I wonder if Alan's still available

Even though I have yet to respond to a single ad - even when living in London - my favorite source of personals is the London Review of Books. Here are a few of my favorites, with box numbers deleted to protect both innocent and guilty.

In 2004 I was a love machine…now I’m just an affectionate blender. Whirrr.

Possession is nine tenths of the law. Unless it’s possession of an A class drug, in which case it’s up to seven years, or an unlimited fine, or both. I’ll be out in 18 months though, probably, until then why not write to M.31 better at optimism than he is at transporting the Persians.

Without my grandfather’s contribution to agricultural reforms in 1912, this nation would currently have to import its turnips. While you think about that I shall remove my clothes. Man. 55.

Mm, anno MCMLXVI. Former Tito-jugend. Technical craftsman with short att.span. Tall, non ambitious. Affection for languages, astrology. Sátántangó, grappa. Is hunting. The one and only fF 40-55. Pale, wide-eyed. Sensitive, extremely intelligent. To take her. For semi-nomadic life around EU. For intense long-term exchange of mind, heart and body fluids.

Everyone. My life is a mind-numbing cesspit of despair and self-loathing. Just fuck off. Or else write back and we’ll make love. Gentleman, 37.

If you’re reading this hoping for a mini-biopic about battles with drugs, cancer and divorce, talk to the guy above. But if you want to know about historical battle sites in Scotland, talk to me. Alan, 45. Scottish historical battle expert and BDSM fetishist.

Dr. Fisher's take on things

I have been home sick for two reasons: I managed to contract a textbook case of flu over the weekend, and the thought of going back to an office with a post-vacation PD makes me want to put my head in the oven. Ultimately I'm angry with myself for letting another person affect me to the extent that she does - or has done, at least; I'd like to think I'm getting a realistic grip on it. But for the time being I still need the paychecks, and

Between watching stuff I Tivo'ed and clearing up the house, I went through my email. A friend of mine, who shares my interest in psychological tests, sent me a link to a test set up by a Dr. Helen Fisher. Allegedly she has written a reasonable book on why people fall for certain people. While I'd like to leave this up to less scientific reasons - whatever happened to animal attraction? - I decided to see what sort of person I was according to the doctor. Her test branded me a Negotiator, with the secondary traits of an Explorer. According to her, this is what I need to do to land Prince Charming:

As a Negotiator, you seek a spiritual, life long connection to a "true love". But you don't want someone who is emotionally dependent. You admire people who need a good deal of autonomy. Marriage is important to you; but the social pledge of matrimony is far less sacred than the personal commitment you privately make to your beloved. You avoid conflict and strive for harmony in your primary relationship. So you express your love regularly-with hugs, thoughtful presents, romantic weekends or by creating other special times together. And you want a mate who is daring, playful and adventurous, yet one who will balance you-someone who is calm, decisive, strong-willed, focused and supportive of your enthusiastic, caring and imaginative spirit.

While I certainly disagree with the "marriage is important" accusation, and tend to avoid gift-giving unless I spot a truly promising item, some of it makes sense. For example, DD* never made fun of me for being a cat lady; instead, he admired it. But then he liked cats himself, so I may be reading it all wrong.

The older I get, the less I seem to know about myself. Yet another depressing fact of modern maturity.

* Definitions are at right.

Say it isn't so, Modo

It seems that, according to surveys and Maureen Dowd's column, men are becoming happier while we chicks are getting gloomier. While I don't quite buy into this, I thought her Sept 20 column made fairly interesting reading (although the comments often made more sense). Driving home, I thought about it some more, and decided that I need to take on less extra-curricular stuff, and spend more time on my own. As far as the cat shelter goes, I'm worn out with compassion fatigue.

Thinking back on my 40-odd years, I was at my unhappiest in my early 30s, but I think there were plenty of contributing factors: a failing marriage, the inability to find a reasonable job, and what I now see was loneliness, pure and simple.

Why I'm not feeling lonely these days is a bit baffling, as my social life has mostly fallen by the wayside this year due to the departure of DD*, and others departing because of divorces, lost jobs or sheer lack of interest. But the only thing I really miss these days is the chance for a reasonable conversation: one without workplace issues or cats as topics. I could even enjoy a civil debate about politics if I could just meet up with someone reasonably well-read. Sigh.

* Dismissed Date. See key at right.

Yet another reason to hate Jerry Jones

I have an odd metabolism when compared to my fellow Texans. I tend to be a slug in hotter weather while everyone else is getting sunburned at the lake, needing the comforts of air conditioning. But when autumn arrives, I suddenly become much more active.

Usually this funky burst of autumn energy doesn't add up to more than some hiking/birdwatching expeditions, which I'm already planning. Although I prefer to go alone, there are some extremely obscure trails I'd like to hike - I'm just a bit nervous about being alone. Perhaps I should hire a bodyguard.

However, I digress. I noticed that U2 were going to be in town in a few days, so I thought I'd see what tickets were going for. I hadn't been to a U2 concert since I left Australia. But aFter about four minutes visiting the usurious ticketmaster.com, I was right out of the mood. $250 for a so-so ticket at the new Cowboys Stadium? Fuck that.

But then I have friends who paid $850 a pop to see Paul McCartney a couple of years ago, so maybe I'm just not keeping up with this sort of thing. Maybe I'll just treat myself to a new CD instead, and crank up U2 on YouTube. Desperate times call for desperate measures, and I recently fried one of the bimmer's front struts while driving fast and furious in Erath County last weekend.

Big bucks? Big ego? Small penis? Welcome!

While stuck at my allergy doctor's office earlier today, I nosed through a copy of D Magazine. I've always been amused at the advertisements featured - it's mostly plastic surgeons, divorce attorneys and overpriced restaurants. Real journalism is thin on the ground; if you advertise, you can do no wrong when it's time for a D Mag writeup.

And there are always a few matchmaking agencies at the back, where you can get a 1/4 page ad.

One new one was worth texting the URL to myself for a personal inspection: Model Quality Introductions. These folks don't beat around the bush, pardon the pun - if you're a rich guy who needs some arm candy, but are too lazy and/or ugly to find it yourself, come on down.

Prices for membership aren't mentioned, so I'm guessing it's at least four figures. But the ad's reasoning is irresistible:

"As a successful man, you outsource everything else in your life to experts..."

Geez, do they really?

Anyway, visit the site and have a giggle - it's free. Although the testimonials page is the funniest - for example, one happy john (oops, customer) says that "meeting pretty girls has always been easy for me ... I just wanted to take it to the next level".

You'll love the splash page - the women's photos change, but the eye color doesn't: it's always blue. I can think of plenty of other reasons why this site wouldn't accept me as a candidate, but since I have green eyes, I was out of the competition 20 years ago.