People stare when I walk into a room. I've never been entirely sure why. I'm not working for it. I'm just there.

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I grew up in the San Fernando Valley. Heat waves, the '94 earthquake, thrift shopping on Sherman Way. I found my first Bukowski at fifteen between a broken lamp and someone's old records. I took the bus to Hollywood on weekends to sneak into shows at the Whisky because that's where the music was and I needed to be near it. I knew what I wanted before I knew the word for it.

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I spent years building other things first: real estate, artist management, a music festival I produced for three years with real sponsors and sold-out shows until a pandemic ended it, not failure. I know how to build something. I know what I left to do this instead.

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I shoot film. I play bass alone in my apartment. I take heels dance class. I walk my dogs to the park every morning at eight with a coffee and sit there until someone has somewhere to be. I read Duras. I speak Spanish when I'm tipsy. I'm learning golf badly and enthusiastically and I intend to get better.

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I blush when you say something kind. I don't look away.

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I'm immediately, completely there when I walk in. My hands find you before either of us thinks about it. I notice things before you say them. When you need space, when you need the opposite. I pay attention to who you are right now, not who you were last time. The relationship becomes what it needs to be. That's not something I learned. It's just how I am.

The people who've known me a long time keep coming back. Some of them weekly. I think that's why.

 

I prefer time that unfolds. A long dinner, a slow weekend, somewhere we both had to fly to get to.

 

I keep my circle small. A few new connections each month, never more.

 

You already know if this is you. Reach out.