Truth be told--what's the use of denying it?--in this little southern college town, I feel like a misfit. For starters I'm over 50, which means that the people on either side of me at my favorite local watering hole are between them probably more than 50 years younger than I am. And though I like the game enough, I just can't manage to care much whether the Bulldogs or some other football team wins. I'm not religious, either, which (besides ruling me out of bounds for 75% of my prospective dating partners, who are understandably hesitant to get too cozy with someone who they're convinced is headed for Abaddon) bars me from most other local social networks. Yeah, there's the music scene, but I'd rather have a good conversation (or read a good book) than suffer hearing loss at the 40-Watt or some other club. Get politically active? I would, if only my contrarian streak didn't give me an overpowering urge to burn an American flag whenever I'm surrounded by Republicans, or to spew hydrocarbons for no good reason when I'm around Democrats. Finally, I have this pathological, visceral dislike of stoneware, which means that I'm persona non grata with the local potters, who (together with musicians) make up 72% of the town's non-churchgoing population. In short, there's no crowd here that wants me that I want to join. In short, woe is me!

Sometimes I feel like I might just as well be from another planet. In fact, I'm just from Connecticut, though my parents were from Italy. And I have plenty of my own passions, including antiques, art, jazz, wine, travel, bike riding, my dog, and good books. But finding some (grown up) who shares my likes, or some of them anyway, hasn't been easy. Hell, it's been downright impossible--which is why I'm here!