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The final vignette concerns Santa Claus’s psychic tussle with a mysterious menace who appears to be Native American. This staredown may have only one survivor.

There was more to my cover design than the four drawings I’ve posted. I embedded them in a template that includes the masthead/logo of AMAZING ARIZONA COMICS, and I also added a title and subtitle at the bottom, reading “SUMMER ALBUM ISSUE/featuring SPEED CAMERON, SANTA CLAUS, and their Friends & Foes.” Since AAC is Russ’s brainchild, I’ve encouraged him to make any changes to my drawings, design or title that he wishes. I frankly don’t know how the finished product is going to look–but I can hardly wait to find out.

It is the last day of the month. It is my personal superstition that to do things on the last day of the month is to increase the probability of their occurrence on other days. (This also applies to the first day of the month.) So I have cooked and cleaned a little, and, though my heart wasn’t in it, having received two reminders of things over and done with, I’ve created this minimalist acrostic/image card. Abs is for abdominal muscles; Orb is for that “cold-hearted orb that rules the night;” Ent is for that singular creature of J.R.R. Tolkien’s invention, a humanoid partaking of a tree.

An allotrope is one of at least two arrangements of the same atoms in differing array. A burden is represented here as a pack mule loaded down with another’s possessions. A sailboat is often delightful.

Watson and Crick were the scientists who found that DNA, the stuff of life, was double-helical in form. Even Linus Pauling, supernally brilliant as he was, didn’t deduce that.

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I have a feeling of deja vu. Have I done this acrostic before?

 

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“Cold Reading” is a method of fakery by purported psychics. The late, great Orson Welles did his share, and here describes both how it is done and how it is dangerous for the cold reader, who starts to believe the power is real:

 

And here are my few words, acrosticizing the subject:

Cast a spell to curl the hair
Oust some devils on a dare
Listen for the lost & bad–a
Daughter’s message 2 her dad

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Here is the first page I’ve done since I moved to my new place. Much of it was done on the drawing table sketched in lower left. I do so feel more at Home, using my table.

The three acrostic takes on Home come from my recent move, my years of weight struggle, the tragedy in Orlando for which flags are now being flown half-mast, and that grab-bag feeling one gets when a lot is happening at once. But, for once, this page is not a dashed-off, gottagetitdone thing. I spent three days on it, and I hope it shows.


Awry Left Home

Avoirdupois and sleekness match
When you’ve a KEY and not a latch
O running Wafflers may make scream
Yet Value’s not in Hits nor Meme

away from home

a child lifts a stufféd pooh
whilst parents wonder what to do
as youngsters out for fun take aim
you need a someone whom to blame

Well Come Home

We go and cause the world to laugh
Enjoying Moo-Cow and Giraffe
O Laughter is a Marvel! I’m
Laugh-loutish till the end of TIME

. . . my own personal time, that is. “Steel in my heart, and laughter in my breast!” quoth Rostand’s Cyrano. 🙂

u little shih tzu

Today I had the marvelous good luck to meet a delightful dog. Some might think her homely, what with the underbite and the radiating hair, which makes her nose look like one of her chakras (and with dogs, who knows?), but I and my daughter, who is dogsitting as well as housesitting today, think her nothing less than Adorable.

And she is quite verbal (growl-al?). She and I had a conversation which lasted a good three minutes, the gist of which was I should open my box of Wheat Thins Tomato & Basil for her delectation, if I please. (I had to disappoint her.)

My drawing does not do her justice, but what would?

Words:

Unarguable CLASS
Lavishish muss-STASH
Introduce me to your SUSHI
Then I’ll have a BASH
Them what has it HAS it
Let my PIZZAZZ
Entertain YOU

Happy Mother’s Day, everybody.

Per my own mother’s request I made a full-color butterfly of 9 x 12 dimensions. Though I fulfilled her request, I feel bad about the crudity of the execution. But the Sorry About That is for the fact that I cannot resist quoting her reaction to the photo below: “Great! I look like I’m pooping.”

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I love you, Mom. You are one in a million.

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playing jacks with laura
To Laura J Young

there was a girl
about two years older than my sevenandahalf,
and her name was laura
and she taught me how to play jacks.

she used a golf ball, which was good, because
it had more bounce and truer bounce
than that red ball with a seam.

laura was always better than me,
always getting up to her tens
while i was still on my fives or so,
and then she’d get through piginapen
or doublebounce
while i was only up to my nines or so.

we also played chutes&ladders
or candyland
out of the charity of her kind soul,
for she had long outgrown those games.

she had a spool with four nails pounded partway
into one end, the nailheads forming a square,
and she could make an endless snake
of yarn or twine
come out of the other end
just by a kind of weaving.
i thought it was neat.
she taught me how to do it too.

our dads got mad at each other over something.
it might have been the mulberries our tree shed
in their yard,
which were sweetly yummy but awfully stainy,
or it might have been the way our dog liked to pee
on their pyracantha,
or maybe that we were supposed to be the first ones
to swim in the swimming pool we helped dig
and we ended up never swimming there at all.

it only matters because after that
laura and i never played any more.

more than fifty-one years later
i saw her name as a friend of a facebook friend,
another neighbor,
and now we’re friends again
though many miles apart.

she is a shepherd and a yarnwright
and a champion of the environment.
i find that delightful.

i will probably never see her again
since she lives in one of the carolinas,
but i do hope there is something to
the lifeflashingbeforeyoureyes notion,
because i would so love, however briefly,
to go back to
playing jacks with laura.

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When you’re a kid you may get a wart or two. (Your wartage may vary.) But when your skin passes its Sell By date, you get the epithelial equivalent of weeds–little outgrowths that are sometimes like browned marshmallows, sometimes like itty-bitty punching bags, but always disconcerting.

I have one near my left armpit that is crusty-white on top (perhaps due to callusing; I fervently hope it is that, and not something more dire) and getting-a-sunburn-pink at the root. If you’re squeamish, read and look no further–a photograph follows.

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Skin tags may be removed with nail scissors. I’ve done it exactly once in my tag-growing career. The pain is minimal, about the same as the pinchy stab you get when donating blood, but the odd like-cutting-cardboard textured sensation gave me the heebie-jeebies, and I’m going to let a professional do it next time I see one.