I have always been fascinated by science fiction B-movies. Flash Gordon battling Emperor Ming on a black-and-white paper mache planet Mongo… The Soviet-paranoia of Invaders from Mars… Cowboys and dinosaurs… Frankenstein in space… Godzilla… You have to love what they used to accomplish with imagination, enthusiasm, and creative use of Styrofoam.
After the invasion ended in defeat for the frog people from the planet Telleri, I found I had a leftover box of these Zillokahsitter Skortch Rays. Zillokahsitter makes a very fine ray gun, not that I ever bought any before, but a couple of my little green friends told me so. They are very useful for removing old paint, unwanted neighborhood dogs and cats, grouchy relatives you don’t really want around any more… Did I mention they disintegrate things completely? Atom by atom? The only drawback is… once a thing is skortched, you will not be able to put it back together again. That’s what happened to my wife’s hair dryer… but please don’t tell her that. I’m not sure how to price these. I was thinking about selling them for the five dollar shipping and handling only. I have to get rid of them before my kids play with one again. The principal at the middle school may never be the same again.
Sometimes you just have to put together something crazy. This is a combination of colored pencil, ceramic egg-man painted with acrylic, and a photoshopped photo. Definitely a looney Paffooney.
In my hometown novels, Catch a Falling Star and Snow Babies so far, the Norwall Pirates are a critical feature of the humor, pathos, and fantasy elements. I know it’s pure conceitedness to think that I really understand kids, but I do. It comes from the fact that I was one once. In fact, I was one of the worst of the breed. Milt Morgan, the grand wizard, the Merlin of the original Pirates is a little bit me, only a bit more magical. He and Brent Clarke found the Pirate organization in the 1970’s. He is a practicer of prestidigitation , a liar, and a story-teller. He makes the Pirates, a group of small town boys, in his own image, a sort of mystical liars’ club. The fantasy elements; journeys to the Dreamlands, Pellucidar, alien invasions by Tellerons, encounters with ghosts and the undead spirits called the Lonelies, all stem from the imagination and wonder that he establishes. Brent Clarke is his Arthur, King and mighty man at arms. Being the best athlete of the group, Brent provides the muscle for the Little Wizard’s wild schemes. Brent is a natural born leader, having defeated a demonic tom cat, pure black, by the name of Fondamn. After his catricidal feat, Brent is forever after known as Brent “the Cat” Clarke.
The original group, after battling werewolves and undead Chinese wizards, drift apart to various other careers and lives. The story-teller’s little sister, though, is not ready to let a good thing die out. In the 1980’s Mary Phillips becomes the new Pirate Leader, recruiting boys into the club like her best friend the Polack, Pidney Breslow. Pidney is the boy next door, a football hero, and really rather dense. But he has a good heart with which he truly loves Mary. Mary recruits another girl too, so that the Pirates’ club isn’t all about farting and lying and spying on girls in the school locker rooms. That girl is the lovely Valerie Clarke, Brent’s young cousin. She is the most beautiful little girl that Norwall ever produced, and the fair Princess Valerie goes on to succeed Mary as the Pirates’ fearless leader.
In the early 1990’s, the club falls into the hands of another Clarke cousin, Timothy Kellogg. Tim is all boy, except for that one time when he is turned into a girl by alien technology. Tim is responsible for leading the Pirates through an alien invasion, a siege of time traveling robot boys, and an invasion of ghosts and unquiet spirits.
So, there you have it. The Norwall Pirates. Liars, braggarts, bullies, boys, a couple of girls, and a 4-H softball team that never seems to win. They are not entirely my invention. They are completely grounded in the kids I grew up with, the kids I have taught, and versions of my own three irrepressible children. As I said, I know about kids. And I intend to use what I know to commit intolerable acts of pure fantasy fiction.
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Being a collector of stuffed animals and all manner of twelve-inch dolls and action figures, I often find myself staring into painted eyes. What do they see when they look back at me?
I am kind and caring when I deal with dolls. I handle them carefully because wear and tear reduce their value. I am guilty, however, of all kinds of crimes of fashion visited on defenseless Barbie dolls and G.I. Joes. I have a pile of naked Goodwill Barbies, some missing limbs, some missing heads… I use them all for replacement parts. I dress figures in anything and everything that I have available. It results in some very embarrassing costumes.
What would happen if they were given a chance to do to me what I have done with them? Such thoughts led me to the somewhat creepy Paffooney that I’m posting today. I certain some dolls would very much like to decide how to use my arms, or put a dress with big red hearts on it upon me whether it fits or not. Of course, I used a girl who might play with dolls as the subject of the picture. You wouldn’t want to see a partially naked fat old man with white beard and lots of hair. Believe me, you wouldn’t.
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Tonight I sent a manuscript of my novel Snow Babies to PDMI Publishing. This is the novel that made the finals in the book contest from Chanticleer Book Reviews, so I have some hope that they will at least look at it.
Sometimes you create something and reach an impasse beyond which you cannot seem to go. Such happened with this double portrait of a young Native American and a noble stag. I wanted to create a picture behind a curtain of snowfall. The problem… I liked the picture too much to risk painting snowflakes and dots of white all over it. How easily I could’ve turned the whole thing into a miasma of pockmarks and polka dots! In order to go forward, you have to risk a total whangaroo of everything you have already accomplished. It isn’t just oil paintings that can happen to. My teaching career… every novel I’ve ever attempted… my family… Everything you do in life risks blowing everything all to Hell. There is simply no safe endeavor to be found. If it’s safe… it simply isn’t worth doing. You will never get the full effect. Okay, so here’s the thing… I keep sitting in front of this painting, staring at it, and wondering how good or how awful it will be if I dare to go forward.
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Yep, the last round-up is in sight for the silly old Cowboy Mickey… The time has finally come, and I submitted my resignation to the principal, Twenty three years I was a Cowboy in Cotulla, teaching English to mostly seventh graders. I spent a lot of time polishing the heads of eighth graders too. One year as a Wildcat at Creek Valley Middle School, a Lewisville School, working for the Wicked Witch of Creek Valley… seven more years in Garland teaching high school, one as a Garland Owl, and six as a Naaman Forest Ranger. This year it all ends. My heart is now sick and sad, and from where the sun now stands… I will teach no more forever.
Don’t weep for me. Old English teachers never die. They just slowly lose their class. I will carry forward as a writer, an artist, and a wacky-bird cartoonist. Not that I haven’t been those things all along. I am still a dungeon master. I am still father to Dorin, Henry, and the Princess. I am still secretly the Knight of the White Rose. Some day soon… but no, a fool knows for sure… but if a wizard is wise, there will always be room for doubt, and new horizons to conquer. Did I pile the hoo-haw and self-pity high enough? Not yet. I still have a few more teacher stories to tell.
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http://www.facebook.com/telleronsinvadeiowa? Has now reached 700 likes!
I found Chilly Willy at a yard sale for 50 cents. He was a perfect rare find for our family stuffed animal collection. He has good taste in reading material too. He had a few bugs nesting in the straw somebody used for stuffing when they refilled him. A little work de-bugged the cool bird. Now he can skate like a pro again. (I’m a St. Louis Blues’ hockey fan, but Chilly predicts the Pittsburgh Penguins will win every year. Since Sidney Crosby showed up, he is very nearly right.)
Catch a Falling Star 