Personal ad rejected by The Baltimore Sun, whose readership apparently has some pretty high standards
Me: Late 20’s, brunette, trivia buff, looking for someone to meet me at a museum or a driving range.
You: A decent fellow with a nice haircut and clean fingernails, knows how to dress like a proper adult, likes black & white movies, comfortable under the hood of a car (foreign or domestic), listens to jazz, has a nice apartment whose interior is no more than 30% earth tone, doesn’t work in anything ego-fueled like the stock market or bee-keeping, speaks out on the important issues such as land-mines and what not, skilled at the ancient games of Chess, Backgammon and Go, signs name neat and orderly — not all scratchy like a serial killer, is comfortable preparing the cuisine of at least 4 different cultures, spent summers of youth in Europe, preferably Switzerland, played varsity in a non-hitting-people sport, got accepted to an Ivy League (Dartmouth doesn’t count), but thought better of it and headed to a West Coast school instead, spent a semester at sea, then another in the air, would look good in leather pants but would never actually wear them, doesn’t get all uppity about using Macs, lived for a year salvaging wrecks off the coast of Cambodia, got a tattoo from a Maori tribesman who used wooden tools and dye made from crushed seashells, once opened for Toad the Wet Sprocket, has EMT training and can perform CPR, deliver a baby, or perform an emergency tracheotomy, discovered a new species of migratory bird and named it after his grandmother, doesn’t get caught off-guard by stuff like the dotcom bubble or this mortgage/credit crunch nonsense, can build a fire without matches, owns a space-faring vessel, and speaks the secret language of tigers.
No redheads. Sweet Christ on the cross, no redheads.
