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33 Bushwick, NY Man


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I’m looking for

  • Women
  • Ages 21-33
  • Near me
  • For new friends

My details

Last online
Today – 3:02am
6' 1" (1.85m)
Body Type
Average build
Other but it’s not important
Post grad
Doesn’t have kids
English (Fluently), Japanese (Somewhat)
My self-summary
Write a little about yourself. Just a paragraph will do.
Hi. I'm a writer in my professional life, but when I come home I like to sit down, relax, and ... pen giant choose-your-own-adventure dating profiles.

So, yes, I'm a little quirky. In case you feel that somehow this profile doesn't tell you enough about me, I'm contractually obligated to be on the twitters: @Jetgrahamradio. I don't know what I'm looking for exactly, but an adventure is always a great place to start.


Your search for love has brought you here, to the deepest jungles of the Internet! In front of you stands a tremendous door, beyond which all is dark as kraken’s ink. Struggling to control the shake in your hands, you brush aside the hoary skeins of vegetation that have grown thick along the Temple’s edifice.

You exhale in sharp, determined puffs. This is it: the hot and crumbling remains of a once-mighty Dating Empire. Just who was--or is--this Mysterious Mister G?


Pierce Mangrove lumbers up next to you and hunches over. He breathes raggedly, the sound drowning out the peculiar rumble that you thought you just heard from the heavens.

Sweat makes interstellar maps out of Pierce's shirt. Despite his name, he is a soft and fussy man. But he's also your most trusted counsel, and you would never date without his advice’ve had this funny, creaking feeling about Pierce on this trip. Like he’s in danger.


“Wait--who said that?” you demand of the verdure. The locals tell of creeping madness in these jungles, but you had laughed at their odd little superstitions...

You dismiss the parenthetical voice and fears about Pierce and take your first tentative steps through the looming portal. Pierce wraps a clammy hand around an outcrop of your shirt as you wade through the cimmerian gloom. You walk for what seems like hours, unsure of your direction or, eventually, even your existence. Finally, light pokes through from somewhere, as through a dark gauze, as hope through depression, and you stumble towards it.

You both gasp as you come upon its source: a huge and majestic high-vaulted chamber! The rays that stream through the ceiling fill you with joy after three days of the canopy’s starless night. Even Pierce looks exalted now despite deltas of sweat forming, then discharging off his face. In the new light you can see cobblestones as still and barren as a seafloor. But as your eyes adjust, blemishes flare in the dust’s complexion. Your heart quakes as you realize they’re footsteps.

Someone else is here.

The trail leads straight ahead, up a small flight of steps to a giant oaken door. To your immediate left, there is a rough hewn opening--it looks like a cave--from which comes a soft, enticing phosphorescence. Next to the opening, there is a chalk drawing of a man with green question marks bottled in his head and torso.

“We could follow the footsteps, but--who knows--it could be a bandit!” says Pierce. You love him, but his tendency to launch into redundant exposition incites your fingers to clench, your teeth to gnaw at one another. “Or this weird glowing cave seems like it might have some clues as to Mister G. Actually, though, I’m not feeling so hot. Whaddayasay we just call the whole thing off and get a cold drink back in town? You could probably find a man at the bar.”

He certainly looks like he needs the drink. His shirt has darkened completely. The tyrant Sweat has conquered all lands before Him.

HEAD TOWARDS THE GLOWING CAVERN? (continue to "What I'm doing with my life?”)
FOLLOW THE FOOTSTEPS? (continue to "Favorite Books, Movies")
TAKE PIERCE’S ADVICE AND HEAD TO A BAR? (continue to the "First Things People Notice About Me")
What I’m doing with my life
Don’t overthink this one; tell us what you’re doing day-to-day.
You turn to your left, towards the odd glow. As you suspected, this room is more cave than structure. You dance your fingers along the spine of a wall, finding it smooth and cool. The source of light appears to be from a cave painting up ahead of you. In the dim recesses opposite you, you can just make out wisps of small containers. Boxes, maybe? Was this place used for storage? For whom? By whom? With a nod, you instruct Pierce to check it out. He whimpers but obeys.

You continue on to examine the gargantuan painting. The light emitted from it builds as you come closer, but there are no discernible bulbs or gaps in the wall. You decide it’s coming from the lines of the painting itself--some sort of bioluminescence natural to underthings. It dawns on you that it’s a map of a city: a vast and jumbled metropolis, streets and buildings sprouting up with order incomprehensible, all sprawled out languorously next to a bountiful sea. You let your mind wander through its thoroughfares and alleyways until you notice, a wall away from where you began, in what must be the city’s outskirts, another question mark. Its dangling dot protrudes from the wall’s surface, as if you can push it.

Before you can, you’re interrupted by a nervous squeal from Pierce. You gather that he has found a curious box, untouched by dust and decay, on the far side of the cave. Upon the box is chiseled a simple message: VI.

INVESTIGATE THE BOX OF VI? (Six Things I Can't do Without)
PUSH THE BUTTON? (Examine the Most Recently Answered Question)
I’m really good at
Go on, brag a little (or a lot). We won’t judge.
You reach for Prometheus. A Ridley Scott film with Michael Fassbender? It must be awesome, you reason.

A keen of sirens blisters the air of the library. Uniformed police, guns drawn, stomp through the library towards you. The surly Ancient Librarian is thrown to the ground. You put up your hands.

“That’s her, chief,” says a familiar voice. You turn. It’s Pierce Mangrove, miraculously alive. Next to him is an aggressively moustached man in a light linen suit. You recognize his picture from a solemn, hushed report you saw on the news: it’s the dreaded Chief Inspector of the Good Taste Division.

The Chief looks you up and down, smug satisfaction oozing out from his under his bristles. “We’ve had our eyes on you for quite some time,” he says, slight Spanish accent percolating, “and it looks like my hunch was right. We had Officer Mangrove following you undercover for years. Even rigged that lightshow to see what you’d do. This country has laws, you know. Decency. That movie was absolutely terrible--it didn’t even make sense. Don’t get me started on that biologist. Good work, Officer Mangrove.”

The laws of the country are draconian. You are hauled away in handcuffs and sentenced to twenty years for bad taste by a scowling judge. You never learn the Mystery of Mister G.

The first things people usually notice about me
I’m an empty essay… fill me out!
You swallow, hard and dry. Why not get a drink? Plus, Pierce might need to seek medical attention for this excessive sweating. You head back through the gloom, guided by a growing chorus of hoots, chirps, and ululations of all the creatures of the jungle.

As you step out into the muted light, you realize that something is wrong. Everything is hushed. Like it’s holding its breath.

“What are you wai--” inquires Pierce, his sentence cut short by the evil-looking arrow birthed from his neck.

Above Pierce’s sputters and gurgles you hear myriad grunts from all directions. From behind ferns and up from under the tortured roots of mangroves appears a tribe of savage men, shirtless, their abs twitching in grotesque synchronicity. Their hair stands straight up, bewitched by dark magick--or at least hair gel with extra strong hold. They have you surrounded. There is nowhere to run.

A leader emerges. He points a cell phone at himself and clicks a picture of his shirtless body. Turning towards you, he utters words which chill you:

“Sup girl? You look sexxyyyy lol”

You have no choice but to go out on dates with them for all eternity. You sit and meet a procession of their “bros,” each one a better, closer, and more important bro than the last. You scream but no one pays you any attention.

Favorite books, movies, shows, music, and food
Help your potential matches find common interests.
“Agh, Christ! Not another one. I just got this blippin’ place cleaned up.”

The speaker is a sinewy old man in baggy workman’s clothes. A lizard’s egg of a head, speckled and prominently bumped, perches on his scrawny neck. His long filthy beard limps the last few laps in a race to the floor. He is mid-cigarette, resting an armpit on a mop. All around you hang heavy curtains, blocking your view.

He fixes a calculating gaze on you and Pierce, then tilts his head back and jabs two crooked fingers at the sky. “It’s almost time for my break, you know,” he says. “I don’t ‘ave to do this one. It’s in the rulebook, innit? Scheduled breaks. I want my break.”


“Wait,” you shout, “You heard that too? Where is it coming from?”

“Of course I heard ‘im,” Otto says, flecks of spit piling at the corners of his beard. “Not deaf, am I? Gotta be some law against this.”


“Ageism is what this is. Right. Alright, let’s get this over with.”

His voice lifts to the drained, drab rainbow of those who have spent too long in the service industry. “WELCOME!” he says, flinging arms this way and that in violent, yet mocking, spasms. “Welcome and this way! To The Mysterious Library of the Mysterious Temple of the OH SO Mysterious Mister G! Are you ready to learn its mystical secrets?”

He pauses. You sense he is waiting for a smattering of applause, the rare, lonely gasp. Otto mutters at the silence, and with a defeated shrug pulls a nearby cord.

The curtains fall. You and Pierce gawk at the size--the overwhelming, marvelous Byzantine complexity--of the room in front of you. In all directions paths blanketed by Persian rugs radiate outward from your feet towards distant points of singularity; bookshelves tower vertiginously over you, threatening, you fear, to heave up their contents in nauseous fits; ladders climb up, grow old and dim, and then disappear into a candlelight troposphere; shelves labor and strain and buckle under heavy loads of bloated and yellowed paperbacks, knights and raiders and pirates and spacemen flexing and leaping, in flagrante heroica, on dog-eared covers, prim and perky hardcovers shunning their neighbors, and self-righteous legal tomes in sober burgundies, navies, and blacks, names of dead white men tattooed on them in prissy gold leaf; ochre landmasses float upon amber seas on the occasional antique globe; smudged cabinets of curiosities flaunt their wares, the priceless and the tacky blissfully cohabiting the same shelves; toys, tomes, tapestries, binders with tufts and shocks of paper protruding, gadgets, gizmos, objects d’art, ottomans and chaise lounges, flying carpets, magician’s kits, crystal balls full of roiling answers to questions asked and those not, foreboding statues, and other manner of ephemera lie in a splendid disarray.

As your awe subsides, you notice Otto waiting, impatiently reading the sports page.

“Here’s what happens. S’game, really. I show you two things and you figure out which Mister G likes. Guess right and you’ll see where it leads you. Guess wrong--and Otto gets to clean up the mess. Got it? Good. First round’s for you, Manswamp.”

Pierce takes a few shuffles forward.

Two daises raise from the floor. On one is a copy of Atlas Shrugged. On the other is a ragged, floppy issue of Superman.

“I can do this,” he says. “I mean, one contains an important philosophy that instructs man on how to best live his life. The other is a silly, unrealistic book for children.”

He reaches for Atlas Shrugged. Upon touching it, the book erupts into an unholy purple flame. The fire licks and snuggles up against Pierce’s arm, setting him alight. He drops to the floor, writhing in agony, unable to quench the mystic flames.

Otto glares sullenly at the ashes once called Pierce Mangrove. “Bad choice. Now it’s your turn.”

Two more daises rise, this time with DVDs on them.

“Your choice,” says Otto. “Ghostbusters or Prometheus?”

PICK GHOSTBUSTERS? (Go DOWN to “Friday Night”)
PICK PROMETHEUS? (Go UP to "I'm Really Good At")
The six things I could never do without
Think outside the box. Sometimes the little things can say a lot.
You always liked opening presents.

Touching your hand to the box of VI, you start at its aching, unworldly cold. Is there ice inside? You strain to open the lid to no avail. Pierce joins you, flaccid muscles trembling at this sudden, unwelcome conscription.

“Maybe we cou--” he begins, before a prolonged “schluuup” rips through the cavern, drowning him out. You feel a tremendous force tearing at you, pulling you down and around and into the box. You fight but your arms are already inside, stretched out to fantastical lengths, streaking away towards an unseen horizon, transmuting to glowing bytes of information. The rest of you follows the irresistible suction. You tumble inside.

As sound and light recedes, you find yourself in a sterile showroom. There are no obvious exits marring the gleam of its white walls. In the center of the room, under spotlight, sits what seems to be an ordinary dishwasher.

“God, where are we now?” Pierce says. It is half-whine, half-whisper.

From behind you comes a rhythmic, atonal chanting. Hooded figures, some no taller than your shoulder, approach cautiously. One bold member approaches and sniffs at you.

“Gee Eee!” this leader proclaims, satisfied.
“Gee Eee,” the rest answers dutifully, in chorus.
“The One in Six Cycles!” someone hoots.

They crowd around you, herding you towards the dishwasher with urgent gestures. They become more frantic, more animated--ecstatic from your mere proximity to the thing--as you near the control console. Unsure what to do, you press one of the buttons at random.

The leader lowers his face to the console. He peers. “Pots and pans,” he says, shoulders collapsing inward like a dying star, grin on his face.

“POTS AND PANS!” the cult screams. There is a raucous celebration.

You become High Priestess of this strange group, living out your days in frilly domestic captivity. You are pampered but bored. Your only task to tend to the Mysterious Gee Eee. Yet sometimes you linger. You linger for hours and days and weeks, flinging armies of brain cells to perish on the impenetrable barricades of that first letter. What was it you wanted to know about this G? You cannot remember.

On a typical Friday night I am
Netflix and takeout, or getting your party on — how do you let loose?
Good choice,” says Otto. A sudden gust stirs up whorls of paper, momentarily blocking your vision.

When the papers settle, you gasp. The library is gone. You’re on a deserted city block that reeks of rotten fruit and wet pennies and broken dreams. The clouds are the color of lead and it’s hot enough that you think they just might melt. You gasp again: in front of you, alive and well, is Pierce Mangrove. Despite the heat, he burrows down in a rumpled trenchcoat like it will ward off bad thoughts of good women.

“Let’s go, doll.”

You climb up the rusted stairwell of a building that looks like it was built for five bucks and sold for two. Pierce leads you to Apartment G and raps a beat on the door. A man opens it. He’s tall enough, but built for books.

Pierce flashes an I.D. “I’m Detective Mangrove. This is my gal Friday.”

“Er--hi. Can I help you?” he asks.

“That all depends. I’m looking for the truth--and the lady here wants a dark drink in a chilled glass. We’ll take ‘em in whatever order you wanna give them.”

“Uh, I’ll see what I have. Please come in, Detective. Miss.”

While the man clamors about in the kitchen, Pierce picks up his pictures, leaving smudges on them like stains on the soul. You see the stems of a calendar peeping out of a desk drawer, but you can’t make out the words. Pierce calls out, his voice easy, “So, where were you last Friday?”

“Me?” the man asks, appearing with drinks. “Why--I was at the club. You know, dancing and such.”

“You got any witnesses?”

“Uh. I was dancing with strangers. All night. But I do have this.” He flashes a wrist with the dark whisper of a stamp on it. Everything looks legit, but you notice the man shifting in his seat.

“What do you think?” Pierce asks you in an undertone.

Something about the wrist stamp looked fishy to you. But if you could get to that calendar, that would solve everything.

GO FOR THE WRIST? (Head down to the "most private thing I'm willing to admit")
GO FOR THE CALENDAR? (Head down to "You Should Message Me If"
The most private thing I’m willing to admit
I’m an empty essay… fill me out!
You throw out a narrowed, conspiratorial glance at Pierce, guide his eyes with yours. He snatches at the offending hand and holds it up and away from his body to catch it in the light. Sure enough, under this interrogation it yields its big secret:

“Brooklyn Book Fair,” it reads. “Admits One.”

“You don’t understand! Look--yeah, so I went to the book fair instead of dancing. My leg was sore. Kickboxing! I’m a great dancer! I’m a GREAT DANCER!”

As the slam of a cop car muffles the man’s pleas, you consider whether the recently passed mandatory Friday dancing laws were, perhaps, too strict. Pierce bursts your reverie with a pointed question, “So, gorgeous. You thinkin’ what I’m thinkin’?”

What he was thinking was not what you were thinking.

He grabs your hand and off you run: through bleak and empty streets and industrial zones turned playgrounds for asbestos and particles of silt, past workmen huddled at odd times over hard-to-categorize meals, stews and salads to celebrate the interregnum between breakfast and brunch, scrambled eggs cooked with welding tools served with fussy punctuality at 3:37 PM, and into and out of the paltry defenses of the parking lots of divy hotels the color of salmonflesh. This, you think, is the bloated corpse of entire decades of the American experiment.

You arrive at your destination, a nondescript exterior apart from the graffiti plastering it (some tortured individual made of it a hideous, if technically proficient, monument to the Screechless blandness of California Dreams) but smuggled inside its innards oh inside five floors of pure dance encoiled and constricted by a spiralling rampway. The name? Dance ‘All Days.

You end up on Floor Four which, whether from irony or immigration, is dedicated to Eastern Europe’s newest craze, the Electro-calliope, the thump thump of which’s bass makes your hips pop and the flit flit of which’s melodies makes your head go bananas, or merely want a banana split, since it reminds you longingly of a friendly neighborhood ice cream truck.

You and Pierce and his trenchcoat make a grand entrance despite the unique crowd, celebrities and extraterrestrials and representatives of Native American tribes in getups that seem conjured up whole from some feverish/altered dreamstate but were really part of a particularly odious Treaty signed and stamped in 1977 by an inebriated Gerald Ford. You dance past limit, past exhaustion, until your arms are flaccid tubes that, oh yes, happen to be/feel on fire; until Pierce drops dead and then you dance with his Ghost, who is far more nimble but far less fun for all the moaning. You dance with Fear, then tiring of him with Danger, and finally with Death, breaking the trio’s tiny, gnarled little hearts into a million sparkling pieces. You dance and you dance and you dance and you never stop ever, even once, to think of what could be out there lurking on the Internet.

You should message me if
Offer a few tips to help matches win you over.
You’re about to sneak a look at the calendar when the man bolts out of an open window and onto the fire escape. Pierce follows in hot pursuit, but, with a deftness possessed only by escape artists, gymnasts, and the truly, hypnotically clumsy, he gets tangled in his own trenchcoat and falls down the stairs. You crash through the window and leap across rooftops after your prey.

He jumps off a parapet at forty feet and vanishes into a shimmering, filmy brocade of air. Reality wobbles, suddenly uncertain. You take a breath and dive through its warp and weft.

You slide into a plain white room. Your quarry sits reading in an ugly, pale green recliner of formidable size. Ever so often he takes his left hand from a somber book and nudges his glasses back up the slope of his nose. With burgundy smoking jacket and pipe dangling from his lips, he looks a little like a sitcom’s idea of a sitcom’s idea of a Dad, or the affected founder of a men’s magazine of questionable journalistic value.

He catches you staring at him.

“Oh, is it this?” he asks, crossing his eyes to look at the pipe. “It’s just for show. See. Bubbles.”

He blows and sends flocks of bubbles migrating to warmer climates near the ceiling of whatever place this is.

“And another secret: this ‘somber book’ is just another Superman comic.” As he speaks, a crayon drawing of a rocket, hasty and scribbled and beautiful in its purity, explodes from his fingertips and crashes into a nearby cartoon Earth. “I like him because I think--I think he’s sort of a third-culture kid. He doesn’t have a home so he does his best wherever he finds himself. I grew up on another planet too. But, oh yeah, I should probably introduce myself. I’m Graham. I’m the Mysterious Mister G.”

He rises from the recesses of his chair and gives you a warm and hearty handshake.

“Ug. Listen to me. ‘Warm and hearty handshake?’ How do I even know? It’s probably a clammy, limpid imposition. I’m the worst. Knowing me,” he says, casting a conspiratorial glance over his shoulder, “I’m probably secretly hoping that this makes it on Gawker or something. That I get famous from a silly dating profile.”

A snowbank of emotions, equal parts guilt and sadness, covers his features and you think he might stop talking altogether. But he continues.

“Anyway, I’m sorry to make you go through all that just to get to me. And sorry I had to kill Pierce all those times. But I guess he wasn’t really your friend anyway. I made him up because he had a funny name and because these books were always bloodthirsty. I guess I thought it would be fun to try and write one, but then I got a little carried away. And then I started thinking: did girls even read these books when they were little?”

He snaps and suddenly a second chair pops into existence.

“That’s for you, if you want it. You can make up that part. But I also--you know--I also sort of thought that this whole internet dating thing is like Choose Your Adventure. You go out, have some random adventures, but there’s not really a story behind it. It’s just these knobby joints without any connective tissues holding them together.”


“Quiet up there, You. Or Me. God, I’m ruining it. That’s sort of how I am though. I really like beginnings, but I can never stick the endings. If only the first hint of an idea weren’t always so fun, so necessary! I want to do a lot in life--it seems like we all do--but one thing that will be important for me is figuring out how to make my middle and ending just as fulfilling--just as happy and worthwhile--as my beginning. I wonder if that’s the challenge for a lot of people. Having a good ending can make all the difference to people just getting started.”

He sighs. In this place it’s like continents rushing together.

“OK, you’ve heard enough from me. That’s all, folks! The Mystery of Temple G wasn’t much of one at all. After all that, it’s really just beginning another story: boy meets girl. This your part now anyway. I should probably go outside and have my own adventure.”

He snaps again, his clothes transfigured into shiny reds and blues and yellows. Up, up, and away he flies, primary colors singing out across spectra, whole axes and dimensions shedding and peeling like a rocket’s scaffolding, until he becomes just another mote in the eye of an enduring yellow sun.