I came to The Game via a reality TV show called – predictably enough - The Pick-Up Artist. A month or so ago you could watch the whole thing online. Now it’s only available to view in the States. Pffft.
Anyhow, the show was presented by Mystery, pioneer of The Mystery Method, the guy who tutored Strauss in the ways of seduction and for much of The Game came across as a petulant child, always boasting about how he should be a big star, like David Copperfield, and how he wouldn’t be happy till he lived with two beautiful bisexual women who were wildly in love with him. Yawn. Anyhow, looks like he’s on his way to making it now, unless this show constituted his 15 minutes and now he’s back to hawking ‘How to Pull’ DVDs for the rest of his life. Ugh.
So, yes, I watched the whole thing and, I have to say, I really enjoyed it. But then I’m a sucker for reality TV. There. I’ve said it. Give me a choice between Brideshead Revisited and America’s Next Top Model and I’m afraid it’s Tyra every time. Although I draw the line at Big Brother.
The premise of The Pick-Up Artist is as follows: eight gynophobic freaks who, as the saying goes, would not be able to find themselves a sex partner in a third-world bordello (even with some kind of Balm of Irresistibility smeared across their nipples and a scrotum full of rubies), are taught the secrets of the science of seduction by some of the world’s greatest pick-up artists: Mystery, Matador and McLovin’. I mean, J-Dog. They live in a house together for a couple of months, learning how to dress, how to talk smart and charming, how to kiss peaches and so on. Every week one of them is eliminated for being utterly utterly useless.
My main problem with the show was that none of the guys was actually ugly. There were a couple of slightly chubby blokes, a couple of nerds and one old one. Apart from that, they’re all normal-looking men. It would have been much more interesting to see a real car-wreck of a man transformed into a ‘ten-magnet’. Ho hum. But it was fun nonetheless.
The slimy Hispanic won.
So. Have I actually learned anything from my foray into the world of the world of Style, Mystery and Frank ‘Master of the Muffin’ Mackey?
I’m honestly not sure. The openers thing intrigues me though. This is basically having a stock-pile of lines to use when you approach someone. On the one hand, I can see that it’s really useful to have something funny or interesting to say rather than just saying, ‘Hello, what’s your name? What do you do?’ which is pretty much all I’ve ever had at my disposal. But on the other hand, the openers they recommend often smack either immense cheesiness or downright deception. There’s a bunch of examples here, including the famous ‘Fighting Girls Opener’, created by Neil Strauss. It goes like this:
PUA: Oh my God. Did you guys see the girl fight outside?
Girls: [Cut them off before they speak.]
PUA: They were fighting over this guy. I talked to him afterward. His name was Glen, That's a deal-breaker name, Glen. So they were pulling each other's hair and one of the girls' boobs pops out. Normally I'm all for seeing a ripe one, but this was a "saggy-baggy booby"... you know, from National Geographic.
[Go immediately into next routine…]
Now the point with this, as with most openers, is that when it’s finished, you do actually find yourself in conversation with a woman or women you’re interested in. The hardest part is over and you can take it from there. Presumably if they’re just standing there looking at you like you’ve just pooped on their lawn, then you probably haven’t done it right. The thing is, I can see this might work. But a lot of the openers on the site above would probably only work on really dull women. So I’ve devised a slightly darker one, for the more discerning lady, which I intend to use next time I’m in field. I’m going to go up to a saucy woman in Pret a Manger and say:
‘Hey, did you see those two old men in the street just now fighting over a dead cat? [Cut her off before she has the chance to call the police.] Yeah, it was wild, honeycow. They must have been in their 80s and they both had hold of this cat – one had the head and the other was hanging onto the back legs, pulling at it really hard they were, like it was a Tug of War, until eventually, suddenly – SNAP! – the cat’s body just came apart and its guts went flying everywhere. It was like that scene in Trainspotting when Spud’s boozy diarrhoea sprayed all over his girlfriend’s parents at the breakfast table… [Glance down at her breadless sandwich at this point suggestively.] Yeah, so think of a number between one and a thousand – make sure it’s seven.’
So that’s good. That’d work.
I’ve also picked up a few good pointers about appearance. Specifically, peacocking. Peacocking is essentially dressing to get noticed. As Mystery says, ‘try wearing at least one item of clothing curious looking enough to get people's attention’. To your left, to give you some idea of what we’re talking about, is a picture of Mystery. Now there are some who would say he’s gone too far with the peacock thing here, that his pea has rolled under the wardrobe and he’s drifted into straightforward cock terrotory, but they would be missing the point. And the point is, attention. Gotta get the attention. When a woman comes up to you and says, ‘Why are you dressed like such a dick, dude?’, you simply reply, ‘You are attracted to me. You just came up and started talking to me. You see? By the way, did you see those two old men in the street fighting over a midget?...’ And you’re away.
Of course, you have to have the confidence to carry off a look like that. If I went around wearing goggles, frankly, I’d just look like a cross between Quasimodo and Chubby Brown.
Actually, there’s not a world of difference between Mystery himself and Chubby Brown..
God, Mystery is such a cock.
Still, gotta respect him.
