How To Revive A Cold Lead

Let’s say you’re like me and you forgot to call back in a timely manner one of the leads you number closed. Don’t worry, be happy. You can turn that cold lead around. How? It’s best to illustrate by example. Here follows an actual text exchange (syntax verbatim) between me and a lead that I had allowed to go cold.

******

ME: hey XXX it’s [x] we met at XXXX. i was the incredibly suave guy 🙂 hi! [I sent this text at 1 am on a Saturday night, eight days after I got her number.]

GIRL: [After five minute delay] Hey, nice to hear from you! How are you?

ME: Life is good. i got a fish today. handsome devil. what’s up w you?

GIRL: A fish? Cool. Does it have a name?

ME: It does have a name. “stud” he’s a ladykiller. Just like his dad. 😉 hey when are u free? We’re getting together for a drink.

GIRL: That would be great. we could meet up this weekend or during the week.

[I arrange a time to meet during the week, and tell her to meet me at a lounge conveniently located near my place.]

GIRL: Ok sounds good. So to avoid a potentially awkward situation I need to tell you I am a little younger than you probably think I am. I’m four months to turning 21.

ME: Hm i thought you were mid or late 20s. Ok to avoid carding let’s meet at [non-alchohol serving coffee bar in same location] which is on the corner of XXX.

GIRL: Ok I know exactly where that is. So if you don’t mind me asking are you mid to late 20s then?

ME: 85. Ever since i quit smoking i’ve shaved off the years. I’m probably too mature for you.

GIRL: Probably. So do you still want to meet?

ME: Yes. You don’t strike me as a ditz. You seem smart. I prefer to keep an open mind.

GIRL: Ok, well I’ll meet you at [X] on [X] then.

******

Maxim #12: If you are comfortable with your game being splashed across a JumboTron for thousands of people to read, then you are doing it right.

Do you feel confident enough to put your communication with chicks on this blog? Before you send that text or make that phone call, ask yourself, “Would this pass muster as a blog post entry for millions of knife-sharpening hardcore womanizers and beta haters to read?” If you suspect the answer is “No”, you need to STOP DROP and ROLL off that chick until your senses return.

Which brings me to a new project idea. I call it: Alpha Assessment Monday. Every other Monday (after a long weekend of collecting digits), you the reader will submit your texts, voicemails, or other stabs at communication with women for me to post on the blog. The readers (and myself) will then analyze it to determine if it is adequately alpha. This is the way to grow as a man. You may submit conversations that you have already sent to the girl, or conversations you are planning to send.

*PS: It is acceptable to communicate solely via text with especially young women. I’m generally anti-text because I think it betrays timidity, but the under-25 crowd, and lately even the under 30 crowd, treat texting like phone calling — it’s their default mode. Younger women — the best kind — won’t subtract points like they used to if you arrange dates through text.

Tremendous Neg

If your girl is sick (the Chateau has doubled as an infirmary this week), you have at your disposal a neg so sublime, so devastating, that you would be remiss not to use it.

GIRL: Hey baby, I’m starting to feel better. Give me a kiss.

YOU: Mmm, ooookaaaay, not sure about this…

[You hug her tight and lovingly and give her a kiss with your lips so pursed you couldn’t squeeze a sheet of paper between them. After a second of this red hot passion, lean back, smile warmly, then wipe your mouth on your sleeve and make little spitting noises away from her,… ptui ptui ptui…, like you’re spitting out girl germs.]

GIRL: Really?

YOU: Better safe than sorry. Here, I got you an orange. You need vitamin C.

Another version is to grab her chin with your hand and gently push her mouth away when she goes in for the kiss, then plant your lips all over her cheeks, ears and neck, assiduously avoiding her lips. Afterwards, step back and loudly proclaim “God you are SO kissable.” Say this sincerely. Sarcasm will ruin the effect.

I Will Not Drink Fucking Merlot!

There is a group of SWPLs outside on the balcony right now discussing the finer points of wine. They are mocking some mutual friend they know for being pretentious about wine by… being pretentious about wine.

“Oh, like, so X says she had dinner with Napa Valley’s best sommelier.”

“She’s such a wine snob. I swear she brought table wine last month to X’s party.”

Their insipid blather has ruined my pleasant evening of pipe smoking and single malt drinking. I loathe SWPLs. If hypocrisy and status whoring were hellfire their screams of torment would echo through the ages.

Flowers Of Death

Every so often I see floral arrangements resting on the ground or tied to a street sign along the DC metro region’s busiest roads — Rockville Pike, Connecticut Ave, Rt 66, the hallway leading to my bedroom. People have died in horrible, mangled car accidents at these spots (excepting my hallway). Some of the impromptu memorials, presumably left by family and friends, have teddy bears or dolls among the flowers.

I wonder if these reminders of instant death from car crash cause people to drive more carefully? I bet they do. I certainly notice them, and the first thing that goes through my mind is how exactly the accident went down. Did the driver’s head cave upon impact with the windshield? Did a child fly out of the vehicle into oncoming traffic? Did the southbound car have a split second to apply the brakes and swerve over the median to avoid a head-on collision?

Someone should do a study to see if the increase of these roadside memorials over the past decade is having an effect on traffic fatalities. Unfortunately, like most things which are effective at influencing human behavior, there is probably a point of diminishing returns with the flowers of death. Maybe flowers every ten miles works well, but more than that and people become inured to them, and resume their normal tailgating/speeding/driving while texting habits.

Scar Game

Reader Powers left the following comment:

I knew I looked my best when I broke my nose and looked like a boxer. I predict makeup that mimics scars will become popular among men.

This is a brilliant business idea. It’s true; chicks dig the scar. As long as the scar is something cool, like one caused by a knifing, instead of the pockmarked landscape of acne vulgaris.

I propose stick-on scars for the timid betas, and actual scarification shops for the impulsively brave. Ye Olde Scar Shoppe would feature a licensed thug swiping a butterfly knife just across the eyebrow ridge and halfway down the cheek, which is the perfect kind of scar to tingle ginas far and wide. You would be fully anesthetized of course, unless you want the “authentic” scarification package, where the only pain relief you are offered is a jigger of whiskey and a stick to bite down on. Sure, it’ll hurt like hell, but you’ll walk out of there feeling like a man. As blood oozes through your bandage, girls will gather round in a mass proximity IOI.

Stick-on scars could act like Mystery’s black nail polish — ready to wear for a night on the town and easily removed the next morning before heading into the office. (For a couple of weeks I tried black nail polish. One morning I neglected to completely remove it from all fingers and spent the day explaining to people I had slammed a door on my pinky. The next day it had miraculously healed.)

Some cool stick-on scar ideas:

• Bullet holes (Not to be mistaken for laparoscopic holes.)
• Burn marks on the arm or shoulder (Imagine the DHV potential. “Yeah, I ran into that burning house. Who wouldn’t? A baby was crying.”)
• Cig burns (Only the baddest of badboys would dare cross the mafia.)
• An exotic branding (You were captured by Tamil Tigers who adopted you as one of their own. During the initiation ceremony you were branded with the mark of the Shadow Order. Now you roam the earth solitary, a deadly killer with a vague memory of a long lost love.)
• Missing tooth (“It was five against one. I held them off as long as I could so my ex [Sarah] could run for safety.”)
• Bite marks in the shape of a great white shark’s jaws (“I punched the damn thing in the nose and fought it off, but not before he took a good chunk outta me.”)
• Decapitation (If you can pull this off you are a bigger alpha than I.)

Scar game is a subject in which I have intimate knowledge. You see, I have a secret — most of my life I have carried with me a facial scar. I don’t talk about it much because… the memory is too painful… the wound… too deep…

Even now, years later, it’s hard for me to confront the horrible past that gave me this scar as a permanent symbol of my suffering. But the time is right for closure… (deep breath)… It’s a scar from when I was stricken with chicken pox at the age of 9.

Mmm, I can smell your pussy juices from here, ladies. The line starts at the left.

Sick Game

I’ve stumbled (literally) across a school of game that is even more effective than hangover game: Sick game.

I met up with a buddy at a bar even though I was deep under the influence of a viral load. Cabin fever and the call of the wild coaxed me off my sofa. I warned him ahead of time that I would be absent as a wingman that night.

Coughing, sniffling, and hacking up loogies on the walk over, I dragged myself up to the roof deck and propped myself against the bar, or rather, leaned heavily against the bar to support my weakened body. Three girls situated themselves nearby. Even in my fuzzy mental state I knew a proximity indicator of interest when I saw one.

One of the girls was decent looking, but naturally I was in no mood to attempt her seduction. I just wanted to take in the spectacle, sip my ginger ale, and infect everyone with my contagious joy. But this girl moved closer and it would have been criminal of me to deny her the satisfaction of a proper gaming. So I opened her. Angrily.

“So what’s your deal?”

“My deal? This is my first time at this place.”

“Are those your friends over there?”

“Yes.” She waved at them and they wanly smiled back.

I growled. “Just make sure they don’t cockblock. I need space to sweep you off your feet.”

The seduction continued for fifteen minutes. My body language was… aloof. Sickly aloof. I don’t think I turned my head more than once to give her a sidelong glance. My mouth hung open taking in oxygen. My eyes were watery. My voice sounded muffled ricocheting off my phlegmy sinuses. I barely spoke, prefering to nod or give one word answers when she asked me questions. I didn’t smile once, not even when she tried to be funny. When she laughed, I didn’t laugh with her. When she thrust her impressive bosom in my face, I didn’t take notice. More than a few times I interrupted her conversation by coughing loudly into my hand. I allowed long, uncomfortable silences to linger when she ran out of things to say. Invariably, she would be the one to fumble frenetically for a topic to restart the conversation.

And after fifteen minutes? I number closed her. More precisely, I opened my phone and she grabbed it and punched in her number before I could even finish asking her for it.

Women are always saying they want men to “be themselves”. They want sincerity and candor. Well, nothing brings out the sincerity like sickness. I was truly “being myself”, my glorious, uncaring, indifferent, asshole self. And that’s the man that women love.

The Woman Source

I’ve found day game nirvana. The Paper Source, on M Street in Georgetown, is swimming in snapper. Swimming, Jerry! I couldn’t believe the wall to wall babes in this place, browsing, of all things, paper and paper accessories.

As one Yelp reviewer wrote:

What is it about women and stationary? If a girl ever looked at me with the same look of anticipation, excitement, longing, and joy that you see on the faces of the many ladies walking into this store, I think my heart would explode.

Gentlemen pay attention, should you ever have the urge to be surrounded by a crowd of attractive, giddy women head over to this store on a Saturday afternoon. Loudly announce to the clerk that you would really love some “letter pressed personalized stationary” and whether there is a large selection of styles you can patiently browse through.  Women standing around you will raise one eyebrow appreciatively and check you out.

I have been dragged here a couple of times over the years. What can I say; It sells paper. In a bewildering amount of sizes and functions.  This store proves that women are just more thoughtful and caring then us guys, for they sell a cute little card for every possible occasion.  There is an upstairs, but before having to go up there to see what it was about, I was able to negotiate an early exit from the store by promising to buy the girl I was with dinner; there may be a bar and dumpling store up there for all I know.  Point being, if you come here with your girlfriend, you will have to drag her out kicking and screaming. And probably drop at least $20 on paper. Otherwise, Mie n Yu is close by so you can pop over there for some drinks and wait it out.  

I really could care less about stationery, but because women love this store, and I love women, I dedicate 4 stars on their behalf.

I went upstairs. There was a $112 photo album in a bin. (Photos not included.) Was it laminated in gold leaf? I couldn’t tell. The man-cession deepens while the frivolous woman economy rolls on. For now. Helpful tip: Two floors means consecutive number closes mere yards apart are possible.

Why do women love froo froo stationery? I know why.

1. Paper is lightweight. Women are lightweight.
2. Paper is insubstantial. Women are insubstantial.
3. Paper is a medium upon which trivial thoughts are transcribed. Women are a medium from which trivial thoughts issue.
4. Paper comes in many soft pastel colors. Women can identify more soft pastel colors than men.
5. Paper contains an element of danger (paper cuts). Women tingle in the gina region for hidden danger.
6. Hand-written love notes on high gauge paper harken back to a romantic era. Women love fantasizing about long-gone romantic eras when raw sewage would run freely down cobblestone streets.
7. Personalized lace-fringed paper, calligraphy, and wax seals show you care. Except that you shouldn’t show you care. Because chicks will ignore you if you show you care. Which is why chicks love things that show you care. Yeah, that’s the ticket.

So there you have it. A day game den of estrogen situated in the heart of a day game neighborhood. Bonus day game locale: City Bikes in Adams Morgan. Chicks dig the fixed gear.