39Portland, United States
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My self-summary
I'm probably some kind of Martian. No idea how I got here, but it's been fun so far.

I am passilico, archedrious, and makingupwords.
What I’m doing with my life
I write, I pull taps, and I absorb everything I can. As long as I'm learning I'm happy.

I recently exiled myself from SF after about a decade as a magazine editor. Seems to be a cyclical thing. Spend a few years living twenty minutes into the future, then run away from it for a while. Already did mountain, island, and forest. This time I'm in the desert. I've been a lot of things in between, but this time around I'm a freelance writer and occasional wasteland bartender. If nothing else I finally got to scratch "throw drunk cowboys out of a 19th century saloon" off my bucket list.

I'd like to write a book at some point, but everyone says that. Kind of like how everybody thinks about becoming Batman. "Dude, if I had terminal cancer or my entire family was killed by the yakuza or something... I could be the most badass vigilante/novelist ever." Doesn't really count for shit until you do it. Which I haven't.

Also, I'm writing a book. The self abuse in the previous paragraph pushed me over the edge.
I’m really good at
Talking an awful lot about just about anything. Making points and getting them shot down. I love losing a good argument. It's so much more exciting than winning one, really.

Writing, reading, messing with people in online games. Or on dating sites.

I set up a profile for Hitler. Found a fairly nice photo of the guy where his hair wasn't so greasy, shopped out the mustache, colorized it, and tried to answer the rest of the profile pretty much like he would, with only a few liberties taken. The guy turned out to be far, far more popular than me on here. There are few things on this Earth more horrific than waking up every day to a mailbox full of love letters to Hitler. I had to kill him.
The first things people usually notice about me
Whenever I'm behind a bar people seem compelled to inform me that I look just like Micky Dolenz from the Monkees. At least I'm not Peter Tork. Not that he isn't dreamy in his own way.
Favorite books, movies, shows, music, and food
This is exactly the kind of thing that's more fun to discover in person. Copout answer, sure. But I'd much rather look at someone's bookshelf while they're over my shoulder to tell me about it. Then, ideally, curl up with the book in question and completely distract each other from getting it read.

Er, unless you happened to answer this with "my favorite books are the Bible and the Twilight saga." Not that one of those doesn't have a few good bits. Actually, I could totally curl up with Song of Songs.
Six things I could never do without
Almost embarrassingly, a smartphone. A place with no internet access feels exactly like a room without a window. Or a door. I keep so much of my work and memories on here that when it craps out on me it feels like a partial lobotomy. A whole metacortex gone at a whack. Which probably explains why I've been spending so much time exploring canyons and abandoned silver mines. It's a necessary separation sometimes.

My family. They're frustrating and I see them seldom, but they're my best link to humanity.

And of course I'd need something to write about, and someone to read it.

I'd like to be an iconoclast and not put "love" and "sex" here like everyone else, but yeah, love and sex. Went cold turkey for a while just to see if I could. I didn't die, but it wasn't fun.

Finally, a proofreader, who would tell me that's seven and put himself out of a job.
I spend a lot of time thinking about
How to prove the fundamental goodness of mankind with math, and why I always feel like trying to do that after a few drinks. Some day the napkin scribbled Nash equilibriums will make sense the next morning.
On a typical Friday night I am
Grilling bits of a late cow while tinkering with an ion engine or something similarly ludicrous that won't actually work if I'm lucky because it has no practical use and is just spoiling to kill everyone around it in a half dozen ways while making a very loud noise. Apparently that's what bachelor nerds do in lieu of side dishes. At least on Fridays. The neighbors hate it.
The most private thing I’m willing to admit
I have a mutually abusive relationship with time. Out of twelve clocks in my house six are set to incorrect times, three are flashing 12:00, two are broken, and one is running backwards. At least that one is right four times a day. People need to stop giving me clocks. I appreciate the concern, but "more clocks" is not the solution. Tempus frangit.

I can't dance. No rhythm. I need a metronome to masturbate.
You should message me if
You can teach me an equal or greater number of impossible things before breakfast.

Which wasn't intended to be a double entendre, but there it stands.
The two of us