I appreciate the women who somehow manage, within Match's confining boxes, to say something unexpected or cliche-flipping or thought provoking or (and I'm being deadly serious here) goofy. Maybe it doesn't even make sense to look in a profile for anything beyond the pictures, and some raw data, since everything presented will be trumped by a first conversation and, if the fates decree, a first meeting. Besides, upon entry into the field of romance [at the northwest corner of Friendship Drive and Pheromone Alley] I strive to be a man of all things that speak louder than words.
I don't entirely understand why my response in Match's "Ethnicity" box is, "I'll tell you later." But a promise is a promise, so I've called a press conference for May 17th.
For the right woman, I'd gladly prepare risotto d'asperges vertes, huile de truffes blanches et parmesan. Perhaps for dessert a little terrine de fruits rouges au champagne, glace au thym citronne. I've never made either one before, though I assure you I have the recipes, and I believe in on-the-job training.
If (as some of you have written) you seek a partner in crime, your smart move would be to pass on me and hold out until Professor Moriarty posts a profile on this website.
Let me pause in this promotional announcement to say I'm a great listener. But enough about you ....
My instant list of stuff I like, especially to share: Beethoven's odd-numbered symphonies, Jimmy Page's riff at the beginning of "Over The Hill"; a coffee table book of Paul Klee's art that always settled me down when I was a kid; Metta World Peace's three point shots (for better or worse) during the Lakers' playoff runs; shooting you a knowing glance; honest-to-God Santa Maria barbecue at Jocko's in Nipomo, or the Hitching Post in Casmalia; stumbling upon California's one horse towns (like Nipomo) or 0.6 horse towns (like Casmalia); the vintage map gallery on Beauchamp Place in Knightsbridge, near Harrod's; playing basketball in the old gym at Rustic Canyon park; counting towers in San Gimignano; hiking in Point Reyes; riding on the back of a truck across the Serengeti during the great migration; tuna tataki at Matsuhisa; joining in the regional argument about the Argentine vs. Brazilian sides of Iguazu Falls; jambalaya at the Farmer's Market; playing second base ... or getting there; dashing in the 5 a.m. blackness to the crest of a Himalayan trail, just in time to see the dawn break over Annapurna; dogs; cats; Billy Wilder; body surfing; Evelyn Waugh; french dip sandwiches at Phillippe's; Charles Mingus; appearing annoyed by but secretly enjoying sophomoric come-ons ("please, it's just part of my initiation at I Phelta Thi"); Dorothy Parker; drinks at Terranea; asking a Roman local, in my guidebook Italian, "Dov'e Piazza Navona?" when I'm standing in the middle of it; Alfred Hitchcock; playing tennis (though assuredly not Alfred Hitchcock playing tennis); Henri Matisse; Dodger Stadium; river rafting in Jackson Hole; David Bowie; Ricky Gervais; the entire menu at Comme Ca; exploring local architecture like Union Station, the Bradbury Building, or the late Ships Coffee Shop (where you could toast your own toast); the California State Poppy Reserve in April; Chico Marx; and fresh pineapple juice.
I dream of a woman who not only endorses my list, but guides me daily in its expansion ... who is a practitioner of the crooked smile, the kind word, the kiss on the back of the neck ... and who somehow divines -- in those quiet, contemplative, almost spiritual moments -- that in the next half-second we're going to pounce like wolverines and tear each other's clothes off.
