... in search of unattached WF. I'm 42, single, bearded, 6' 3", and of Pavarotti proportions, and I've been told that I have pretty eyes, especially the pink one. I'm looking for a woman in the 20-55 year range, or thereabouts; age, as such, is not important. What is important is a sense of humor more or less parallel to mine, which tends to be dark and complex, aside from odd flashes of goofiness. Also important is being fully alive to the life of the mind, to take a positive pleasure in learning and knowing, and be aware that ideas do indeed matter; by this, I am not referring to formal culture, which is another, less interesting thing. I would likely be of no help to you in running the Tenneco marathon, or in an assault on K2, but you may find me rewarding in other, unusual ways. Ultimately, I am looking for more than a pen pal, but a pen pal is no small value, and would by no means be scorned. Shaw once wrote, "We value our friends not for their ability to amuse us, but for ours to amuse them." Interpreting the word "amuse" in the broadest sense possible, then, and "friends" in the most hopeful sense, let's see if I can amuse you.

Character references are available upon request; you may assure yourself that whether or not I may be of interest, I am at least safe and sane. ___________________________________________________________________________________________

Pretty reasonable, I thought. Non-threatening, gives some idea of what kind of guy I am, implies something of what I have to offer, makes a lame attempt at humor, all that. So far, though, the response has been exactly zip. As far as I can tell, the ads that "work" are either Neandertal grunts, mere mating calls, or else they're feathery, flowery, perfumed promises of silken, soft-focus romance. Plain bullshit, in other words. Of course, there are other categories; I see ads making mention of money and possessions, but even if I were rich, I think I'd prefer to be alone if that were the only alternative. There are also curious screeds from those afflicted with paraphilias and excessively unusual tastes, seeking those who can flip their strangely placed switches. Fortunately or not, that's not my problem. My switches are in the usual places; it's just that nobody wants to flip them.

Theoretically, I suppose, I could pretend to be one of the first two categories, a grunt or a Romeo. That's actually a fairly common approach. I think that women, in general, have no idea of how much dissembling and misdirection usually goes into successful male courting behavior. It's a hard choice, though, for the simple reason of taste, personal preference; I don't like it. Also, to try to look like someone else would come perilously near to validating the implicit judgement of my true self as uninteresting, as well as greatly devaluing anything "won" by such behavior. I obviously appear undesirable to women, but this is the only self I've got, and however ill-founded, my brutal pride will not allow me to play games in this matter. I know that I can withstand the slow poison of loneliness, and I know the terrible cost of that endurance, the slow erosion of life and meaning punctuated by the anguish of visions of what might have been, and what will never be. But I also know that if I can find another, I will face her with clean hands and undivided heart; or if I must go down alone, it will be me who's doing it and not a failed poseur.

Update: No more ads. It has begun to feel like an increasingly insupportable form of self-abuse.

Final update: Actually, there's nothing mysterious about it. I've finally figured out that my big social disability is simply that I'm boring. It doesn't require any interpretation at all. Perhaps the only way to evaluate such things is as an exchange of values. If you have enough to offer of what they want, you'll have "friends," and it affords me a sort of sour, sad amusement to think that there is almost nobody left in my life to take exception to that statement. I would be delighted to be proven wrong, but despite all the darkened hope and willful ignorance I could apply, I finally know better. It doesn't matter in the least what or how much I think I have to offer, or how little I ask.

So it goes.