He's 275 of pure muscle mass branded with indecipherably menacing tattoos (they're either snakes whipping dragons or barbed wire strangling a sea monster), wearing a dark leather vest and two snarling eyebrows crowned with a do-rag. As he walks to my office door, the floor shakes noticeably, while I hope no one notices the same motion in the clipboard in my hands. Can you say... intimidating? (Better yet, can you spell it?)
Our meeting ends like this:
"Oh yeah, I love pastels, but I really prefer watercolor--watercolor detailed with black ink. It's my best medium. In fact, can you write down what kind of pen that was? It flowed so well. I need to get me one of those."
And once again, I am reminded that I don't. Know. Anything.