She almost had me…

August 23, 2010

Women always test.

The Journalist stopped by the desk, bearing a scratch ticket.

She: Give me a quarter. I’ll play it right here, and if I win, I’ll look out for you (she’ll cut me in).

Me: Wait–did you win? (I was referring to a conversation we had last week, when she bought a Big Game/Megabucks ticket, and told me not to play because she was going to win.)

She: I haven’t even played it yet!

Me: No, no–I mean last week.

She: (Blank look, then..) Oh! Uh, no–I lost.

Me: Waitaminute–you told me not to play because you bought a ticket! I might have won if I had played!

She: C’mon–gimme a quarter!

And I almost did it–I caught myself fishing a quarter out of my pocket. Damnit! Fortunately, she got distracted by one of my co-workers, and forgot about it altogether.

I’m not sure what I would have done; how do you diffuse a situation like that without seeming like a dick?

******************************************************************

Speaking of failing tests, I watched the following on Saturday:

There’s some kind of event going on at Government Center, and there are a bunch of performers on stage doing salsa and contemporary dance. One troop moves off stage, and move inside to change clothes–all except one woman, who proceeds to whip off her costume by the side of the stage. The Sergeant (Gold Shield means Sergeant, right?) steps up and asks her to move around the corner. She didn’t even look up at him, and said: “Do I make you uncomfortable?”, to which he responded, “Yeah, a little”. She chuckled, and said, “You’ll get used to it.”

And he let her go on disrobing. Poor bastard–that woman dissed him, and he didn’t have a clue as to what to do about it.

Women always test!

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Seeing things in the rear-view mirror…

June 27, 2010

Come mid-August, it will be 11 long years since the ex left me, getting on a plane to Europe to disappear forever.

Looking back on it now, I dodged one hell of a fucking bullet; I’ve kept track of my ex, and I know what happened to her, the man she ended up marrying, and her kids. There, but for the grace of God, go I, my sons.

I don’t think my ex ever consciously meant to use me as an ATM–if she had, she would not have told me so much of the man she did end up with. But, she did–and she would still be doing so today, were we still together.

It was this post that got me to thinking about my initial meeting with my ex, and the mistakes that I made; Lord Almighty, I cringe at the mistakes I have made–yes, even the flowers I brought to the first date. I was Beta (Gamma, by Vox Day’s metric), and she treated me as such. Every day, from the point I found out my cancer had departed, must be a day that I say, “Never Again”–and mean it.

Which is why this post is so bloody disheartening. Nothing sucks the wind out of one’s sails than to realize that one can fall back into old habits so damn easily–and I have; I’ve tipped my hand to one of the hotties up on 9, and I can see her contempt in her eyes every time she walks past the desk.

“Hindsight is wonderful-it shows you how you busted your skull after you’ve busted it.” ~Robert Heinlein, Friday

Fuck it. Regroup, recover, and soldier on. Move forward, or die–and I’m not going to face God like this, damn it.


I could have written that letter.

April 7, 2010

Obsidian posted this letter on his blog, and only half-way through, I found two thoughts racing through my head:

1) A sympathetic “Oh, you poor bastard”; and,

2) “I could have written this letter.”

Truly we live in a world run amok. I have experienced moments like those the author relates, and have heard stories from others just as bad (and in some cases–worse).

Ultimately, this is a letter of despair: “why bother?” is the rallying cry of those men who have decided to go omega, to just chuck the whole nasty mess and do without. It’s a bothersome question, one that a lot of people can’t answer. Lord knows, I’ve asked myself that question a number of times down through the years–and the only response I could muster was, “why indeed?”

But a wise man once told me, “Despair is a sin”, and the sin of despair has its opposing virtue: Hope. By all accounts, I should be lying in a palliative-care unit somewhere, drugged into a stupor by morphine as the race to see what would run out first–my cancer-ridden liver or my health insurance. Yet, here I am–alive, and kicking like a motherfucker. Where there’s a chance, there’s hope. You have to have faith that that one out of ninety-nine women will say yes, and that it will be worth it.

Mind you, it’s not all faith; part of the problem with the author of that letter seems to do a lot of reading about Game, but he hasn’t internalized any of what people like Roissy et al teach. I mean, consider the moment that his hook-up said “Do you think I just have sex with random peopleā€?, he should have flipped the script and thrown her last minute resistance in her face (“No, I don’t; I thought you were into me. I’ll see you later.”, and then go back downstairs and sarged right back into the crowd.). All the theory in the world doesn’t mean shit if it isn’t tested and tried–you don’t go swimming without getting wet. It’s the whole point behind that proverb by Alexander Pope:

“A little learning is a dangerous thing;
drink deep, or taste not the Pierian spring:
there shallow draughts intoxicate the brain,
and drinking largely sobers us again.”

Or, to put it in more colloquial terms: “Do, or do not! There is no try!”

Edit: Ok, having read some of the responses to the letter over at TOF, I realize my advice wasn’t the best–he should have said, “No, I don’t”, and gone for the kill. See why I’m not getting any? Live and learn.

It’s not like I’ve been having any more success that this kid–Mr. Wiggly is starving here, folks. But giving up now begs the question of why I should have survived cancer–what’s the point of going through all the pain of surgery and chemo if you’re going to live life in a dark hole in the ground?

Fuck that. I can do better. I fucken’ deserve better–and so does this guy, if he’d actually think about it. We all do. I have faith in that.

So, I’m going pub crawling this weekend. I’ll probably get shot down again; maybe I’ll get a slap in the face–the modern equivalent of a “red badge of courage”. Sooner or later, I’ve got to find that one-in-ninety-nine (or nine hundred ninety-nine)–I have to, dammit.

It ain’t much to have hope for, to have faith in–but it’ll do, for now.


This is Alpha, and this is Beta.

January 26, 2010

A quick and dirty summation of what Game is:

This is a man without Game:

He gets eaten alive. This is Beta.

This is a man with Game:

Not only does he not get manipulated but he ends up manipulating her. This is Alpha.

This is Game. No rape, no force, no lies, no deception. Just Game.

(Yes, I know I’ve posted these videos before; the comparison between the Alpha and the Beta are too good to slip below the fold.)