I think you should work on being more succinct.
“Keats was wrong. The art of the urn is maybe superior to real life because in most cases, the anxiety/excitement leading up to an event far exceeds the event itself. The images depicted on the urn are frozen in that moment of anticipation: the lover anticipating the kiss, the tree hovering between summer and fall. While that prelude to a kiss is often superior to the actual kiss, we cannot deprive ourselves of the potential satisfaction. Is that why the persona chooses reality? Art is not truth. Art is a lie that makes us realize the truth.”
“Shut up and kiss me, you fool…”
Howdy. First, I must beg clemency for I am relatively new at this. Second, your profile, while more expressive than most, is still vague enough to beg the questions: No sarcasm or smarminess? Just sheer spirited yet sanguine sincerity? What the hell’s her deal? Fret not, young lady, mystery and candor and humor can be very big turn-ons (or turn-offs, depending on how one plays his or her (in this case, her) hand and with whom one is playing. You’re in luck). You’ve cast a rather wide net, so I’ll try and be brief:
Me (reads: time to prattle on endlessly and egomaniacally about myself…), I’m a freshly minted (reads: textbook Leo) take-charge kinda guy (and ex-upright bassist) comin’ to ya from the BK (reads: Union St. in Park Slope). Shy I’m not, but like most charming bon vivants, my outward nature is a screen for my more delicate sensibilities. Nothing like a few drinks and a deftly turned phrase or two to get to the heart of the matter and see if two people (reads: we) click or not (C’mon, allow me at least one cheesily trite phrase per e-mail).
Blah blah blah, I’m sure we like the same type of stuff (plenty of time to yak it up about decoupage and decolletage and David Foster Wallace (RIP) and George Christopher Latore Wallace (RIP) and Will Shortz (Do you do the Saturday puzzle as well?) and Sarah Vaughn (I saw her perform at Carnegie Hall with Bobby McFerrin back in the (gulp) go-go 80’s…) and Amy Sedaris and Rachel Maddow and Miranda July and Jane Austen (and Seth Grahame-Smith) and Marisa Tomei (“Yeah, you blend…”) and Sophia Coppola and Lili Von Schtupp and Sly and the Family Stone (I played a ten-minute electric harmonica solo as my band played Sly’s version of Sex Machine in my high school variety show) and Woodford Reserve on the rocks and Dr. Howard Dean and Danny McBride (“Look what I’m wearing. Kimono, dog. What’re you wearing?”) and Milan Kundera and Mos Def (ask me about the time I opened up his Escalade with a coat hanger after his boys locked the keys inside with the motor running outside of Blue Ribbon…) and David Lynch and Lloyd Dobler (not only do I own a “Fuck Lloyd Dobler” t-shirt, I own a website that sells nothing but “Fuck Lloyd Dobler” t-shirts. I feel it’s my duty.) and cold-brewed Yirgacheffe coffee and Elliott Smith (I met him in Portland a few times but used to drink with him on Monday nights at O’Connor’s in the Slope; what a sad and beautiful man) and Charlie Kaufmann and Peaches (she’s all I listen to at the gym…) and penne with mint and almond “pestu sicilianu” (‘n pizzuddu di cielu…) and the films of Luis Bunuel’s lesser-known cousin Gary and the villa in Tuscany and my three year stint in Oregon (evil I did dwell, lewd did I live…) and which version of the Scrabble Players’ Dictionary we each favor (British or American)) and will have no paucity of discourse. Or maybe not. What do I know?
I’m a Vasshole (‘92) who used to cook professionally (FCI, ex-Jean Georges), so I hope that you really like to eat. You seem like you’re down for some action (reads: fun. And colloquy. And connection. And consonance – it’s all about possibilities…). Does food somehow connote too much of a “date” to you? Perhaps coffee or cocktails is more your speed. Maybe even a long walk in beautiful Prospect Park… Wait – who am kidding here – this is how we’ll do it: let’s just grab a few drinks, laugh a bit and see where the day takes us. So hey, if you’re game…
I think it was Polonius, ironically one of literature’s most notorious windbags, who said “Brevity is the soul of wit (wisdom)”. Before I hoist myself on mine own petar, I’ll leave these words and thoughts with you to do as you feel fit (reads: I’ll take your lead – a little mystery can go a long way…).
Spero Ci Vediamo Subito (don’t tell me you speak Italian too…),
p.s. – You had me at “Writing songs, singing backup, earning money, and drinking whiskey. I need a whiskey coach.” Don’t worry – I’ve got you covered…
p.p.s. – Hit me with your number when you mail me back – better yet, just call me – I’m much better on the phone. In person, well, forget about it, you can’t even imagine…
p.p.p.s. – Okay, I lied. You really had me at “I just saw a song I (co-)wrote performed by a band with a fucking horn section, backup singers, and a ridiculous frontwoman, and it was brilliant.” I love it when a plan comes together…
p.p.p.p.s. – Just so you know, I have many leather-bound books and my apartment smells of rich mahogany. I give good email, I enjoy talking for hours about everything and nothing, I have passions, I absolutely love to play and I think we just might make wonderful, um, dance partners and/or a good crime fighting duo.
p.p.p.p.p..s. – I lied again. You REALLY had me at “You like girls who snort. You wear glasses. You like boobs. You will go see ridiculous action movies in the movie theater because you pretend to like them ironically but you actually like them.” I do. I don’t. I do. And I do too…
p.p.p.p.p.p.s. – I’ve had this song stuck in my head for like three weeks now and I don’t know why:
+5 for WHY IS THIS SO LONG? We don’t even need to go on a date now, since I know your entire life story. (Also I couldn’t read all of this, so sorry if I miss things that are ripe for mockery).
+3 for “I’ll try to be brief.” Fail.
+3 for celebrity name-dropping (“ask me about the time I opened Mos Def’s car door for him!”)
+5 for all the “reads.” STOP WITH THE READS.
+6 for 6 post-scripts. Seriously?
+4 because a date with him would almost definitely involve him talking about himself for hours, you nodding politely, and then him being totally confused as to why you don’t want to hang out with a great dude like him again.
TOTAL POINTS: 26.