I haven’t posted yet this week because I was in a blue funk about finances and the general rottenness of life. I have worked incredibly hard as a teacher for thirty years, and all I have to show for it is a mountain of debt and more bills than a flock of flamingos on steroids.  As a writer I have been paid twelve dollars so far for my writing.  Considering the time and effort and expense to get it edited and published and marketed, I’m at about minus six thousand, nine hundred and eighty-eight dollars.  I have to admit, I was not my usual sarcastically cheerful self. I have always been a pessimist for optimistic reasons. By that I mean I always prepare for the worst, so that I end up prepared if the worst happens, and pleasantly surprised if it doesn’t. I find that usually the worst DOES happen, so I am never truly disappointed. I appreciate all the supportive comments from those out there in the blogosphere who actually read anything that I write, but you need not worry about resourceful ol’ Mike. I have already done some things about the problems. I got doctored up to the point that I was no longer missing days of work due to illness.  Cutting down on salary dockings because my six incurable diseases keep me out of the virulent Petri-dish that is the modern classroom has made a big difference.  I was losing $900 a month for the months of March and April. But my wife did summer school and I got some overtime by working an extra week in June, the only benefit I received all year for being ESL lead teacher (a job with lots of extra work attached, but NO extra pay).  Now we are not doomed to lose the house and cars until next Fall. In fact, we were able to pay off the eight-year-old Ford Freestyle, so we won’t lose that at all, or have any more payments on it, and we can live in it this coming winter after we lose the house. Of course, it will probably break down at any moment now that it is paid for. And there is no way on earth that we will be able to pay for gas without selling the kids into slavery. Doom still looms, though further in the future now. See, I planned that well. So, my complaints and self-pity aside, I do have a plan in a typical, practical Mike-manner. Now, all I have to do is avoid getting the bubonic plague and other common diseases from the classroom where I teach, and in typical, pessimistical Mike-manner, I will be completely back on track. That is to say, if I can properly explain the current transformation I am undergoing from Mike-ism to Bob-ism. I was infected by Bob-ism when I went to the Aldrich-Hinckley Reunion this summer up in Lake Cornelia Iowa. My cousin Bob was there, healthy and happy, and living the life of no worries… hakuna matata! So now I shall endeavor to explain this Mike to Bob lycanthropy that I seem to be suffering from.

Let me tell you first what it means to be a Mike. Mike is not actually the name that my parents gave me; that was Michael. Mike is not the way I think of myself, because that would be Mickey. Mike is simply a state of mind. It is a practical-as-dirt sort of down-home-country-boy and slightly-redneck-though-not-really-prejudiced state of mind. Mike is a farmhand name. Mike is a practical, no-nonsense, fix-the-tractor-and plow-the-dang-field sort of name. Mike recalls two-fisted Mike Hammer and many other two-fisted Mike-isms from pulp fiction, TV, and other blatantly two-fisted sillinesses. A Mike is a guy in a white t-shirt to show off muscles and almost-muscles. A Mike is a well-named action hero from the comic strips, or a thug from the comic books, and tends to have a crew cut and less brains than any Brian, Al, or Chet. In Dr. Seuss, Mike rides on the back of the ole bike so he can push it up hill. (At least they LIKE their Mike!) Mike also has an impishly playful side as we can see in Mickey (himself) McGuire and even Mickey Mouse. If you tell a Mike, “An asteroid is about to hit the Earth, and we are all gonna die!” he will answer, “Okay, but I’m gonna give it a good punch in the nose first!” (I know an asteroid has no nose, but it is what gets said anyway, because, well… I’m a Mike, that’s all.) So being a Mike is probably not such a bad thing to be, as opposed to being a Gary or a Stan. I could live with it, but I am not completely a Mike. I am developing definite Bob tendencies.

Bob-ism has just got to be explained at this point. Being a Bob is something the world barely tolerates, but desperately needs. Bob is NOT practical. Think of Bob Denver or Bob Keeshan. Bob is not wise. Think of Bob Barker or Bob Dole. You don’t laugh WITH a Bob, you laugh AT him. Bob Newhart never laughs at all, and he is definitely a funny ole Bob. Bob does not give in to hardships. Bob endures. No matter how many times Bob falls on his face, landing in Mary Ann’s coconut cream pie, or loses an election to some dang Democrat, or gets ping-pong balls dropped on his head by Mister Moose, Bob still keeps right on going and doing all sorts of Bob things. Bob is capable of sacrifice. Think of what Bobby Kennedy did for equal rights and to organized crime. And think of the price he paid for doing those things. (Yes, I know we’re talking “Bobby” here. Little Bobby-boy. But Bob is to Bobby as Mike is to Mickey.) There is something admirable about being a Bob, even though there’s also something rather sad about being a Bob. My Mike-muscles are sagging down into Bob-like table muscles now. My Mike-like sarcastic wit is now becoming more of a Bob-like roll of the eyes. People are not laughing WITH me any more, they are laughing AT me. And, Bob-like, I am relishing it. People are always ready to put up their dukes and take a swing at Mike. Just ask Mike Tyson. But a Bob is not nearly so tempting a target. People tend to feel sorry for ole Bob, because, well… after all, he is a Bob. So, from now on… put me down as a Bob. It’s a whole lot easier than trying to “Be like Mike”.

So, now I’m sure you understand my cloying self-pity and recent lack of wit. It has to be as clear to you now as it is to me. The cause of all my troubles has been being a Mike. To solve my problems, I will just be Bob.