Perhaps I’ve already been infected by Lenny’s sick sense of honor and honesty. Or maybe I’m just screwing around. In any case, I have decided to come out–or pretend to come out–from under a layer of deceit, though not perhaps from under all of them, ay? The more eagle-eyed of you will notice that my post signature has changed from “maja” to “Mick”. That’s because it seemed to me time to dispense with anonymity–maybe–and ‘fess up. Or not. It could be that I got tired of one identity and manufactured/stole/copied from an 18th century tombstone a new one.
It’s entirely plausible that my real name is Marc Arran; possible, even. Though I’m not saying it is, I’m also not saying it isn’t. And it may be that at some time in the distant past, having gained a local reputation for playing drunken Irishmen in Shakespearean plays (you didn’t know there were any drunken Irishmen in Shakespeare? you should have been paying more attention in high school; see what you missed?), I managed to gather unto myself the nick of Mick because, as I prefer to believe, my Irish accent was flawless, NOT because I was such a good drunk.
And it’s not beyond the realm of all potential possibilities that I originally chose “maja” as a handle because, so I was told (though thinking back on it, it may have been a joke), that in Roumanian “maja” means “omniscient, all-seeing”, and I instinctively gravitated toward it as an apt and accurate description of the way I thought of myself. Or perhaps I picked it out of a hat which included handles such as tearjerker_seaweed, mishkoshVminot, and morallyrepugnantandproudofit, and considered that I had got off easy.
It may be true that I have been (select all that seem to apply):
# A taxi-driver
# A CIA contract agent’s go-fer
# A spot-welder
# A rich woman’s boy-toy
# A factory worker and day-laborer
# 3 sheets to the wind
# All of the above…and more
# None of the above…and less
(Warning: I may have led a very strange life and as a result the things you may believe to be true aren’t and the ones you think can’t possibly be true are. Then again, maybe I’m an accountant and consequently too boring to be of interest. Choose. The correct answer will win a coffee-date with Adnan Khoshoggi and Madonna.)
Naturally, this whole post may be an outright invention–Fantasy, LIE, Rip-Off. Maybe my name is actually Gertruden Hofftschtinkler and I mine pyrite in the Bavarian Alfs (a group of identical aliens whose musculature is loaded with the stuff and who landed in the mountains near Berchtesgarten in 1985, looked around for 10 or 15 seconds and moved immediately to LA where they instantly, of course, got their own tv show in which they took turns pretending to be an ugly Muppet). Either it’s all possible or none of it is.
Welcome to the 21st Century Blogosphere.
PS. And yes, I am male, the “a” at the end of “maja” notwithstanding. So ends that confusion, though it was fun while it lasted.