At the outset, I must confess: I have a crush on Maggie Smith. That sultry dowager. She might be 112, but fuck it, she's gold.

I'm from California. Moved to Brooklyn because people took wearing sleeves more seriously here.

Am close to my brothers though they live far (Huntington Beach) and wide (Montana).

I cook, mix a drink, ensure the lights and gas stay on, keep houseplants alive and the wolves away (for now).

My default is set to casual, instincts bent towards the silly, but I class it up when the situation calls for it.

I went to New Zealand once and it was the most gorgeous country I've been to. Lots of sheep. Lots of gorgeous sheep.

I tend to nap in my bathtub when hungover.

I'm a federal man working international cases. On the side, I write. Ideally I'd live in Italy and have Anthony Bourdain's job.

Trivia. Pretending that I know what I'm talking about. Haikus on bar napkins. Horrible puns. Driving in foreign countries. Diffusing awkward situations. Accents. Entertaining grandparents. Sidewalk navigating.

Just kidding I'm not good at anything but canasta.

I speak Californian. I'll make you laugh. I'll probably spill my drink on my pants at some point.

Right now Orphan Master's Son, a book on Vietnam vets, Mad Men, early Stones, old garage comps, The Men, Deerhunter, sazeracs, New Yorker profiles, PBS, Reigning Sound. Always tacos, Japanese, T.C. Boyle, Inglorious Basterds, Pavement, Thee Oh Sees and English soccer. Sometimes altogether at once.

Top hats, sugarcane, supernovas, Univision, the number four and miniature horses.

Apparently we're capable of holding up to eight different thoughts in our head at once. And it's said the measure of intelligence is the ability to hold two opposing thoughts at the same time. Right now I'm wondering if this song is by Lionel Ritchie or Billy Ocean.

At this point in life I'm more interested in what someone else has to say than what I'm thinking.

Driving around in a van solving mysteries with a talking dog. The usual.

On occassion I listen to Rush.

I'm also capable of being less a dumbass and more sincere than my profile suggests.

You're like a second-hand book on the night stand: open, a touch worn, got something to say, look great in 11 point font.

Or you know, you're up for whiskey and nachos.