
Imagination is always the place I go in times of trouble. I have a part of my silly old brain devoted to dancing the cartoon dance of the dundering doofus. It has to be there that I flee to and hide because problems and mistakes and guilt and pessimism are constantly building un-funny tiger-traps of gloom for me to rot at the bottom of. You combat the darkness with bright light. You combat hatred with love. You combat unhappiness with silly cartoonish imaginings. Well… maybe you don’t. But I do.

When reading the Sunday funnies in the newspaper on lazy Sunday afternoons, I spent years admiring Bill Watterson’s Calvin and Hobbes for its artistry and imaginative humor, believing it was about a kid who actually had a pet talking tiger. I didn’t get the notion that Hobbes was actually a toy tiger for the longest time. That’s because it was basically the story of my own boyhood. I had a stuffed tiger when I was small. He talked. He went on adventures with me. And he talked me into breaking stuff and getting into trouble with Mom and Dad. It was absolutely realistic to me.

I have always lived in my imagination. Few people see the world the way I view it. I have at least four imaginary children to go along with the three that everybody insists are real. There’s Radasha, the boy faun, my novel characters Tim Kellogg and Valerie Clarke, and the ghost dog that lurks around the house, especially at night. That plus Dorin, Henry, and the Princess (the three fake names that I use in this blog for my three real children).

Have you noticed how Watterson’s water-color backgrounds fade into white nothingness the way daydreams do? Calvin and Hobbes were always a cartoon about turning the unreal into the real, turning ideas upside down and looking at them through the filter-glasses of Spaceman Spiff.

Unique and wonderful solutions to life’s problems can come about that way. I mean, I can’t actually use a bloggular raygun to vaporize city pool inspectors, but I can put ideas together in unusual ways to overcome challenges. I almost got the pool running again by problem-solving and repairing cracks myself.
So, I am now facing the tasks of working out a chapter 13 bankruptcy and having a swimming pool removed. The Princess will need to be driven to and from school each day. I will need to help Henry find another after-school job. And the cool thing is, my imaginary friends will all be along for the ride. Thank you, Calvin. Thank you, Hobbes. You made it all possible. So, please, keep dancing the dance of the dundering doofus.





























This Is Me… Again
Who am I? What is my name? Mickey? Michael? Mike? The Bavarian? Dr. Seabreez? The Happy Pessimist? The Fool?
Yes, all of those.
I winterized the Eggplant house. I turned the Easter Bunny out front into a snowman. Why did I do that? So I could live there peacefully? In a purple house made out of a weird vegetable that I can’t stand to eat? Of course I did.
My own house is still in peril. We have not yet gotten the pool removed. I worked hard on it and repaired it to the point that it could actually hold water. But the electrical repairs cost more than removing the pool. The house was wired incorrectly when the pool was put in some time in the 70’s, long before I lived here. So I tried to get a loan to cover the cost of the pool repair. I was denied twice. My credit rating is too far into the toilet.
This is not a self portrait, though I am not saying I am not a nerd.
My credit rating went south because Bank of America sued me, and I can’t afford to pay what they demand and still have money for the mortgage, food, and, well, I have already stopped taking any medicine the doctor wants me to take for the rest of my life. I talked to a lawyer yesterday and paid him the retainer to represent me in a Chapter 13 bankruptcy. I lose what credit I had left.
But, sad sack though I am, I still believe in the future. There is still hope. Joy to be had. Songs to sing. Clowns to be. I still have my red foam nose.
I was thinking of going back to the nudist park on Saturday when more people would be there. But it is going to rain Saturday. Naked in the rain from a thunder-shower is not a good thing for nutty naked me. So maybe not. Sitting nude alone in my room has already helped my psoriasis sores dry and heal, so maybe I don’t have to go be embarrassed with other fools in order to feel better. I am a poverty-stricken idiot, but I am still a basically happy person.
So… This is me… again. I get to decide myself who I am and what I am worth. Not bankers. Not lawyers. Not other fools. Just me. This is me.
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Filed under autobiography, commentary, Depression, feeling sorry for myself, humor, Paffooney