Auction Update and A Welcome Return

My auction for charity will take place in Late January. Seems to do this "by the book" there are some forms and such. So. I'll update as it get close.

I would also highly recommend you read the work of journalist Ling Carter. Somehow he gets the stories the others can't. He's been away on assignment. But he's back and more dangerous than ever.

Please visit his site often.

Interesting News Items

Froynlaven Auction For Charity

Yep. Years worth of animation cells from Animaniacs, Freakazoid and other odds and ends shall be sold by me! 100% of proceeds will go to Angels Way Maternity Home in the San Fernando Valley. I've been working with them for years and...in this economy...they could use a little help keeping the doors open.

Here's a little preview of the stuff I'm going to sell. Probably on Ebay. But I gotta figure that out.

A Lovely Joke

Normally, I don't like jokes. Don't know why. You'd think I do. But I don't. Should. But don't.

That said, I did hear a joke I thought was blog worthy.

So. Gather everyone around. Quiet. Ready?

And thus begins the joke:

Seems there was a monastery high in the mountains. The rules at this monastery were quite strict. Talking was forbidden. Always. Except once a year...on Christmas...one monk could say one sentence and one sentence only. And each year, it changed from monk to monk.

So, one Christmas, as all the monks were sitting down to dinner...they awaited what Brother Duncan would say. He rose from the table, looked at everyone and said, "I think these mashed potatoes are quite good." Then he sat down.

The next Christmas...365 days later, it was Brother Michael's turn to speak. He rose from the table, looked at the others and said, "I think the mashed potatoes are lumpy." He then sat down.

365 days later...at Christmas dinner...it was Brother Andrew's turn to speak. He rose from the table and said, "I'm sick and tired of all this bickering!"

That's the end of the joke.

Mrs. Yortson And The Kindly Elf

Mac Drivel, my creative writing teacher at Burbank City College. has encouraged me to put some of my short stories on my blog. He says it will give me the confidence I need to overcome by fear of narratives. Seems I don't like stories per se, but enjoy typing quite a bit. So, here goes.

Mrs. Yortsen And The Kindly Elf represents my first attempt at the French writing method of 'calligraphie inepte'. I got the idea for the story while watching a snake eat a mouse at our local Petco. Mac Drivel has encouraged us to choose a color that represents the basic mood of the story. I have chosen amber. But I think you will also detect a hint of green. Although, one sentence is decidedly blue.

'Calligraphie inepte' was quite popular during the Renaissance. Blathord L'Blanc, a French physician and mortician, invented the technique while embalming a circus monkey.

Anyway, enough stalling. (I'm just so nervous.) Here it is.

Mrs. Yortsen And The Kindly Elf. By Paul Rugg. 12/2/2010. Mac Drivel's Creative Writing Class. Room 321. Seat 32C.

"Swoon!" went the noises which were heard by Mrs. Yortsen and yet not made by her! (The sounds I mean.) "Swish!" Again there was another noise which caused within her an interest to arise as to what those sounds could be as she sat there at the kitchen table in a chair by the window while looking outside and wondering what the sounds were.

As if by magic or something else akin to magic yet not of this world, a deep thrumming began to osculate the rich humus of her yard. Humus was heaved mightily and when the heaving eventually ceased, a hole was noticed by her. (Mrs. Yortsen.)

Mrs. Yortsen rose from her sitting position in the chair and pushed away from the table that the chair was near. A gasp rose in her throat and eventually came out as an audible noise. This was a noise of surprise and it sounded something like, "Whhhhhaaaaaat?" (Only in gasp form. Like if you sat on a tack. I don't know how to spell that noise.)

She was wearing slippers, so Mrs. Yortsen thought it would be fine to run outside. Whereas, if she hadn't been wearing slippers, she would have to had to gotten them first which would have meant she needed to go upstairs. But she didn't. (Which is lucky for the story. Because the scene upstairs where she gets her slippers was kind of boring. That's the blue sentence I told you about.)

Throwing open the door, yet with its hinges still in place, meaning that she didn't actually throw the door but merely opened it aggressively, Mrs. Hamilton (who had changed her name from Mrs. Yortsen in a scene that I decided to not include) ran to the hole, bent over and looked inside.

"I am an elf! And stuck at that! Timberdee!" (That was something this elf said as an expression.)

Mrs. Hamilton (aka Mrs. Yortsen former wife of Mayor Beld Yortsen whom had been arrested five years earlier for stealing tax funds and was now in jail and THAT was the reason Mrs. Hamilton [Yorsten] decided to change her name in the scene I decided not to include) make another gasp sound.

"I shall fetch a shovel and dig you out," said Mrs. Hamilton happily to the elf. (I don't mean to imply that Mrs. Hamilton was happy at this point in the story. But merely that she said it happily. There's a big difference.)

With that, she dug the elf out of the hole, but unfortunately pierced his heart in the process. He died soon thereafter. Fearing that she would be suspected as having killed an elf...and already worried about the fact that her husband was in jail and if she went to jail who would look after Ben, their son who was at a sleep-away camp in the mountains...she buried the elf. But only after going through his pocket for money. (Elves, as a general rule, only have one pocket. Woodland dwarves have more than that, but they do not figure into this story.)

The end.