Profile
Read another letter!
Go on a date!
Dear Bettynyc90,
I wonder if you're true to the Unique Men Only Need Apply caption over your concentration camp. Hey! You still with me. I was just fucking around, trying to get your attention.
Honestly, madam, I would not know where to begin even to define what salient characteristics begin to define the so-called non-conventional man. Does he pick his teeth at dinner? Does he actually look at Seurat from the proper focal length, not like the tourists breathing all over the colors? Does he think Plato funny? Does he dig Radiohead? Does he use the word "dig" in italics and remember The Warriors and the tail-end of the sixties bled through into the 70's? Does he wear a red velvet jacket to work, or a blue one of the same material? Does he drive into Manhattan just to buy an ugly girl a bar of the world's best chocolate? Does he speak his mind, even when it is likely to be offensive? Is he a constant performer? Will he break your balls and soothe your headaches? Will he make you chicken soup when you're sick and drive the pot of it to Boston? Will he fly across the Atlantic with a hardbound copy of Keats to give to you? Will he give 20 bucks to crackwhore and talk with her for an hour while she smokes it up? Will he watch Spencer Tracey whack Katherine Hepburn's butt ten times in a row just to see her smile her love smile? Will he offhandedly tell off people he doesn't know that there is no recession so long as he sees them queued up buying rosemary shrimp at $19.99/lb? Will he cancel his Facebook three weeks after opening it because he doesn't want all that contact? Will he for years peddle on the ellipitcal machine with his eyes closed the whole time, listening to Glenn Gould and Nirvana? Will he befriend and mourn the janitor who just died last week, and hate most of his colleagues? Will he win awards and try to seduce any one of three sisters? Will he buy flowers for all the receptionists because they were kind? Will he forbid even his own son to read certain works of his? Ever. Will he almost weep seeing three Van Goghs tucked in the corner yesterday at MoMA? Will he clean his house naked? Will he continue twenty-three years after the fact to dream of his dead friend dying in the dream in his arms, again and again, and wake up both joyful for this visitation and distraught over this loss?
You tell me, but I don't pick my teeth at the table.
Egbert
# 134
