Where is My Hannah Arendt?

A make-up artist? Um … no thanks. That’s not my kind of courtship caper. I want the girl who wrote a paper on Massachusetts’ failing banks. You can keep your belly-dancer. The nimbleness that I would seek is cerebral: I need the geek who’ll find a cure for prostate cancer. A chick who’s slick in silk and satin is just what I’m inclined to spurn: the only beauty I discern likes reading Ovid – but in Latin. The field is very small, because I’m fussy, biased, preferential: to me, it’s utterly essential she knows who Dosso Dossi was. I need you to be erudite: call if you can tell apart bead-and-reel from egg-and-dart: the stamen from the Stagyrite. One thing that’s truly terrific’s knowing the plot of Lavransdatter: write to me about grey matter in Egyptian hieroglyphics. Sharon Tate? Scarlett Johansson? My type is more Diane from “Cheers”. She had stuff between her ears: so save the blondes for Charlie Manson. My ‘ask’ should now be quite transparent: I’d love a lassie with a brain, who writes reviews of Citizen Kane. Where are you hiding, Hannah Arendt?