I'm an editor/journalist who covers consumer technology, but often think I'd rather be one of those political pundits who appears on Lawrence O'Donnell or Rachel Maddow and riffs about "McCain-Feingold" or "Simpson-Bowles." Just one problem, though: I know these are bipartisan reform acts, but I have no fucking idea what they really mean.
If you meet me in person, and if we really click and let all that ultra-polite small talk evaporate away, I trust you'll find me skeptical, opinionated, and even slightly misanthropic—but also demonstrably, emphatically warm and engaging. If you roll with Meyers-Briggs (no, that's not another legislative effort—but it could be), know that I'm an INTJ.
I am practiced in looking askance. I do not approve of men wearing mustaches unless they're characters in period dramas. I know my fair share of net-speak, which concerns me, yes, because I'm a mid-40s man, not a 15-year-old girl. I speak to my dog in falsetto because I'm worried my natural voice is too bossypants for her. When I think of the TheOnion website, I proclaim silently, in my head, "L'onion!" in a thick, affected French accent. I dislike various words, but will nonetheless use them when proper context and/or specificity is required. These include foodie, ointment, panties, moist, and crumpet.
Romance is tough. It often feels almost unlikely. But who knows. If we can cut through the unseemly over-sharing of OKCupid (and I'm as guilty as anyone), something might just happen. Please mail me if you think I might make you laugh, and vice versa.
Oh, and my pictures are up-to-date and I really am 6-feet-tall. But not an inch taller.