Safe Java!

So, yeah, after very little deliberating and not-too-much soul searching, I decided to update the ol’ profile a bit; to drop that clever little crayola self-portrait and to add my real-life name - all in hopes of increasing the visibility of any freelance work I manage to scrounge up for myself. That, and if any of my old girlfriends happen to look me up on The Google, they’ll realize that I’m neither a Methodist minister, nor a motorcycle racer (not that there was much question on those counts. Gay realtor in Florida, though… that might have garnered some hits.)

Aren’t I just oh-so strikingly handsome and literary-looking? And to think, it only took 87 shots of me alternating between my repertoire of “trademark looks”, including (but - please – not limited to) The Full Smile (which makes my cheeks look too big), The Ne’er-Do-Well Half-Smile, and my time-worn “You Bore Me, Lets Make Love” Gaze (which I always imagined would look like something Ethan Hawke would affect in “Reality Bites”, but its way more “disoriented turtle” when you actually see it. How come no one ever told me?) I did figure out that if you take pictures from a slightly higher angle, you don’t have to do that college-girl/freshman 15 thing of balling up your fist and putting it under your chin to hide your neck fat. There was one other shot that came out okay - me, tapping away on my laptop - but it was a little too reminiscent of Stephen J. Cannell hard at work on next week’s episode of The Greatest American Hero, so I opted instead for the one at the side of the page.




I’m always amazed that our Netflix queues and Amazon picks can peg our personalities with a degree of accuracy that Sigmund Freud could only have dreamt about. No, a blogger profile wont reflect that the writer is orally fixated and has mommy issues (except on Myspace, maybe, where that sort of thing is your run-of-the-mill pick-up line) but if you come across a profile for a 42 year old female who’s into German Industrial music, knitting, and Back to the Future fan-fiction, that’s probably much more invaluable than a “Myers-Briggs” test in deciding whether or not you want to hire her for a front desk position at your law office.

Granted, there can be a fair amount calculated hype featured in online profiles, especially among creative types (who meticulously plot out those kinds of things, picking 1 new album for every 2 classics under “favorite music”, making sure they balance out any “graphic novels” they enjoy with something written by Vladimir Nabokov, etc.), but generally speaking, you’d have to be deliberately misleading to come up with interests so entirely idiosyncratic that you couldn’t see one person enjoying them both.

That is, of course, until I came across this headline.

Now - yes, yes - in case you haven’t heard, I do love my coffee. And sex? Ariel… Ookla… RIDE!

Now. Seriously, the kids wont even know we're gone; put on “Breakin’” and give ‘em some chips.

But, seriously... at the same time? This is not "You got your chocolate in my peanut butter" style shenanigans.

Sure, like any 21st century, 30-something wage slave, I’ve got a triple grande barista fantasy in heavy rotation. (Girl 1: “Oh! Sorry, sir, but we don’t open for another 30 minutes." Girl 2: “But… why don’t you come behind the counter… I’m sure we can whip something up for you…” And then from there, it’s all variations on a theme, depending on the shop. You know how that goes.)

But at no point, ever, have I thought to myself, mid-coitus - no matter how bad and/or ill-advised said-coitus was - “You know, I could really go for a Cuban-style macchiato right now.” Not once have I entertained the thought of re-enacting the “9 ½ Weeks” kitchen scene with a steaming hot cup of Kenya AA.

I’ve always heard that Ethiopians are fiercely proud of their coffee heritage, but this is true dedication.

Still, though, setting aside my own (uncharacteristically) prudish attitudes on the subject, this represents a major progressive victory in a part of the world where the incidence of HIV transmission is staggering. Perhaps there’s still hope for our own country, torn asunder by the redneck agenda though it's been; maybe there's still a chance to curb the average Bush voter's incessant breeding.

After all, how hard can it be to make a prophylactic that tastes like “Peanuts and Coke”?