Do I want to be like Mike?

     My new manager accidentally called me Mike, then corrected herself.

     No, I wasn't insulted.  For some reason, people have always called me Michael.  They always seem to say the same thing (as she did also):  "I'm sorry, but you look like a Michael."  I always laugh it off, since I am not a person who lives in urine (in other words, perpetually pissed.  It's ignorant).  Still, my misnaming reminds me of the true to life doppelganger who accounted for some of my "Mike-ification".

     Yes, his name is Mike.  I'll spare his last name, but my FB Friends can see him on my list. We were friends in high school.  I didn't see it, but some people thought we looked alike.  In fact, we once portrayed the shape-shifting, persona switching duo from Arrabal's play, THE ARCHITECT AND THE EMPEROR OF ASSYRIA.  After graduating in 1979, we didn't stay in touch;  however,  I was shocked to learn that we had been shadowing each other for years.
   
     During the mid 1980s I was in Binghamton, N.Y., supposedly writing.   At that time, he was he was working in broadcasting, nearby.  He also married a young lady from the next town over.  By the late 1980's I was married and living in Florida.  My wife and I bounced around the state for years, chasing jobs and manufacturing kids until we ended up in Tallahassee.   One day,  I saw his exact name on a list of local videographers. I shrugged, since the full name is common.  A short time later I saw the same name on a list of reporters with the local NPR affiliate.  Still just a coincidence.  But when I heard his distinctive voice during a local segment, I knew it had to be him.  One phone call to the station, and sure enough it was him.

     Over lunch, I told him just how cool and popular I thought he was, "back in the day".  This was borne out at our recent 30th year reunion, wherein he strode as if he had never left New York City, while I unsuccessfully tried to obscure just how much of a hick I had become.  This, despite the fact that we both live in the same town. 

     This was supposed to have been a polemic about life's coincidences.  Perhaps a homily about identity.  But sometimes the best commentary is a stifled yawn and a shrug.   As I read about the lives of the people who infest the news du jour (Kim K. vs the Pizza Maker!), I realize how much of a blessing it is to be content with one's identity.  I like myself, just the way I am. 

     Even if people can't remember my name.

     Always Be Positive!

Forced Perspective

She was a friend from years ago and she stood in the middle the street, in what was supposed to be New York City.  I immediately knew that it was a fanciful representation, for down the street was the beginning of Chinatown, with its crowded sidewalks and street-level vendors.  In the opposite direction (in plain view) was the New York Public Library, lions and all.  Only this time, the surrounding park was missing; indeed, the lions and steps themselves were made of gold, bathed in light, and inviting readers to take part in the truly Royal Act of Reading.

I rarely remember my dreams.

The last two days I have been traveling.  Two separate trips took me to see family on one day, while the other carried one child to a computer camp.  Regarding the latter, I left quickly when I saw my kid blend in with the small herd of Steve Urkels, Jimmy Neutronses and Poindexters.  As much as we wish to hold onto our youth, playtime is for the kids...

Still, my waking dream was fun.  My friend from school was eating an ice cream cone in the middle of the street (which had been closed by the police; a parade had just passed).  I ascended into a restaurant / bar that was built on a series of platforms that slopped upward.  My friend followed and had changed into yet another friend (a guy) from another school and he was now drunk.

I drank a soda (even in my dreams I am a teetotaller).  Along the wall, behind the bartender and running down to the street was a projection screen that showed graphics from old Jefferson Airplane and Jefferson Starship albums, which were animated like sprites on a computer screen.  I mused over the construction of the sloping bar, the ceiling of which now resembled the underside my roof, up in my attic.  With one last bit of insight, I figured that the city and bar were built in forced perspective, a trick used by designers to give the illusion of length, height, depth, distance, etc.

This year I didn't go to any reunions.  I didn't think it would matter, nor did I think I would miss the city of my youth.

Sometimes our dreams force us to see what is truly on our minds and in our hearts.

Always B. Positive!