I quietly opened the door to my hostel. I was exhausted, physically and mentally. I hadn't been this tired since LDAC. Something about walking so much of the day, lack of sleep from the anticipation, and four hours of high-energy "sarging" had left me completely depleted.
My one and only roommate in the hostel was still awake in the same position I left him in when I went to leave me things: laying on his side, watching television. His bald head facing the door.
"You want... I should turn this down?"
"No man, whatever you want to do, it's cool."
He turned the television off.
My first guess was India, the accent, the few features on his face I could see. I wasn't going to assume anything. After all, I just desperately wanted to go to bed.
"So, you-you-you were at a bars or someting?"
I took a long intake of breath, the reverse sigh, "Yeah, me and my buddies went out to a couple of bars."
"Did you... have fun?"
"Oh yeah, it was a blast. You know, had a couple drinks, hung out with my friends."
This, like so many other things I had said that night, was a lie. They were my friends, I suppose, now at least. Until about twelve hours previous, they were just guys who were bad with women.
"So what brings you to New York, pal?" I interjected,
"I am visiting my seniors here," by seniors, he meant those who were senior to him, like the Japanese use the term "sempai", not seniors in the term we use it, like a senior class at a college, "They all have jobs here now. I am meeting up with them."
"Good stuff, man"
"What... brings you to? City?"
Here we go.
"Well, a bunch of my friends, we are all over the country now, so we get together every once in a while. Reminisce about old times, check on the wives and kids, you know what I mean?"
"Yes, yes. So you have wife and child?"
"Uh, me? Oh no. I'm single, some of the other guys do," Jesus, this guy is like a conversational parasite.
"Oh, oh. So you enjoy the bars?"
"Oh yeah man. I go, I meet women, got a few numbers."
He perked up, "So you 'Got Lucky'? And got a number?" It sounded so mystical when he said it. It sounded some treasure locked deep in a temple in the Amazon.
"Hah, yeah man. I got a few numbers."
"Oh, so I shouldn't be surprised if you don't come back tomorrow night?"
"God, I hope so," we both laughed, though mine was polite. One of the things we were trying to accomplish was to not "get lucky", or course, this wasn't a cultural nuance, this was a sub-cultural nuance, maybe even a sub-counter-cultural nuance, if you really want to think about it.
There was a pause. I rolled over. I thought I was done. I was wrong.
"So, what do you, do for work?"
I fought the urge to tell him that I was a Disposable Lighter Repairman. That was my line all night to the ladies, but he, even less than the targets, would understand the joke.
"Uh," another reverse sigh, "I'm a soldier."
"Sol...dier?"
"Yeah."
"What do you think of... the political policies? Would you change them?"
Oh Christ.
I gave him some answer about how we should love babies more, and how it isn't really my job to second guess the commander-in-chief. I have a paycheck to get. This seemed to satisfy him.
"You know, I'm glad I'm here. I feel like, I can be honest. Like after two days from now, we will never meet. I can tell you anything. I can be honest. Frank."
"Yeah, I know what you mean."
I didn't of course. I'd been lying to strangers all night.
Saturday, December 20, 2008
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
A Historical Echo
It started in a pub.
That's how all good stories start, right? Especially when they start in Ireland. In fact, if that isn't the start to your story about Ireland, you're probably making it up.
So, it started in a pub.
When I met him, I was pretty unimpressed. He had short, spiky hair, a collared button down shirt and a hemp, seashell necklace. He looked like half of the guys that were in my English class Senior year.
When he opened his mouth, his voice was both blessed by an Irish accent, and cursed by a gamer lisp. I looked him over.
"So, tell me, I'm clearly not from around here," I said, "What is there to do in Galway on a Sunday night?"
"Well, you know Race Week started today, but ya know what I do, mate?"
"Lay it on me pal."
"I'm a pick-up artist, like that show on VH1"
"Uh-huh," he certainly stood out in Ireland. Prep hadn't caught on, but he looked like an average guy to me. Hell, I was pretty much wearing the same thing, "Like that creep, Mystery?"
"Yeah-yeah," His double agreement affirmed quickly.
"So what, you can like, pick up a girl..." I was at a loss for words, "Tactically?"
"Something like that, come upstairs."
I followed. We sat down at a table for an hour and a half while he asked me about my romantic history and explained something he called "The Emotional Progression Model".
"Relationships," he pontificated, "All share three common stages: attraction, comfort and seduction,"
The conversation diverted from mechanics of "The Game" to his own relationship past:
"I was in a relationship for two years, then she cheated on me and I was left back where I started. I was okay with women, but I heard about this book, and it changed everything."
I realized that my friend Lorcan, Erik Von Markovik (A.k.a. Mystery), and Neil Strauss (A.k.a. Style), all shared a common bond: discontent with their romantic lives, and a will to change it molecularly.
"Me and my mates are going out to a club later, you should come with us," and with that I was the American on another Irish adventure. Lorcan and his friends looked like any preppy kid you would see in America, and I fit in, but that made us all stand out.
"American fashion sense," he told me, "was still yet to really pick up in Ireland. It makes you stand out, and that's good for women." He called this "Pea-cocking". I, however, doubted this in a society which dresses its soon-to-wed members of society in awkward costumes to be paraded about Dublin. I, however, was the student.
We stepped into the club. It was surprisingly empty for a club, but given the lack of a club scene in Galway, Lorcan figured this to be a good night. One shot of Goldschlager later, we were crowded around a table. Slamming his hand on the table, he exclaimed, "Let's do this!" and turned to face his prey.
He spied a girl against a pillar, and pulled her on the dance floor. Within a minute, to The Fratelli's "Chelsea Dagger", no less, he was making out with her on the dance floor. Maybe there was something to all this after all.
"You've got to perform, otherwise you're just talking shite."
Fair enough.
I jumped onto the dance floor and pulled a girl to dance with me. Mirroring every move that Lorcan had done, to The Killer's "Mr.Brightside", I kissed a girl I had not shared a single word with. It was "vibe", or an amalgm of raw charisma and body language. I had vibed my way into a kiss-close.
I learned bits and pieces of their lexicon: DHV, IOI, vibe, kiss-close, seduction, state break, and most importantly: Lorcan. Lorcan was his real name, not a moniker like most other pick-up artists, but is also the Gaelic term translated as "Cruelty". Fitting.
At the end of the night, I was reeling. I was a lightweight, especially compared to the Irish company I kept, even though I had at least twenty pounds more on me, and as a result, I retired, but not before exchanging information. He was my one friend I had kept in touch with i Ireland.
I thought I was done with it all, just merely an amusing chapter in the book, but I was wrong, as I so often am.
I had told my Ireland stories at parties. I was the bard, the diplomat, who had excellent adventures in a far away land. The best of all was when I seduced a girl by explaining the very progression of a relationship, as Lorcan had explained to me. Piece by piece, I laid every stage down, giving examples, and being "in-state". I vibed. I story-told. I negged. I kino'd, and most of all, I escalated.
But this was just a distraction, I told myself. There was already mutual attraction. It was nothing. This was all hocus-pocus.
During my correspondence, I received an e-mail.
"Hey mate!
I know you're a little skeptical of this Pick-up thing, so I had something arranged for you. I'm good friends with one of the teachers in your area, so I had him make a little exception for you. If you're available, he'll let you sit in on his "bootcamp" for free, because I know you.
Don't worry about thanking me, the Guinness will be on you ;)
-L"
And just like that, I was on another adventure, only this time I knew exactly where it would end up, I just wasn't entirely sure how I'd get there.
That's how all good stories start, right? Especially when they start in Ireland. In fact, if that isn't the start to your story about Ireland, you're probably making it up.
So, it started in a pub.
When I met him, I was pretty unimpressed. He had short, spiky hair, a collared button down shirt and a hemp, seashell necklace. He looked like half of the guys that were in my English class Senior year.
When he opened his mouth, his voice was both blessed by an Irish accent, and cursed by a gamer lisp. I looked him over.
"So, tell me, I'm clearly not from around here," I said, "What is there to do in Galway on a Sunday night?"
"Well, you know Race Week started today, but ya know what I do, mate?"
"Lay it on me pal."
"I'm a pick-up artist, like that show on VH1"
"Uh-huh," he certainly stood out in Ireland. Prep hadn't caught on, but he looked like an average guy to me. Hell, I was pretty much wearing the same thing, "Like that creep, Mystery?"
"Yeah-yeah," His double agreement affirmed quickly.
"So what, you can like, pick up a girl..." I was at a loss for words, "Tactically?"
"Something like that, come upstairs."
I followed. We sat down at a table for an hour and a half while he asked me about my romantic history and explained something he called "The Emotional Progression Model".
"Relationships," he pontificated, "All share three common stages: attraction, comfort and seduction,"
The conversation diverted from mechanics of "The Game" to his own relationship past:
"I was in a relationship for two years, then she cheated on me and I was left back where I started. I was okay with women, but I heard about this book, and it changed everything."
I realized that my friend Lorcan, Erik Von Markovik (A.k.a. Mystery), and Neil Strauss (A.k.a. Style), all shared a common bond: discontent with their romantic lives, and a will to change it molecularly.
"Me and my mates are going out to a club later, you should come with us," and with that I was the American on another Irish adventure. Lorcan and his friends looked like any preppy kid you would see in America, and I fit in, but that made us all stand out.
"American fashion sense," he told me, "was still yet to really pick up in Ireland. It makes you stand out, and that's good for women." He called this "Pea-cocking". I, however, doubted this in a society which dresses its soon-to-wed members of society in awkward costumes to be paraded about Dublin. I, however, was the student.
We stepped into the club. It was surprisingly empty for a club, but given the lack of a club scene in Galway, Lorcan figured this to be a good night. One shot of Goldschlager later, we were crowded around a table. Slamming his hand on the table, he exclaimed, "Let's do this!" and turned to face his prey.
He spied a girl against a pillar, and pulled her on the dance floor. Within a minute, to The Fratelli's "Chelsea Dagger", no less, he was making out with her on the dance floor. Maybe there was something to all this after all.
"You've got to perform, otherwise you're just talking shite."
Fair enough.
I jumped onto the dance floor and pulled a girl to dance with me. Mirroring every move that Lorcan had done, to The Killer's "Mr.Brightside", I kissed a girl I had not shared a single word with. It was "vibe", or an amalgm of raw charisma and body language. I had vibed my way into a kiss-close.
I learned bits and pieces of their lexicon: DHV, IOI, vibe, kiss-close, seduction, state break, and most importantly: Lorcan. Lorcan was his real name, not a moniker like most other pick-up artists, but is also the Gaelic term translated as "Cruelty". Fitting.
At the end of the night, I was reeling. I was a lightweight, especially compared to the Irish company I kept, even though I had at least twenty pounds more on me, and as a result, I retired, but not before exchanging information. He was my one friend I had kept in touch with i Ireland.
I thought I was done with it all, just merely an amusing chapter in the book, but I was wrong, as I so often am.
I had told my Ireland stories at parties. I was the bard, the diplomat, who had excellent adventures in a far away land. The best of all was when I seduced a girl by explaining the very progression of a relationship, as Lorcan had explained to me. Piece by piece, I laid every stage down, giving examples, and being "in-state". I vibed. I story-told. I negged. I kino'd, and most of all, I escalated.
But this was just a distraction, I told myself. There was already mutual attraction. It was nothing. This was all hocus-pocus.
During my correspondence, I received an e-mail.
"Hey mate!
I know you're a little skeptical of this Pick-up thing, so I had something arranged for you. I'm good friends with one of the teachers in your area, so I had him make a little exception for you. If you're available, he'll let you sit in on his "bootcamp" for free, because I know you.
Don't worry about thanking me, the Guinness will be on you ;)
-L"
And just like that, I was on another adventure, only this time I knew exactly where it would end up, I just wasn't entirely sure how I'd get there.
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