( The Cliffs Notes ((that will date me if you will not)) version of the following nonsense is this; I am simply interested in making your acquaintance and finding out if we can make irresponsible fun happen, all the while affording you the opportunity to recognize I am not a complete tit.)
I was born on the banks of Millers River in Massachusetts.
I hot footed it to the central coast of California when I was seventeen.
I have been in Portland for twenty one years.
I have had profoundly memorable lives in each of these places.
I believe I have something of a blind spot when it comes to differentiating the cues suggesting - "hey, let's wrap this up" or "hey, this is a bunch of fun, let's do it again' or "this is a bunch of fun, but we should blow this pop stand and go get our knickers in a knot.'
If I have all of the information I need to make informed decisions, I am OKeh with just about anything.
I will borrow your fire wood and steal your humor.
I tell good stories.
You'd be interested in a mid-night picnic atop Rocky Butte?
You'd care to combat a cool, grey Sunday sidling about the stacks of a public library?
You'll humor me with a game of footsie under a table topped with ice cold cocktails?
A neighborhood walk at dusk, watching the rest of the world settle in for the night?
A movie? At home or abroad.
Cannot go wrong.
You harbor a genuine sensuality unabashedly employed to satisfy yourself and your partner?
I will gobble you up.
I chose to expend a good deal of energy over the last three decades molding, executing an existence which continues to reward me with endless happiness and defiantly implausible experiences.
I am a big fan of spur of the moment adventures.
I have summers off from work. This year I decided to treat myself to some travel. I visited friends and family both on this coast as well as the original coast.
I got myself to New York to see a Diane Arbus exhibit. It broke my heart. In the good way hearts can be broken. When they balloon up, become brittle, leave too little room for the lungs to work properly, and you find yourself gasping.
I apply myself a great deal to the craft of photography. I have done it, and continue to do it, professionally here in Portland.
I also drive buses. Children AND drunks. I like to keep things interesting.
Years ago I volunteered myself to a cult that worships vintage motor scooters. I apply a certain amount of energy and imagination to keeping this part of my life vibrant and silly.
I am also pretty skilled at deploying an absurd sense of humor while in a crowd so I may hide in plain sight.
I love photography and am told that I am very good at it.
I have old Vespas and I am a genius at braking with my feet, ruining far too many pairs of shoes.
Eating out too often.
If I am in the mood, I am pretty adept at coming up with a plan on the fly.
Blue eyes tethered to an honest east coast stare that is simply wondering who you are and what the fuck you may be up to. My friends tell me it can be unnerving.
A handful that are meaningful to me. I bet I like most of the movies you like as well.
Dialogue driven comedies from the thirties were a wonderful addition to the world.
The Philadelphia Story
His Girl Friday
Bringing up Baby
The Thin Man
and then the random smattering of films that have made serious impressions on my febrile mind.
The Maltese Falcon. Casablanca. Sullivan's Travels. The Blues Brothers. Holy Motors.
I really enjoyed the first half of Melancholia.
Red. Blue. Do not give a shit about White.
A Matter of Life and Death, I am smitten with it.
Miller's Crossing. Shaun of the Dead. Chinatown. The Godfather. The Passion of Joan of Arc. Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy. The Master.
Anything Orson Welles even so much as farted around.
The Conversation. Rear Window. The Apartment ( possibly my favorite Christmas movie ). Pan's Labyrinth. Once Upon a Time in Anatolia. Naked Lunch. Barton Fink. Hud. The Last Picture Show. Wages of Fear. Wings of Desire. The Virgin Suicides as well as Lost in Translation.
The films of Jean-Pierre Melville.
Wes Anderson movies are incomparably charming.
Music, the written word, and film are my unassailable pillars of enjoyment.
My old man is a disc jockey and he seeded my young listening DNA with Doo Wop and Girl Groups and Soul and sixties British Rock and older R&B. I sill love all of that stuff very much. Bob Dylan and Tom Waits will be forever dueling rusty razors in the captain's tower as far as I am concerned. I also like a quite a bit of new music as well. Truly I do.
I do enjoy a handful of podcasts on a regular basis:
You Must Remember This
to name the top few I go to often.
Books? To be honest with you; I used to be a voracious, skilled reader. I have allowed the internet to rob me of my reading time.
At the moment I am reading: By Grand Central Station I Say Down and Wept. (I am not sure I will get through it)
these folks: Dashiell Hammett, Raymond Chandler, Hemingway, Fitzgerald, Pynchon, Jeffery Eugenides - they, for the most part, do not let me down.
Archer and Louie are THE best, without any reservations.
The Detour is mighty funny.
Fargo. (FARGO season 2!)
Luther. and, here is a rub: Alice; She is awesome, yet bat shit loony all in one.
The BBC series This Is England was some of the best television I have ever seen.
The Power of Art is the bee's knees!
I like food. I used to adhere to this personal food rule - "If it is green do no eat it." I am much, much better now.
6 - The very real possibilty that I will be surprised.
And, truthfully? Someone was good enough to remind me, with audacious abandon, how much fun good sex can be. So, it is nothing personal, but I may be day dreaming about your foundation garments.
and, you are probably adorable and maybe, MAYBE we might just get along.
If I message you it is because there is something I genuinely admire about your profile.
This being said; despite your profile, you are still a complete stranger to me and this process is a bit unsettling. Regardless of whatever approach I may take in saying hello, it feels as though I have walked up to you, a complete stranger, and shrieked in your face.
Some miscellaneous crap for you if you made it this far...
It is an anagram of Red Sovine. He who originally recorded The Ballad of Big Joe and the Phantom 309.
I once drove a 1966 Dodge Dart into an emergency room waiting area.
Harry Dean Stanton got me powerfully drunk one night in the Jury Room.
My introduction to foreign film came through Blow Up, but only because it was one of the few places to see a live performance of the Jeff Beck/ Jimmy Page Yardbirds' lineup.