Beneath my crusty but endearing public persona there lurks another me, an easygoing, come as you are, "hey let's run down to the lake" kind of me, that only my closest intimates get to see. Beneath that me is yet another me, a tenderhearted, sentimental fool, a fighting back tears when Debra Winger dies in Terms of Endearment me, the me who smiles inwardly at the joyful antics of children, the me whose greatest happiness is to bring happiness to others. Fortunately, that me can be quickly placed to one side to uncover yet another me below, a me of roiling insecurities, a pulsing miasma of infantile neediness me, quick to sense abandonment, a me of unseemly oral fixations and obsessive thoughts better left undescribed. Under that me there is a thin layer of silt thought by scientists to be evidence of earth's collision with a large meteor some 65 million years ago, possibly resulting in the extinction of the dinosaurs and giving rise to the age of mammals. Under that there's a service elevator and some core infrastructure. This area requires a maintenance keycard and special clearance and is off limits to the public, sorry. Anyway, below that there's another me, the me of radiant boyhood, of big dreams and big skies, the fresh-faced me gazing into the azure firmament of my future in wonder and bright hope. This me, parenthetically, is very easy to miss, so don't blink. Beneath that me resides still another me, a me of relentless self-censure, the cynical me that refuses to engage unless the game is already won, the embittered self-defeating me whose grim pleasures are the pleasures of failure predicted and disgust validated. Beneath that me there's the me of flickering hope, the single sustaining candle me, the me of dreams deferred but not abandoned, and of course underneath that me there's validated public parking, remember both the color and letter code on your level. Both Quiznos and the movie theater will stamp your ticket. Under that we come to the core me, the irreducible me, the me shorn of all layers of personality and all masks removed. This me, surprisingly, uncannily resembles Ann B. Davis, Alice of TV's The Brady Bunch.