
It’s a Pinocchio thing. Bad things happen, and then worse things happen, and it is all because you act detestably and have no remorse. In Collodi’s version of karma, you have to eventually die to make amends for your life of being rude, stupid, and bad. There is no redemption for the wicked… not even the slightly wicked… even if you’re made of wood.

The blue boy inside the whale in the first Paffooney of this post is a Nebulon, meaning he lives inside a gargantuan space whale. The Nebulons use living creatures for technology and space whales as starships contain entire functioning ecosystems on their insides, living mainly off the sunlight of the suns they visit and the various gases of the living things they shelter inside themselves. So, being inside a whale changes their relationship to the universe, but they don’t necessarily suffer the bad karma of a wooden-headed child like Pinocchio. Still, stuck inside a whale for life. No redemption. No return on penitence.
I am obsessing about space in these Paffooneys because my stupid head is generating another CIssy Moonskipper story.

My own personal time in the belly of a whale began when my wife destroyed her car by impaling the grill in the front of the car on the trailer hitch of a quick-stopping truck in front of her. Then we had a tornado twist its way overhead and damage every tree in the neighborhood and a few of the houses as well. My wife and daughter went then on a planned vacation to the Virgin Islands leaving me at home with the dog who is dying of doggy breast cancer. Then belated complications caused the electricity to go out for the better part of four straight days. During that time I had an accident in my own car as well. Bummer. Bad is followed by worse… and then terrible.
I am still alive at this point in time. And the dog is still alive… though definitely dying. But of course, there is more badness to come. The dog is dying… and I probably am too. And Donald Trump seems to be winning the presidency again. Global warming is going to try to kill us again this summer. And MAGA Republicans will probably kill us all in the fall whether they win the election or not. The world is ending. In the belly of a whale. And we must pray for the Disney version where Pinocchio becomes a real boy.
I guess I never realized I was quite so rude and stupid and bad.



































Free to Be Naked
I managed to finally return to Bluebonnet Nudist Park on Saturday. It was a Memorial Day weekend crowd, so I got to meet a lot of naked people. Of course, I only saw one kid the whole time I was there, and he looked to be high-school-aged. So, don’t let the first picture in this post fool you. Most nudists at the park were closer to my age than the girls in the picture.
But it was freeing of spirit to actually gather around a swimming pool and have an all-you-can-eat hot-dog lunch with 50-plus other naked people. I can’t explain why that strange alchemy can work. But it does.
Having been around nudists at different times for the majority of my life, I can honestly say I have observed nudists to be happier people than the rest of us. Of course, that is a generalization, and not true of every individual nudist. But they are comfortable in their own skin and connected to the natural world the way most of us are not. I found that most of these people knew they were nudists since childhood. Like me, if their families did not already embrace being nudists, they sneaked off to the woods when they could to get naked in nature.
Am I alone in thinking that this is not a mental aberration, but rather, a natural instinct that was trained out of us (or in my case, almost trained out of us,) in childhood?
I don’t have any pictures from the nudist park to post, so I use the usual collection of innocent-seeming illustrations and pictures to add a sense of beauty and youthfulness to the idea of going to a nudist park for recreation. You know its not really the way the pictures show it. I am not the exhibitionist-sort of nudist whose whole desire is to be seen by the world naked. I, for the most part, am a solitary nudist. Not too proud of my lumpy, wrinkled, and sore-covered carcass so that I am obsessed with others seeing me, but also not ashamed of my corporeal self to the point of not allowing myself to be seen nude by other like-minded nude people. Most of my nudism occurs when I am alone in private places where only peeping Toms and computer-camera hackers can see me. I am, however, proud that I have now been to Bluebonnet twice and have a membership in AANR (American Association for Nude Recreation.)
While I was there, a journalist who writes books on American culture used in sociology research at the college level, was there taking pictures and interviewing folks. He spoke to us, confessing that it was the first time speaking to a group of naked people, and also his first time speaking to a group while naked. He explained that he was recording and documenting interesting and important social organizations in an area only 100 miles wide, but stretching from the Mexican border to the Canadian border through the middle of the US. He felt that there were important things to learn about American life from the Bluebonnet Nudist Park just as there were to learn from the Dallas Police Department which he had scheduled for the upcoming week (and he specified he would be wearing clothes for that next part.) Even though I was there for his research, I did not get asked to sign any consent forms for photographs or interviews, so I will not be in that book of his in any way.
I am definitely more confident now in identifying myself as a nudist. I never embraced the idea of actually being one while I was a school teacher in Texas. Texans are suspicious of even letting a Democrat be a public school teacher, let alone someone who purposely goes to a public place with no pants on. I know I have lost Twitter followers and Facebook friends who found out I was actually a nudist. And I feel like I may have lost some of my WordPress followers over it as well. They can’t take seriously someone who walks around with no clothes on.
But my answer to that is… Who in the heck takes Mickey seriously anyway? Get real!
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