Things Your Real Estate Agent Won’t Tell You

In various hot spots around the city you will see units of public housing. Usually you can identify these complexes by the disrepair of the property and the empty liquor bottles littering the sidewalk in front. It’s easy enough to avoid renting or buying a place next to a dump, but what if the public housing is newly constructed? You could be fooled into thinking the neighborhood is a charming outpost of SWPLness.

There is another way to tell which properties are Section 8 hell matrices. Read the names. Almost all the low income properties (where there is a ceiling imposed on the income level of candidates for residency) have bright, sunshiney names like “The Horizon House”, “Hope Plaza”, The Dream on 17″, or “New Beginnings”. It’s a dead giveaway when you take the most noxious neighbors possible, and slap on their crack shacks the most innocuous, hopenchange-y names possible. Is this fooling anyone?

I think the same should be done for exorbitantly priced condo complexes in edge communities that are breeding grounds for non-breeding SWPLs. It would be great to immediately identify SWPL housing by its hypocritically earnest name. For example: “Sustainable Living Luxury Condos”, “Whole Foods In Basement So You Never Have To Venture Into The Neighborhood You Brag About To Your Suburban Friends Condo”, “The Super Artsy Lofts On Lobbyist Ave”, “$300,000 Premium To Pay For Hip Bar That You Can Walk To Condos”, and “No Impact Man Used To Live Here Apartments — Free Wifi!”.

I mean, if our sick culture is going to steep itself in lies, may as well go all out and lie like a rug. We can make a game of it.

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Icebreakers For The SWPL Chicks In Your Neighborhood

Is your neighborhood infested with status whoring but irresistibly cute SWPL girls? Then you need an icebreaker tailor made for their fastidiously ironic sensibilities. Let’s say you and the SWPL girl of your infatuations are sifting through a selection of $10 jars of almond butter at Whole Foods. Unless you are a savvy shopper, most stuff at Whole Foods is ridiculously overpriced. Knowing this, you look across your shoulder at her and say:

“If it isn’t overpriced, I don’t feel like I’m getting my money’s worth.”

Wait for her to smile (she will, if she doesn’t take herself too seriously) and enjoy that moment when your pinkies touch reaching for the same jar of almond butter.

Now you’re at the local dog park, a place where SWPLs can feel morally upstanding for giving their dogs the opportunity to run free on a scruffy patch of 10 feet by 20 feet crabgrass (artificial grass if you’re at the Dupont dog park.) A tasty number sits down near you with her pomeranian in tow.

“The great thing about dogs is that you don’t have to worry about moving out of the city when they get old enough to go to school.”

What if you see the SWPL of your dreams at the local bike shop, where she’s purchasing enough biking accoutrements to outfit a small, fitness-oriented Central American guerilla army?

“I really recommend that aquapac. It’s good to be prepared in case you get stuck for weeks in the wilderness of Rock Creek Park.”

Close your eyes. Open them! Now you see a cute SWPL babe at a Georgetown consignment shop. She’s trying on musty old hats.

“That hat would be even cooler on you if it was a man’s hat. And it had an Olympics pin on it.”

You’re at the famed E Street Cinema in downtown DC. You’re standing in line next to a SWPL babe to see a sub-subtitled foreign flic of mega-ironic proportions. (It’s originally spoken in Czech, dubbed over in German, subtitled in French and sub-subtitled in English.) You capture her attention while waiting in line to buy a ticket.

“I hope this movie comes with 3D glasses.”

You’re at an outdoor concert, standing in line to use the Porta-John. You get her attention and say…

Well, actually, nothing. There’s nothing flirty you can say while waiting to use a Porta-John. It’s just too gross.

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The Core Principle Of Game

I was out recently with a buddy who knows of the DC blog scene and occasionally reads my blog (HIIIIIII dude!!!!). We went to a club that has a cramped basement dance floor. Very loud, very crowded, and very sweaty. This is the type of place that affords much illicit groping if that’s your bag. I didn’t go with any intention to hit on girls, or even to flirt much, so I leaned back against the bar and watched my buddy work a crowd of four chicks. As I leaned masterfully, one of the girls in the group sauntered over adjacent to me to buy herself a drink (or a timeout). I sized her up with a cocked eyebrow and a calculated frown. She was cute, early to mid 20s, long brunette hair, and short, with an ample bosom. That old notorious feeling came back again. You can’t keep the inner cad locked down for long.

I opened for the kill.

“Lemme guess. You’re with a bachelorette party.”

She winced. “Nooo! Thank god, I hate those things.”

I studied her reaction while musing to myself that perhaps a patented CH meme is getting out into general circulation. I had my opening. Finish her!

“Wow, I could have sworn you were assigned to accost men for your engaged friend. I’m relieved. Cheers.”

I suspected she was smart enough to know the word ‘accost’, and would appreciate my use of it. She stared at me blankly for a few seconds registering what I had just said. She turned her head away slowly, then whizzed right back around again to face me. I suspected correctly. She roughly grabbed my hand.

“Come out and dance with us! You do realize you’re at a dance club?”

“I don’t dance.”

“Oh, right, I forgot, men don’t like dancing.” She rolled her eyes.

“True.” She was still holding my hand. I made sure to pull away first. “You’ll have to get yourself a gay boyfriend for dancing duties.”

She laughed. “Oh, is that what they’re for?” Enough of her frame. It was time to reframe so that she was following my conversational lead.

I placed my hand on her forearm. “You don’t seem at all like the type of girl who would be happy in a place like this.” This wasn’t a line. She really wasn’t the type who normally goes to this place. Not phony enough.

“What do you mean by that?”

Reframe established. Subtle neg delivered. She was in the tingle-generating defensive crouch.

“Look around. Most of these girls are faking it. Can you fake it as well as they do? If you can, then I guess I was wrong about you.”

Remember, gentlemen, conversations with women don’t have to make logical sense. They just need to sound sexy.

She smiled and cocked her head in that way girls do when you’ve pleasantly surprised them. “Do you want a drink?”

Ah, the first real shit test. Now we were getting somewhere. Men, take note. When a girl is standing right next to you at a bar, and she asks “Do you want a drink?”, be careful! She is really asking “Will you buy us a drink?” Smart girls know how to massage this shit test so that they maintain plausible deniability.

“No, thanks.”

Passed.

“You’re not going to drink tonight??”

“No, I’m just not in the mood for a drink right now. You know, when you dance, don’t forget to twirl. Like this.” I took her hand and she happily spun around for me.

We gabbed some more while standing at the bar. Eventually, her ass gingerly found its way into my crotch and a tame simulation of bumpngrindage ensued. She liked when I moved her hair aside to kiss her neck. I liked it too. Her feminine aroma — a mix of youth, sweat, and perfume — was intoxicating. Maybe a half hour in we were making out, sometimes right in front of her friends who didn’t seem to mind at all. She must have signalled them earlier that she didn’t want or need a cockblock. But I was always sure to break it off first, and quickly, wary to ever let our lips linger locked for long. This wasn’t so much a game maneuver as a practical consideration. I didn’t want to be recognized making out with her in public.

After a short while dancing with her group, I leaned into her and told her I was going upstairs, while reaching for my coat. She looked surprised and chastened. I leaned in again and said I’d like her number, and that she should come upstairs to give it to me. I walked off.

It was a calculated move. If a girl likes you, she’ll be willing to abandon her posse to meet you at another location for continued enrapture. If this girl was on the fence even a little, she would not likely have met me upstairs like I told her to do. I only needed to wait upstairs for thirty seconds before she showed up. She smiled when she saw that I was still there.

This was a textbook seduction. It reminded me what so often makes or breaks a man’s game. It always seems to come back to this, the core principle of game, of mastery of women’s desire: Aloofness. The concept is simple, although its proper exeuction can belie its simplicity. I didn’t care that night about hooking up, or impressing girls. This cavalier nonchalance must have been exuding from my every pore, in my words and body language. Not giving a shit about the outcome — note that this is different than not giving a shit about the woman, for those of you who are too twisted in pious hate to understand the difference — is like catnip to a woman. They can’t resist it.

I realized early on that I could have pressed and taken this girl home that night. The number exchange was a mere formality. There was no need for me to stop at the number. She was into me enough for a same night close. Logistics were favorable. But I stopped myself short. It was then that I had a revelation and stumbled upon what is the greatest obstacle to a man’s success seducing women….

Guilt.

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HIIIIII!!

I was sitting at one of my favorite social venues when a disturbance behind me erupted. A woman had just arrived and greeted her mixed group of friends with an exaggeratedly pronounced “Hiiii!!!” All the women already sitting at the table, and the couple of men who were with them, replied nearly in unison with an even louder and prolonged “Hiiiiii!!!”. The “Hiiii!!” was annoying beyond belief; a sing-song-y, off-key yenta battle cry. It’s hard to describe the sound of a spoken word, but imagine a musical “Hi” divided into two notes with the accent (upbeat) on the first note (Hii-) followed languorously by a longer downbeat on the second whole note (-iiiiiiii), spoken in adagio and fortissimo. Would a girl saying “Hi” like this sound phony? Yes!

It’s pretty common knowledge that DC stands at the top in per capita phoniness. There is a higher density of phoniness per square mile here than even in vaunted phony cities like New York. The whole reason of DC’s existence is to persuade other people to throw money, perks, or props your way, so a finely developed skill in the art of phoniness is a requirement before stepping in the ring. But this latest incarnation of phoniness is breathtaking even to a jaded cynic like myself. And these were not teen girls. They were grown-ass women with non-profit jobs and rich daddies to pay their exhorbitant rents.

To all the girls reading this post who greet each other and their gay best boyfriends this way, I ask: Are you *really* that happy to see your friends whom you just saw last week? Or is phoniness the new black? Maybe you think the phony Hi and the accompanying fake phony smile are supposed to be feminine, but I assure you, it is not. Fingernails on a chalkboard? Yes. Feminine? No. I’ll go out on a limb here and hypothesize that girls who are fakers when greeting people are also fakers in bed.

Here’s what I think is going on. The thuper duper edge community gay culture and the girly follower female culture have fused and become as one — a vortex of caricatured, trannyfied pseudofemininity spewing nebulae of jutting manjaws, wildly faggy gesticulations, and conversations that sound downright operatic. It is a vortex of suckage that any straight man would find baffling, which come to think of it, may be the point. But I can definitely tell you what it is *not*. It’s not attractive. This illustrates another great dividing line between the sexes — our respective reactions to phoniness. In general, men loathe phonies. Women cherish the company of phonies, and embrace the phony scene with gusto. Without phonies in their lives, women would have nothing to be catty about behind closed doors.

There is a powerful feeback loop in effect when girls and gays join forces. Where does this great culture meld between city girls and city gays end?

Half the moves in men’s figure skating look like reach arounds.

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Snow = Gina Tingles

Sitting in Tryst, watching the snow fall and eating a delicious smoked salmon sandwich, I couldn’t help but notice the glow of horniness on girls’ faces. I muse. Does a heavy blanket of snow trigger the provider beta attraction switch in women? After all, in prehistoric times in the northern lands a good snowfall meant wet, cold, and poor foraging prospects (food buried under snow). A technologically proficient and future time oriented beta would have planned for big snow events so that when they arrived he would be the go-to guy with the warm shelter and stored smoked meats. The sexy stud would have been building snow forts until his feet got too cold and he trundled home to the cave to an empty fridge. (My fridge is empty and I’m down to half a roll of TP. You ladies and your messy nether regions are paper hogs. Gaia is displeased.) I wonder if extreme weather inspires women’s lust for resource providing men?

Getting lots of looks as chicks walk by and I wink at them through the window. It must be the confidence I display in the face of uber inclement weather. Or my rugged pea coat.

A girl has tied her labrador up to a post. She sits behind me. The dog is rambunctious and pees on a Lexus SUV parked in front. I turn around and tell her her dog just peed on a Lexus, and that she has it trained well. She laughs. Love? Of course.

Guys, if you live in the snow path go out now and ask passing women if this is good quality snow for snowball making. Tell them you want to make snowballs “that only hurt a little.” That should get the ball rolling.

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A Test Of Your Game

Tonight, you are meeting a woman at a bar. This bar is in DC and it serves the best beer in the city. (It’s not Brickskeller. Those of you who live here will know which bar I’m talking about.)

The woman is someone you’ve been dating for a few months. Expectations have been established. Not firm rules, but slowly congealing guidelines for acceptable behavior. She tells you she will be at this bar tonight with a former co-worker, a man you’ve never met, and she wants you to come out and meet her at the bar. You say “Yeah, I’ll swing by later.” You’re an alpha; everything is always later.

When you arrive at the entrance of the bar you spot your girl across the room, sitting on a barstool between two men. There are no other empty stools near them. They are all laughing and drinking amongst themselves. Your girl is looking good, her bright red lipstick a beacon in the dim bar light. They haven’t noticed you yet. You watch them for a second before proceeding into the room, dispassionately curious about their dynamic. Soon you will walk toward them — the two men flanking your woman whose vagina you have penetrated repeatedly and vigorously — with intentions to introduce yourself. You don’t know which of the men is her former co-worker, or who the other man might be. In fact, you don’t know anything of their synergy, but that you see their smiles and hear their laughter. You begin walking to them.

What do you do?

I want specifics. Don’t patronize this blog’s audience with the obvious. You may think your testicular fortitude unassailable, but few men who read here are so socially awkward that they would believe confronting the men at the bar in a jealous pique is “being alpha”.

Who do you address first? How do you address them? Do you wait for your girl to introduce you or do you thrust your hand in promptly, prodding handshakes? Do you put an arm over your girl’s shoulder? Do you kiss her upon meeting? Or do you keep a few feet of distance between you and her in the interest of avoiding the perception of “boyfriendiness”?

Think details. Go.

PS Some readers have emailed me asking if my “test of your game'” stories are pulled from my own life or made up out of whole cloth. Most of the incidents I describe on this blog are events I have experienced personally. So yes, you are getting real life scenarios to ponder.

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Everything Wrong With America In One Picture

When historians ponder the fall of the Roman Empire, they point to the multicultural Germanicization of the legions and the outsourcing of military affairs to barbarian mercenaries. When they reflect on the causes of Mayan collapse, deforestation is fingered as the culprit. When future revolutionary historians on the fringes of polite society offer reasons for the implosion of the American Empire (coming *very* soon to a booming multiplex theater near you), they will hold up this photo. And heads will nod in unison. Mutterings will be heard: “We saw it coming.”

What’s wrong with this picture? Let us count the ways. I’m going to go out on a limb here and assume the hairdresser is swisherrific. I mean, just look at that belt buckle. Would we be able to win WWII if we had to fight it over again with the current crop of American men? Or would we chastise the fearful warmongering Americans for antagonizing the millions of moderate Nazis? Phony umbrage and secular piousness are the cheap and easy virtues of a soulsucked people. So easy, you can do it too! I’ll get you started. “Xenophobe!” Congrats, you’re now better than Jesus.

The assistant has a foreign name. East European. She has that cute, scrunchy apple face so sexually arousing in the Slavic women, but unfortunately her Old World charms will be lost in a matter of weeks, due to exposure to the froo-frooiest of American culture from working in a hair salon that caters to a dying breed. (And I’m not referring to the dog.) I do not envy her boyfriend who will wake up one morning to the realization that his beloved has become fully Americanized. Home cooked dinners and surprise blowjobs will be nothing but a sweet memory.

When a free nation is invaded by a foreign force wthout lifting a single weapon to defend itself, when it puts itself in hock to a Communist overlord, when it has 152 varieties of color protecting conditioner on its store shelves, the doomsday clock has moved a minute closer to the midnight hour.

Then there’s the woman getting the queen bee treatment. Yenta! It’s not just an electric car. Her smile may be a mile wide, but her eyes betray infinite sadness. By the way she is smothering her dog with affection I safely assume she is childless.

And of course, the dog, a term I use loosely to describe the shitting Roomba sitting on her lap. Is that a flower tucked in its head fur? No wonder the dog’s face says “Shoot me please.” Normal dogs are not coddled and pampered like substitute children. A normal dog’s face says “Bacon? Bacooooon!!”

Examine this picture. You should feel a foreboding deep in your gut. You won’t know why exactly, but it’s there. Best not think too long about it, there’s another mp3 to download.

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