No Proscenium

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Morning Matter I

I’ve always been slightly embarrassed to have role models, or at least been embarrassed about actually following in their footsteps on any specific thing. Perhaps “embarrassed” is the wrong term. This is just as likely to be about absolute cowardice and fear as it is to be about being shy in admitting whose antics I wish I could copy in public and not be run off by more reasonable people.

Once upon a time I cared about keeping my public persona as a mellow thing. There are plenty of other people who play the role of agent provocateur with more aplomb than I ever will, and I felt it was important to be a calming presence in our otherwise turbulent world.

That shit don’t fly.

Or at least it doesn’t get you much of a platform to go about being calm in. Besides, that was as much of a way of trying to keep my crazy-genes in check. A by-product of the fear that I’m doomed to turn into one or both of my parents. (What that means is for another day.)

Here’s the thing I know now about myself in the world: after more than two decades of having a professional public persona my instincts for caring about what other people think and feel haven’t gone away. Sure, they may have eroded a bit and there may be some people I truly do not give a fuck about—Hi Ann Coulter!—but underneath it all my empathy circuits work pretty well.

So that leaves me a little more confident to ape one of my role models and give the whole livejournal-like public blogging but-don’t-call-it-a-blog daily writing a whirl again.

Maybe I’ll even become as cogent as him one day.