35Manhattan, United States
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My self-summary
“I’m about to enter a National Ass-Kicking Contest with no legs and a massive ass.” — Veep

Ladies, if I don't respond to your messages, don't take it personally. I've got a lot on my plate. Also: sending pictures of your vaj-jay-jay, or topless pictures, or comments about the size of your vaj-jay-jay won't get you anywhere with me. And if all you wanna do is get inside my pants without a relationship first — keep moving. If all I wanted was sex, I could get that at Dark Room. I'm looking for a rough gentlewoman who knows how to treat a lad.

right now, this pretty much sums up my vibe:

[oh, I've been rocking hard to this one — Krill]

[ . . . and this — Phantogram]

[ . . . and tryin' to learn this swag]

[sharp intake of oxygen . . . slow exhalation of words]:

I INSPIRE a chatoyant mélange of BEAUTIFUL things . . .


This is why I’m attracted to you: you’re graceful, yet goofy; you resonate with KINDNESS, but know how to be NAUGHTY; you get why Anchorman is just as genius as Harold and Maude, why My Bloody Valentine’s guitar feedback is as enigmatic as the thrust of tribal drums, why Geek Love is as moving as Viktor Frankl, or a baby’s navel; you feel a slight patina of sadness for all the world’s subway singers; YOUR WATERS RUN DEEP, yet you’ll never drown in self-absorption; you can fake an accent –– preferably Swedish, or a ’50s, French noir, tough-girl lilt when things get hard (really hard); you’re Jonesin’ to make the familiar –– unfamiliar; you’re powerful in clear and mysterious ways; YOU’RE SVELTE, CHEEKY, IMPECCABLY STYLISH, and still can strip away the accoutrements of the visible to bare your naked, feline SOUL.

MY IDEA OF FUN: For me, the urge to connect is deep –– even though I’m quite cozy in my own skin, and I’m content to go it alone; laugh it alone; dance it alone; art it alone; be it alone (against clichés), if it means "pursuing [my] bliss" (Campbell . . . Joseph, not Naomi). SIMPLY PUT: I WANNA GO HALFSIES ON THE SUCCULENT SLICES OF LIFE WITH SOMEONE COOL. (I’m Big Foot ISO Big Fun.) You may catch me, wide-eyed, contemplating the smooth arc of a ballerina’s back at an ABA performance of Balanchine, or cracking funnies with my boy, Tony “the Silent Assassin” Robles, over a game of 8-ball.

I’m a bon vivant for ABSURD CHALLENGES. That’s why I once catapulted myself into the LABYRINTH OF INDIA as a high school exchange student for a year. By day, I hone my superpowers, training the complex dance/art/liberation/martial art of CAPOEIRA (my Portuguese nickname? “Calca de Couro”: “LEATHER PANTS”). By night, I hit the seductive streets in my favorite creamy Varda boots, “bitchin’!” Armani blazer, and Christian Roth glasses for an evening of chocolate martinis, conversation that builds like wicked architecture, and, perhaps, even a helicopter ride . . . PROVIDING THE COMPANY IS DAZZLING.

The thing is . . . I DON’T THINK IN TERMS OF DATING, but in terms of relating. Can you appreciate creative silence, where two people flow off each other’s energy? Are your chakras open for business? Do you know why your words create your world, and why I avoid negative situations? ("Thoughts are causes; conditions are effects." - Brian Tracy [et al])

I prefer women with edges as well as with curves, who can laugh at dirty jokes and fondle the flesh of avant–garde ideas.

As much as I’m guided by discipline, integrity, and a need to succeed, which touches everything I do –– I still savor moments pregnant with mischief . . . like the time I snuck into my roommate’s room, hid under his bed, and then popped out like a sordid Jack-in-the-box yelling, “Here’s Johnny!” to make his heart flatline.

YES, I’M ADDICTED TO THE ROBOT DANCE: And Saturn. (And "Saturnine.") And personal growth (even when it’s painful). And conventional uses of the words “tough titty.” And enlightening friendships. And winning awards in advertising. And film. And fun. And the flaws of being human. And unearthing the stuff that makes people’s lives –– artful.

So, if this sounds like your gig –– and you wanna take a little laugh safari –– DO SOMETHING that’s going to pique my interest. Because this rocket takes off in T-minus 5, 4, 3, 2, 1 seconds . . .

[message me, Sweetness]
What I’m doing with my life
Full disclosure: I'm into "me-somes!" ("Doh!")

And . . .

Entertaining myself by writing random rap lyrics to songs that will never get recorded.

(And, no, I don't rap.) Check it, though:

"Bust a Nut in a sweet Vampire’s butt / Make yo vegan mommy a zombie at Pizza Hut!"

huh? Huh! . . . You. Know. You. Love. It!

ALSO (I'm quite active): I've been trying to come up with a neologism to label the young kids who bum-rush the NYC SUBWAY (J/M/Z), crank their music, and gyrate through hip-hop stripper routines — sliding down the handrails and turning the J train into their own private "Gentlemen's Club." . . . They shall henceforth be known as Subway "Strappers" (black strippers) or "Strip-Hoppers." yeah, NAILED IT!

tryin to learn this sh#t:


listening to this sh#t:


laughin' at this sh#t:
I’m really good at
Faking orgasms . . .

Malingering . . .

Detecting and avoiding what I call "nose rape" on the subway...

Good thigh-contact with my audience (it builds rapport) . . .

And . . .


A Yahoo article once said that Justin Bieber’s mom was originally going to name him something else. It then asked readers to guess what. I, naturally, saw this challenge –– this . . . this . . . “sphinx for the ages” –– as the key to unlocking heaven’s sweet ambrosia of knowledge and riches. It presented a modern-day Gordian knot that I immediately began to pick with fancy-feathered aplomb. But after hours of intellectual sloth, I was only able to offer up a feeble list –– not even fit to name a racehorse. Perhaps, you (dear reader) can do better than this:

My Partial List of Aborted Justin Bieber Names:

1) Jo-Joe Sphinctersaurus 2) Jimmy Cracked Corn & Beiber Don’t Care 3) Snailfinger 4) AfroGilligan 5) Biebinski Von Bedwetter III 6) Freak Easy 7) Bo-Derelict 8) Pigeon Farts IV 9) Justinfluenza 10) Barbieberella 11) The Biebler Elf (sigh.)
The first things people usually notice about me
I'm chocolate lightning.
I live in abundance.
I'm fueled by ("sustainable") unicorn power.
And I'm a down-to-Mars dude that likes to eat new people.
(Kidding: sheesh!)
Favorite books, movies, shows, music, and food
Bauhaus; Warpaint; Black Uhuru; José González (especially "Down the Line"); Cocteau Twins (um: that would be the tune "Blind Dumb Deaf"); Peaches ("fuck the pain away"); The English Beat; Krill (specifically: "Lucky Leaves"); Blonde Redhead ("astro boy"); Jonathan Fire*eater ("Limes and Skulls"); Interpol ("Obstacle #1"); Cat Stevens ("Teaser and the Firecat" — come-on!); Love & Rockets; Phantogram; Bach (specifically: The Well-Tempered Clavier Bk 1; specifically: "Prelude & Fugue No. 2 in C minor") and (Maxim Vengerov's performance of "Sonata [Toccata and Fugue], BWV 565 A minor"); Portishead, e.g., “Dummy” (It kicks so much ass, NASA had to launch a new Gemini space mission to seek out new alien ass for it to kick); Bowie; doors; Sweet Trip; Martha Argerich (Chopin: The Legendary 1965 Recording); Bob Marley (“Exodus”— yup, my own personal salvation); the Cure (“Close to Me”); the Police (“Regatta de Blanc”: that shit could make hell seem like a cinq a sept); the Jesus and Mary Chain (“Psychocandy”); Pylon; the Pixies; Sade; Volume All Stars; American Analog Set ("Know By Heart"); Cardigans ("Gran Turismo"); Chavez; the Make-Up; Double Dong; Pony; Shirley Rumsey ("Music of the Italian Renaissance"); Autechre; X-Ray Spex . . .

Will You Please Be Quiet, Please?; Geek Love; Heal Your Life; Man’s Search for Meaning; The Faces of Our Past (Images of Black Women from Colonial America to the Present); Flowers in the Attic [so lurid, so smutty; emotional porn, really]; Queen of the Damned; I'm OK, You're OK; Getting Things Done; The Teachings of Don Juan: A Yaqui Way of Knowledge; The Dynamic Laws of Prosperity; How to Win Friends and Influence People; Flannery O’Connor “The Complete Stories”; Gig [a compendium of transcribed interviews where people talked about their jobs at the turn of the millennium: from pot dealers to porn stars to ad execs to taxidermists to buffalo ranchers to food stylists to boarder patrol agents]; The Most Beautiful Woman in Town and Other Stories; The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle; The History of Luminous Motion; Lolita; Rabbit Run; Psycho-Cybernetics; Rich Dad, Poor Dad; Atlas Shrugged; Up From Slavery; The Five Forces of Wellness; The Phantom Tollbooth; The Far Side Gallery 2; Positioning: The Battle for Your Mind; The Tunnel: Selected Poems by Russell Edson; Even Cowgirls Get the Blues; Slaughterhouse Five; Think and Grow Rich; The World Is Flat; Reading Lolita in Tehran; A Fine Balance; Autobiography of a Yogi; When I Say No, I Feel Guilty; The Basketball Diaries; You Just Don’t Understand: Men and Women in Conversation; Without Feathers; Jane Eyre; The Heart Is a Lonely Hunter; Sexing the Cherry; The Pleasure of Small Motions: Mastering the Mental Game of Pocket Billiards; The Daily Drucker; The Painted Bird; Catcher in the Rye; The Metamorphosis . . .

baked potato and sour cream; francis bacon triptychs; Jennybird Alcantara; Mark Ryden; the surrealists; calatrava; travis louie; guitar straps from "Built By Wendy"; oldish concert posters by Kozik; sagmeister . . .

Seinfeld (that shit makes me laughs and laughs and laughs); The Girl With All the Gifts; Veep; Six Feet Under; Scandal (lately I've developed this ritual, though, where I'll sing in a bad falsetto that "dude's about to bust a 'Presidential nut!'" if you watch the show, you'll know what I'm talking about) lol; GIRLS (I find Lena Dunham's character hilarious in that she views the world through such an analytical lens [like me] — so "funicakes," especially the episode where her boyfriend's sister tells her a fake story [to see if she can trick Lena's character into processing her feelings of death better] about a cousin with MS whose only wish before dying was to go to a "big girl" dance, and how her boyfriend bought this cousin a tiny dress and took her to his high school formal. And the only part of this sad sad story that she had any curiosity over was whether he had to buy a tiny dress because the girl was jejune, or whether it was because the MS had physically shrunk her.); Kung Fu Hustle; Garth Marenghi's Darkplace (I like how the characters all use this ridiculous "gun" finger-point; I'm gonna start doin' it, too); House of Flying Daggers; Whiplash (I like its singular exploration and taut dramatization of something that someone like me is consumed with: whether certain means justify certain ends in the pursuit of artistic excellence, or [in this movie’s case] artistic perfection, although the movie's theme was really about the quest for technical musical perfection in terms of execution. Plus, I liked the Machiavellian-like shifts in power that occurred in negotiating the 2 primary relationships in the film.); Surveillance (Jennifer Lynch redeemed herself on this one after “Boxing Helena” — yes, the movie that Kim Basinger reneged on and was forced to pay 8.9 million for breach of oral contract); Bully (great doc on the tragedy of bullying in schools); Nurse Jackie (but you gotta say the "jackie" part with the same nasal intonation as Jackee Harry from "227" when you say "Nurse Jackie"); most things with Parker Posey; Lat Den Ratte Komma In ("Let the Right One In" — the Swedish version; love Swedish flicks); Bette Davis (don't know why; as a writer, I'd write modern-day twisted flicks for her); anything with "midnight" in it ("Midnight Cowboy" . . . "Midnight Run" . . . "Midnight Express"); Reese Witherspoon in "Freeway"; Welcome to the Dollhouse; Super; Ed and His Dead Mother; Slumdog Millionaire (bloody brilliant!); Blade Runner; Ted; Happiness; Red Belt; Freaks and Geeks; (any cheesy [or not] dance flick or doc); Ultraman; The Wire; Harold and Maude; Beasts of the Southern Wild; Tommy Boy ("fat guy in a little coat!"); Watermelon Man; Where’s Poppa?; Alien; Noise (because Tim Robbins plays this character that turns vigilante against noise polluters in NYC; I recall him smashing the bejesus out of cars whose alarms blare nonstop. [Ah...the catharsis of that scene alone.] The best description I've ever heard of car alarms: "Urban Screechbirds."); The Shining; Whale Rider; Toto the Hero; Pulp Fiction; Groundhog Day; Angel Heart; Cape Fear (De Niro version); Death Sentence (Kevin Bacon) [I love revenge movies for some reason.]; Death of a Salesman (Dustin Hoffman version); The Hunger; Amores Perros; Swimming With Sharks (just for Benicio Del Toro's line, "Save that candy-striped shit for the Wall Street wimps."); Touching the Void; La Femme Nikita (luc besson); Santa Sangre; Heathers; Fast Times at Ridgemont High; Chungking Express; City Lights; Pan's Labyrinth; Bugsy Malone; Léolo; My Own Private Idaho; Dead Ringers; Planet Bboy; The Graduate; 16 Candles; Friday; Man on a Wire (the doc, silly!); Delicatessen; The 400 Blows; Singapore Sling; Anchorman: The Legend of Run Burgundy; The Pianist; Blood Simple; The Princess and the Warrior; Forks Over Knives; Simple Men; Broken Embraces; The Skin I Live In; The Princess Bride; Only the Strong; Rushmore; Memento; All About My Mother; Brazil; Three Sisters (1970); Apocalypto; A Christmas Story; City of the Lost Children; Elevator to the Gallows; Gaslight; Donnie Darko; Triumph of the Nerds; Blue Velvet; The Man Who Fell To Earth; Old Boy (Korean version); Napoleon Dynamite; The Stepford Wives (1975); The Brood; Felicia's Journey; I Saw the Devil; To Sir With Love; Chocolate (Thai action flick); The Raid; The Longest Yard (1974); Betty Blue; Night Watch; What Ever Happened to Baby Jane . . .
Six things I could never do without
opposable thumbs
a free pass (with a plus-infinity) to a sweet after-life
A good night's sleep (night upon night; week upon week)
a culture that values life and practices "primum non nocere"
I spend a lot of time thinking about
Why did people in ancient times speak with perfect English accents, and why was there only 1 black person back then (at least that's what Hollywood teaches)?

Also: Sometimes I find it quite Odd-Todd and stupidly-charming how much e-n-e-r-g-y men waste ogling chicks. I mean . . . I see the rubbernecks and the double-takes and the dropped jaws and the backpedaling and the 360-look-backs and the cartoon-eyed Boy-Yoi-Yoi-Oing-ings on a daily basis. We’re (even) talking about men who look like they’re on their last legs –– teetering in a drug-addled pas de deux (sans partner) –– suddenly jerked back to reality by a woman’s presence. And these Joes have just enough juice to utter a slurred pick-up line before dying: “Hey, bayaaaaaaa……….bee.” I guess that’s the power of "tightness": Women are tight. Men are loose. I think men –– with their looking-at-chicks games –– deserve at least a bronze medal, because their flummadiddle is almost as complex and enervating and fun to watch as the women’s floor routines in the Olympics.
On a typical Friday night I am
usually taking a b. boy class with b. girl Ephrat (tryin' to find "the cool," the flava, the flow, the character, the gesture, the freeze, the funny in the movement), or searching for that special chick with a sexy Broom Hilda voice who's forgotten the keys to the lock on her purse that's the size of a sequined sarcophagus which probably also contains a dead body inside and, therefore, she needs someone like me with a clever set of skill-sets to pick the lock of said purse so's she can get at something secret inside that she wants to show me
The most private thing I’m willing to admit
Sorry: I'm not gaga over Apple's design. I prefer Dieter Rams' design, which, obviously influenced Apple's.

I like Desi chicks. I just realized that women ("woa! man / woooooOh, man / she was a thief / you got to believe . . . ") with biggish noses turn me on a little. In fact, to go on, I kinda like ugly-sexy (and I'm not sure what I mean by that). Also: skin that's so black (Africa-black) that it's almost iridescent — it almost makes 'em disappear from view — is cool.

More: If we ever meet, I'll give you some hobson jobson that'll make you all mubble-fubbles inside.

More about more: I'm the dude sweating buckets in class; I always pronounce the "w" in "sword"; "I came all the way from China in a matchbox."; and, sorry, I won't like your cat!

My expertise lies in the art of air-drums, air-guitar — AIR-ANYTHING, really!

(It’s my calling, the reason I was put on this planet — and not Saturn.)

I was born to AIR (fill in the blank):

air-surgery, air-science, air-phlebotomy, air-cartography,
air-ventriloquism, air-genetic-mapping, air-vampirism,
air-can-of-tuna-opening, air-kangaroo-boxing . . .
You should message me if
It's not rocket surgery: if you live Seinfeld; if you're callipygous (and you know it, clap your hands); if you're a cute curvy chick made outta "ticky-tacky" — I'll probably dig you . . .

Or . . .

"Baby's all growns up and she all growns up and she all growns up!"
The two of us