Dramatis personae

Up to which point is catharsis the key to self-knowledge?
Up to which point do I actually care? It’s a brand-new day for me, these days, so considering a position somewhere between 0 and 10 it now ranks as -12.

Here’s to prove another point to life, then, that it’s not the stories that shape the persons, but completely the opposite. The strength of whatever it is that you write lies on the people doin’ the deed.
Since today is starting out as one of those “rhetorical questions” kind of mornings here’s another one: Do blogs have characters?
Aww well. Anyway. Stories do and this is mine, and these are mine:

The protagonist.
Also the author.
Fancies himself to be following: A lateral thinker, sidereal, a bit odd, and smarter than you are.
Really is: None of the above, not really, but deep down just a big kid with a good heart (but please don’t tell anyone).
Likes: Dogs, 1980s junk culture in general, books and comic books (though he’s been losing that lovin’ feeling with the latter), and chasing after brainy girls but that was before they became extinct.
Dislikes: Jim Carrey movies, mostly, but also Marxism-spawned philosophies.
Is afraid of the following: Well, being alone for one thing but that’s what pretty much the whole of humanity fears as well. I’ll go, then, with not knowing stuff people ask me at random. Isn’t that a weird thing to fear?
Favorite comic book character: The Flash. Period.
…And in case you’re wondering, the stories here are as real as the reader believes them to be.

The muse.
Dean Martin, good ol’ Dean-o, now Dino was one guy who would get onstage in Chicago, mildly-drunk in his cool sharkskin suit, it was the 1960s and he sang about how he’d write himself a letter, and pretend and caaaame from yoooou. But never mind that bit.
Most posts here (but not all of them) are written for this specific person that I knew back in College, because, well, you took me to a goddamn museum the first time we went out. We went to see this thing with the furniture from Sigmund Freud’s office and you really had me going that you were actually enjoying it, and there was that bit from Bugsy Malone afterwards- you killed me right then & there.
That’s a reason as good as any, isn’t it? Keeping a light on outside my door? It’s on the front porch just above the sleeping German Shepherd you can just see it, just past all our yesterdays.
If we were to meet again- When we are to meet again, I’ll ask if you’re up for the airfare in say, within a year, and we’ll meet somewhere else entirely.

The ex-girlfriend.
…Whose memory downright haunted me for years, right up until I came to the not-so-brilliant conclusion that in the end it all chalks up to that bit that says, whoever it is that said it first, that a rose is a rose is a rose. Meaning, you can’t really take things for something other than they really are, or were.
It took me three years to get to that conclusion. Nice f*cking going, Copernicus!

The spirit of Jack Kerouac.
Oh ye holiest of holies, the patron saint to all young writers by far and large, he whom once preached that “you can do this, kid, whip up a tale in no time.”
J.K. was the so-called king of the 1950s Beat generation. His books are mostly unreadable because he wrote them up while under tons of alcohol and drugs, but there’s always been some inherent truth to whatever it is that he wrote.
Also, he came up with this really cool last chapter for Maggie Cassidy. I mean everybody’s read On the Road but nobody’s really read Maggie Cassidy and that’s like this big, hitherto-unknown hole punched in the fabric of the literary universe.

My mother.
Is the protagonist of the Freudian Remembrance Day posts, which are still unable to answer evolution’s greatest question: How did mankind end up in the 21st century with polymers and moon-walking, despite everybody having a mother to himself? Mine blamed everything on Captain Marvel, then wanted to name my dog after a Nazi dive-bomber that scorched Spain in the late ‘30s.
But that’s just comic relief, c’mon, you know that.

People from High School.
The following is a list of people that I haven’t called back in a long time for no specific reason other than being the center of my own dysfunctional universe for the past couple of years:
K.B. and D.S., my brother and my older brother, respectively.
R.L., Superman’s pal, first & foremost.
G.H. the mostly-unsung heroine to my late-teen years, best friend and love of my life at the same time, also the hottest ass to walk the Earth.
M.S., she with a smile to put Meg Ryan’s to shame, the prettiest girl I’ve ever known.
P.Z. and R.P., also maybe T.C., three guys I’m actually surprised that made this list. Best friends a kid could ever have, too bad it never really translated that well into adulthood.

Batman is the essence of being cool.
Batman is summoned up to this blog whenever there’s the need for the author to quantify sheer coolness and compare it against anything else being written about at the time.

I've said it before and I'll say it again:
Given enough time and a decent word processor, I'll eventually write about everyone I've ever known.