“Who am I? Why am I here?”
— James Stockdale

I recently turned up in fine form on a running forum I once frequented, except it wasn’t me. Actually, it was way better. Which made me wonder. Who am I?

The internet is an odd place. You invent yourself, embellishing the good parts (yes, I was on the copter with Brian Williams) and leaving out the bad (yes, I wore a bow tie in a business fraternity portrait.) I suppose the real me is somewhere in the middle. But where?

I likely really am a runner, given the neverending series of shoe photos. I most likely live in a place that’s almost like living in Texas. And I would appear to be associated with the tattered remains of what used to be referred to as “journalism.”

But that’s about it.

It struck me that the person taking on my persona could actually pull it off quite easily. Like the Dread Pirate Roberts, the name is just a franchise. Anyone with a passing knowledge of me could step into the role. Just throw in weird stuff that makes no sense, add a Medium Chocolate Frosty reference and you’re there.

We all want to live forever, or at least till the U.S. normalizes relations with Cuba. Or the Cubs. Isn’t this the way to do it? Aren’t we on the sixth or seventh incarnation of Heloise?

The prophet Ben Folds said it best:

life barrels on like a runaway train
Where the passengers change, but they don’t change anything
You get off someone else can get on

Oddly enough, I had a dream a couple of days ago that Justin BeeBee was stealing the margarine franchise. I awoke startled, and redoubled my efforts to defeat him. But what if? Who really cares? Mild Sauce sagely pointed out that we read blogs for entertainment, not because we care about the person. Dance, monkey.

Who am I? Why am I here?  I’ve been doing this so long. I don’t know what to do with the rest of my life.

Maybe I should consider piracy.

We’re sorry Mr. Jones
We’re sorry Mr. Jones
We’re sorry Mr. Jones
It’s time.