Stephen Dedalus is often cited by literary historians as the alter ego of the writer James Joyce. He appears most prominently in “Ulysses,” a damned hard novel to read, especially if you are 17 years old (which is when I first opened its pages).

Like Dedalus, my progenitor, I am a self-absorbed bastard who makes things far more complicated than they need be. I over-think matters and provide complex answers to the simplest questions. Like Dedalus pere, I know that things are not what they seem and that the universe is slightly out of whack.

In the midst of this confusion, what do we do? We live life until we die and along the way do as much good as possible, laugh insanely and cry at every opportunity, work until we drop, and hope that the world benefits from our existence. Along the way, we seek out co-conspirators for our adventure. Won’t you join me?

Oh, Christ, you still don’t get it? Like TED, The Epicurean Dealmaker, I must mask my true identity. My employer — not unreasonably — would hate to know that its precious one expresses himself in a public forum using words like “shit” and “fuck” or expressions like “Jesus H. Christ on a bicycle.” And from time to time, I might express an opinion counter to my employer’s perspective. Better for everyone that I just lurk in the shadows.

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