Bible.  So, he is a me-character because he was born in my goofy brain and represents no real person living or dead.  He is more of a literary device than a man… just like me.  And that is notable because all the other players in the story are based on real people that I have known, either in Iowa or Texas, real people who have been a significant part of my real life.

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I believe this is why the novel is the most important thing I have ever written.  It is because, if I ever found any real worthy wisdom to spread around like jam on bread, it is to be found in this book.  It is the best thing I have ever written and published.  At least, so far.  And the mysterious stranger character, the man in the coat of many colors, Catbird… is me.  Judge for yourself if I am not like him.

Catbird Me 2

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Filed under humor, NOVEL WRITING, Paffooney, Snow Babies, writing humor

Possibly Progress

Well, I almost got a ticket in a school zone this morning.  The sun was in my eyes and I was driving a steady 31 miles an hour in a twenty mile per hour zone.  Fortunately the young officer apparently was fooled by my decrepit old man act (which I do incredibly well because I have had arthritis for forty years and I look like death warmed over in the morning… and I am not actually acting).  I was let off with a warning and threats of a beating next time.  Portents of bad times continue.  I have another oil change warning light on my dashboard even though I just had the old Ford Fiesta at the dealer last week, having the engine put back in because Walmart blew it up.  The conspiracy theorist in me was noticing particularly odd-shaped contrails in the skies over Garland and East Dallas.  I have been told by fellow conspiracy theorists that the guvvamint is spraying nano-particles in the upper atmosphere to fix global warming so they don’t have to admit it exists and was caused by aliens.  And I can believe these tinfoil hatters because they showed me proof that the CIA has altered their DNA with fluoridated water.  Nobody could have that pointy of a pin-head without guvvamint help. So life continues to treat me the way Bugs Bunny treats Elmer Fudd.  And I feel slapped silly.

But here’s the important thing;

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Followed by;

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And then;

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So you can see that I haven’t given up yet.  My flower petals burst with color.  And the seeds that I have planted continue to grow and blossom anew.

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Lazy Plugs for Small Holes

Snowies

I have been working on final edits for my novel Snow Babies.  I have also been struggling with diabetes, arthritis, and COPD.  At the same time, I have been writing up a storm on my blog and posting all kinds of incredibly goofy and somewhat creative stuff.  So today is a break without leaving a hole in my goal of posting a blog post every single day of 2015.  I have to go all the way to Balch Springs, Texas today for a flag football game.  So, if you are disappointed with this meager post, go back and look at any of the other recent posts you may have missed.  I’m not saying they are worth the effort, but wasting your time is what I do.

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The History of Government as I See It

Raygun RonnyIn the beginning, God made men naked and helpless.  He made women naked and in charge.  And then he tossed an apple to the women and said, “let there be evil and monsters and such.”  So, naked people began to huddle together in caves to get out of the storm.  They began to kill and eat other animals that didn’t eat them.  They began to wear the fur of whatever they killed and ate.  And then because Cain had a you-like-him-better-than-me fit, they began to kill (and hopefully not eat) each other.

So, the need for government came about as a matter of survival.  Cavemen put their thick heads together and decided that some guys were bigger and tougher and got more girls than the rest.  And some guys knew how to use their heads for something more than a place to keep their animal-skin hats.  So, when all the heads were put together, the smartest ones realized that if they made weapons for the big guys to kill other guys with more efficiently, then the big guys could protect all of “us” and kill all of “them” and we would all be safer and live better lives.  Of course, the big strong guys wanted to keep all the better girls and all the stuff they took from others, and they expected everyone they protected to give them more stuff.  Thus, taxes were born.  And when you had to count stuff and plan stuff and figure stuff out (like managing taxes and keeping track of who you need to hit because they haven’t paid) that task went to the scrawny guys with the big heads.  And so, Kings were born.  And queens were mostly the kings’ sisters, because, after all, the big guys still got all the best girls.  And as time went on, we had kings and their big guys and all the other “common” people.  But you couldn’t just kill (and hopefully not eat) all the “common” people, because they were useful too.  You could put them to work so they could pay more taxes and make more stuff for you and it made your life better if you had a lot of them working for you.  But some old king named Louie discovered you had to make the “common” people a little bit happy too because they outnumber you by a lot.  Unfortunately for Louie, he didn’t discover this until they cut his head off… some argument about eating cake or something.  So, some other smart guys with big heads got together and decided to make a new government.  It was really still the old government.  They just had the brilliant idea of re-naming everything and lying to the people.  Now, instead of kings and their big guys who got all the good girls, you had “elected representatives” who were actually the kings of old.  They just figured out how to lie to people and make them believe they worked for the “common man”.  And the big guys were re-named the “Military Industrial Complex”, or maybe it’s the Illuminati.  I’m not sure.  And then there’s a Pope, and possibly some alien beings from Roswell, and… okay, maybe I need to save the rest for the Tinfoil Hat Club when we meet every Wednesday evening and plot how we are going to “wake up, sheeple” and take over the world.  (Dues are fifty cents.  We are meeting again on Sunday because we think the world ends next Tuesday… or something.)

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Filed under humor, Paffooney, satire

The Nutter’s Nest

Eurasian_Nuthatch_(Sitta_europaea)_by_nest_hole wikimediaThese little birds of gray and white and often some other pastel color are synonymous with crazy people.  Why?  Because while the rest of the world orients itself upright from gravity, these little nutters are always hopping along the tree bark upside down, or at a truly odd angle from the rest of the world.

Red-Breasted-Nuthatch-NestThere is something eerily off about an upside-down bird.  And you should listen to the bird calls on the Audubon website; https://www.audubon.org/bird-family/nuthatches   Don’t they sound like absolutely demented little buggers (bugger in the sense that they pick bugs out of bark and then eat them)?  And where do they keep their nests?  In those holes?  Yes!

1st-nh-eggsWhat a truly daft little bird!  And why is daft little Mickey obsessing today about nuthatches and where they keep their eggs?  Because the nutsy noodler needs a new idea every day to make a completely daft and dewy-eyed post about something that could possibly only matter to Mickeys.  So where does Mickey get his ideas to screw into concentric circles of purple paisley prose?  Does he make a list of ideas and schedule his posts?  Does he keep notes?

Of course not!  That would make too much sense.  No, he putters around the house all day, retired and ill, but with his brain constantly on fire.  And he keeps all the pots of memory, trivia, silliness, and factoids boiling as they perch upon the grill in the kitchen of his mind.  Something is constantly cooking.

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Take, for instance, the matter of moose bowling.  Where does an ultra-goofy idea like that come from?  Well, that was in the memory pot.  Having been a teacher for kiddos that don’t handle English very well, I have a number of mangled-language stories to share.  One time I had a drawing of a Bullwinkle-like cartoon on the board (which I generally refer to as a Moosewinkle).  A Vietnamese child was asking me about the Moosewinkle, wanting me to explain what that was all about.  I said something about him being a really good guy, someone I would like to go bowling with some time.  So, the boy asks me, “Mr. B, how is that you throw a moose to knock down the bowling pins?”  He understood about bowling, but not about how you could have a moose as a friend.  And this from a culture that thinks Doremon is perfectly normal and okay to live with.

So it can be said that Mickey picks random memories out of the air and twists them into pretzels to get an idea for a post.  Or maybe it is not totally out of the air.  I don’t know how many times Mickey has seized on an idea from Facebook, posted by friends of all kinds… former students, fellow teachers, other writers, racist cracker friends from Iowa and Texas, and a distinct lack of normal people.  They post all kinds of weird stuff… not pictures of food and kids and kids eating food like normal people.  And Mickey’s brain is always on fire and boiling up the pots.  He makes connections to random things and ends up with a post about nuthatches.  What a Nutter!

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Remembering Puppy Love

Annette in DLandn

Yes, I admit it, I had some serious crushes when I was but a boy.  Mickey (himself) always said that he hated girls.  He said that repeatedly until he was fourteen and that lie could be twisted into some kind of “you-must-be-gay” sort of insult.  Couldn’t have that, could we?  Especially since my only experience of sex was violent and with another boy.  But how could I ever admit the truth about the girls I loved?  It was all too silly for words.

All pictures of Annette that I didn't draw are from her Facebook page, borrowed (or stolen) with love.

All pictures of Annette that I didn’t draw are from her Facebook page, borrowed (or stolen) with love.

Annette Funicello was someone I only saw in Disney movies.  And she was quite a bit older than I was.  She was born in 1942, and when I was a lovesick puppy of twelve, she was already an old woman of 26 years.  I am thinking about her again now, and she has already preceded me in death.  I was able to reconnect to her through her Facebook page here;  Annette Funicello.  But there was never a chance to meet and pursue her in real life.  So, naturally, she is the one I told my friends about as the woman I loved when I was twelve and wise in the ways of the opposite sex.

I did not draw this.  It is from Facebook.

I did not draw this. It is from Facebook.

 

But the real, secret truth is… ta, ta, ta, taaaah!  I really loved another.  She was in my class.  She was, as my friends and I all agreed, the most beautiful girl ever born into our little community of Rowan, Iowa.  She was a farm girl named Alicia Stewart (this, of course, is a lie.  I fictionalized the name because we are actually friends on Facebook and she might actually read this post.  It doesn’t bother me if she reads this and figures it out, but I want to provide her with deniability so no one else has to know.  She has a beautiful family complete with grandkids, and I would never embarrass her in front of them.)  To me, she looked like Annette Funicello.  I never admitted my deep and abiding puppy-love crush on her to anyone.  I loved her never-the-less… and probably still do.

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There was that night when I was eleven, and snow was falling heavily after choir practice at the Methodist Church.  The walk home was extra difficult.  It was becoming a minor blizzard and I was plastered with snow from walking into the teeth of the wind.  When I got as far as the Library on Main Street, Mrs. Stewart and Mrs. Kellogg called me into the Library to warm up.  They called Mom and Dad to come get me because I really had no business trying to walk home in a snowstorm like that.  Alicia was there.

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HOLLYWOOD, FL - SEPTEMBER 14:  Annette Funicello (R) kisses Mickey Mouse 14 September 1993 after she received a star on the famous Hollywood Walk of Fame in California. The U.S. actress and singer is best known as a famous mouseketeer on the popular 1960's television show, "The Mickey Mouse Club" as well as the beach movies she made with Frankie Avalon.  (Photo credit should read VINCE BUCCI/AFP/Getty Images)

HOLLYWOOD, FL – SEPTEMBER 14: Annette Funicello (R) kisses Mickey Mouse 14 September 1993 after she received a star on the famous Hollywood Walk of Fame in California. The U.S. actress and singer is best known as a famous mouseketeer on the popular 1960’s television show, “The Mickey Mouse Club” as well as the beach movies she made with Frankie Avalon. (Photo credit should read VINCE BUCCI/AFP/Getty Images)

I had my Russian cap with the ear-flaps on and everything pulled down to protect me from the snow, including the front board which was like the bill of the cap, but could be snapped up out of the way.  Snow was caked even on that little front flap. My eyes were mostly covered by that frozen and snow-encrusted front flap.

I said, “Gee, I think it might be snowing outside.”

Everyone laughed.  Alicia lifted up the front flap and looked me right in the eyes.”Michael, you are so funny!” she said.

I wasn’t really that funny with my stupid little understatement.  But her smile was priceless.  And I keep it in my heart to this very day.  It was the greatest gift any girl ever gave me during my sorry little childhood.

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The Beg-Eye

20150918_111904“I want that chip… yes, that chip… that Pringle’s chip!”

“Are you talking to me again, dog?”

“Yes.  I need that chip.  If I eat that I will be a people again.”

“But I am eating this chip.  I like Pringle’s.  And I need energy if I am going to finish editing my novel Snow Babies.  Let me finish eating my chips.

“Look at my eyes.  Can’t you see I NEED that chip?  It is the most important thing in life that you give me that chip.”

“No, I will not look at your eyes.  I know about your Beg-Eye super power.  All dogs have it, and little dogs have it in spades.”

“Seriously, just look into my eyes!”

“Oh!  Uh, I shouldn’t have looked into your eyes just now.”

“Smack!  Crunch!  Chew-chew-gobble!  Um, yes, you should have.  Always look at my eyes when you have food in your hands!”

“Well, maybe I need to start writing now.  I am putting the food back in the pantry.”

“Awww!  Shucksies!”

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“Look into my eyes!” says Jade the talking dog.  “You want to buy this book when it’s published, don’t you?  Yes, I think you do.”

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Playing Checkers With Old Guys

Skater girlAmongst those who play checkers frequently and well, there is an unwritten rule.  He who moves first wins.  No matter how well you play, the other guy knows all the moves too.  You can’t help but follow the same two or three patterns for the flow of the game if you are determined never to lose when you don’t have to.  So, if you play checkers with old gassers who have glasses and bald spots on their heads, liver spots on their arms, and Buddha bellies, then there are no surprises.  You can play checkers like the clock ticks, moving relentlessly and without thinking.  It allows you to discuss the world, solve the European immigration crisis in the cruelest possible way, watch the grandkids rolling skating in the neighbor’s driveway, complain about frequent bouts of cramps and flatulence, and just generally enjoy life in a way that is as Norman Rockwell as all hell… without actually having to think about it.

Today is a day like that for me.  Diabetes ravaged me yesterday, my blood sugar playing a fierce game of Chinese world-champion ping pong between high and low… all day long.  My brain is full of sand today and I cannot think.  I can write, but the only thing that comes out is sludge as boring as watching old guys play checkers.  But I have a young family and duties that will not give me a break.  Number two son is playing flag football for his charter school, and we have to get him to a game in Grand Prairie, Texas today, over an hour away through the metroplex in good traffic.

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Flag football, of course, is not real football.  But this is Texas.  Anything even remotely related to football is super serious business in a cowboy-centric world.  You have to get out there and cheer.  You have show team spirit. You have shout bad words at the other team when they invariably intercept your son’s pass and run it back for a touchdown.  And I don’t have the energy today for the drive, let alone the actual football.  All things considered, I’d really rather be playing checkers with old guys.

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Word Munchers and other Bedevils

In the Cryptofont Zoo of bizarre and exotic creatures of word, I, as a wordsmith, have become quite a keeper.  My lovely Zoo is the rival of any in the world… er, U.S… er, well, it’s different.  Let me give you a tour and see what you think.

First on our tour are the strange and wonderful animals in the Popeye-isms section.  You know, the bizarre creatures of word first spawned by E.C. Segar in his strip known as Thimble Theater, better known by the later name of Popeye the Sailor.  I regularly use many of these little animals in my writing, making the spell checker hate me and making the readers pause with a private “isn’t this wrong?” sort of thing.  I am often disgustipated with the words and I should have antiskipated the whole spell-checker thing.  If you just keep hitting the add to the dictionamary button, soon the whole thing is discomboobulated and ready to just give me the ol’ twisker punch!  It takes an ol’ salt like Poopdeck Pappy and a whole can of Spinach to sort this sichymawation out.

Thimble Theater by E. C. Segar

Thimble Theater
by E. C. Segar

Now next on our tour, fear this thing over here, this Suessian Sphere, where we keep the rhyme animals more.  I use these critters too, in place of bad glue, and to gloss over all that’s a bore. 

There are also the Thingamadoodles like oodles of poodles that come from the Forest of Suessian Lore.  I never will know why the Whangdoodles tootle and spurt the bright snootles while they snore.   The thing that’s head-achy and a little mind-breaky about the Doctor’s good chore, is the way it is rhyming and syllable-climbing while you write it right out through the door!

Once I bounce just an ounce of the rhyming nonsense out of my head, I can tell you about word munchers and other evil critters.  One evil word muncher got the word “thing” in the previous sentence and made it come out “thong” until I caught the spelling error; (My spell checker still has not forgiven me my Popeye-isms, so I have to check it myself).  It is rare that a word muncher is ever useful.  I collect many of them in my writing on a daily basis, but mostly they just take up space (like the “mostyl” I just captured in this sentence!).  Oh, yes, the most common variety of word muncher seems to me to be the “dna” or “adn” or “nad” that always blossoms its evil petals out where ever I need a conjunction.

The family dog (not dgo) from the other day... but in full color ( not cloor)

The family dog (not dgo) from the other day… but in full color ( not cloor)

Bedevils are evil stray thoughts that pepper everything you write with distractions.  Bedevils, by their very nature, and I assure you they are natural, will… what was that I was talking about?  Oh, they have evil in their very name.  Emerson said that a “foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds”, but I think that Bedevils are more like a real hobgoblin that plagues the minds of those whose heads are too full, and not of straw, like in this Wizard-of-Oz allusion.

4th Dimension

Okay, I have taken you as far through this little word zoo as my mind can handle.  If you really read it and now are plagued with nightmares about it, I apologize for what I just did to your own writing.  You will never be free of these wee beasties again, will you?

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Filed under humor, Paffooney, word games

River Dippers in the Iowa River

superchick_novel

When I was eleven, I was invited to a birthday party for one of the farm kids who lived just south of the little farm town of Rowan, Iowa.  It was tradition.  In our little town, with only ten kids in our fifth grade class, everybody had a birthday party once in our elementary years where all the kids in our class were invited.  I had mine at age eight, in second grade.  Rusty Dettbarn was about the last one to throw this traditional classmate bash. He was a bit different than the rest of us.  He was a wood rat.  His family farmhouse was down in the woodsy hollow along one of the creeks that fed into the Iowa River.   He didn’t come into town often, and really only hung out with the gang for 4-H softball games, meetings, and Fun Night.  He preferred to ride his motor scooter, hunt with his pellet gun, or go trapping along the Iowa River.  Mickey Smith was his closest friend, another wood rat who lived in the country and rarely associated with town kids like me and my best friend David Murphy.  Well, he got around to this party finally, but it turned out it was going to be done his way.

When my mother dropped me off with my gift all wrapped and wearing good school clothes that I was under orders not to get dirty, I noticed right away that something was uncomfortably wrong.  The girls were all in the yard by the picnic table with the party decorations.  They talked to each other like conspirators, looked at me, looking me up and down, and giggled.  My ears began to burn, and I had no idea why.  I did notice that no other boy, including the birthday boy, was in sight.  I took my gift in the house to the gift table.  Rusty’s mother was there with a big grin on her face.

“Rusty and the boys are down at the creek swimming,” she said helpfully.  “You are supposed to go on down there.”

“But I didn’t bring a swim suit.  I didn’t know…”

“Oh, but you don’t need one.  Go along.  You’ll see.”

Boy, did I see.  It was the way Rusty and his pals always swam.  Buck naked.  I got down to the creek and they were happily splashing away, about six of them, naked as the day that they were born.  I stood on the muddy bank in my good school clothes and just stared.  Two of my friends, David and Bobby Zeffer were there.  Neither of them had yet worked up the courage to join the swimming.  I was relieved not to be the only one.

“Jeez, Mike,” said David, “Are you gonna swim too?”

“Err…  I think I might be catching a cold.”  It was a warm June afternoon with bright sun shining.  “Are you gonna swim?”

“It looks like fun,” said David, eyes like a basset hound.

“Yeah,” said Bobby.  “I think I’m gonna try it.”

river dipper

I could see what was about to happen.  My two partners in shyness were going to give in.  I would be the last one still dressed and standing on the bank like a stiff.  What was I gonna do?  I would have to get naked too.

“It can’t be too cold, can it?” asked Bobby, pulling off his shirt.

“What about leeches?” asked David.  “Are there leeches?”

Mickey Smith overheard.  “Aw, you just put salt on them and they drop right off!  I got one yesterday on my butt, but I ain’t seen any today.”  He was floating on a tire inner tube, relaxing in the sun and looking like the Sultan of the Swim.  David shuddered.

Bobby was down to his undershorts before I started to haltingly pull my shirt out from being tucked into my pants.  David had his shirt off.

“Come on,” urged Rusty.  “You guys aren’t chicken are you?  I triple dare you to jump right in!”

Triple dares were a dare too much for Bobby.  Jaybird naked he leaped into a deep bend in the creek.  He popped up like a fishing bobber. “Eeuw, that’s c…c…cold!”

David had his shoes and socks off when I was lucky enough to look up to the top of the hill.  The girls were lined up, six heads looking over the top of the hill at us.  All were smiling.  Alicia, the girl whose good opinion of me mattered most in all the world was there among them.  I tapped David’s shoulder and pointed.  He grinned broadly as he scrambled back into his shirt.  “It’s too cold today, isn’t it!” he said, relieved.

Later that year when school started up again and we were the big sixth graders on campus, one of the girls came up to me and said, “Alicia was really disappointed this summer when she didn’t get to see you swim.”

“Aw, gee!  That’s too bad,” I said, grinning and blushing simultaneously.

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