by Tony D
You’re better than him, that’s why.
I was to carry on the family business. Woo-fucking-hoo. A lifetime of spidering through dusky basements, repairing heaters and hot-water tanks for captive suburbanites; a perpetual-monotony machine. I’m in a first world country, why subject myself to servitude? I could be a rock star, a poet, a big game hunter, a pot dealer. Anything else.
All the drugs and anti-social behavior ruined his business. He missed sales meetings, skipped work, and fell into heavy debt. One night he got too fucked up and wandered around the backyard without pants or underwear on, swingin it—free and oblivious—lost in his Nirvana. The neighbor caught him, and of course they pressed charges, so he was labeled a sex offender and forced into rehab. He wasn’t a pervert, just pissed off, like most of us. Drugs always start as a great idea.
He went and got better—for a while. He fixed the business, but crack is a powerful drug and he started using again. My stepmother was ready to bail, and would take my two half-brothers with her. I was twenty-one, dying for independence, and hated living around all this bullshit; fighting with my dad, fighting with my stepmother. They all thought I was a lazy daydreamer, which I was. So one day after a scrap over something petty I walked off the job. I just said, “Fuck you Dad,” and walked away. He asked me to come back but I told him I was never coming back. I wasn’t mean about it, it just wasn’t for me. I didn’t want that life of suburban furnace repair. I didn’t want to be stuck to anybody or anything. I guess I still don’t.
One cool evening he parked his van in a dark alley, drank a liter of vodka and shot up a needle full of cocaine into his vein. He didn’t wake up. They found him there like that, on the wheel, vomit on his lap, maybe smiling, I don’t know.
We weren’t hysterical or anything. We sort of expected it, like waiting for toast to pop. The sadness comes later when you’re organizing your sock drawer, or doing the dishes, or watching South Park. Crying is best when you think you’re alone, and someone catches you and asks, “What’s wrong?” That’s how it happened, trying to be quiet in the back of a car with a girl that didn’t want to fuck me.
Funerals just suck. There’s no mystery. Either you cry or you don’t, and everyone wonders if they should, or if they could. But it’s easy; just give yourself permission and let biology drive. Crying is like an orgasm; it feels great and leaves a mess—it clears your mind and calms your soul.
There was a note for my stepmother. She asked me if I wanted to read it, and if I wanted to see his body.
“No. That’s okay, thanks.”
Depressed yet? Don’t be. There’ll be heaps of dick jokes and debauchery ahead. My view is this: People die. Wax on wax off. By the way, I’m gonna die, you’re gonna die, your grandpa is probably dead, that housefly you swatted and left it’s guts on the wall had feelings, an elephant in China lost its tusks, a midget wants to be tall, a Korean girl bleached her skin white. It’s all gonna end, and I’m fine with that. I just hope it doesn’t hurt too much.
Most of us are searching for a certainty that if we follow the rules, it will all work out. But it won’t. I’m prepared for failure. Maybe a plane crash or zombie apocalypse. I’ve thought about doing myself in a few times, maybe with a big explosion, or gummed to death by a whale shark—but who hasn’t? We’re alive, and we’ll expire. It’s all around you, heaps of death: snake bites and boating accidents and teary, family destroying cancers. When I’m gone, I’ll pimp the astral plane. I’m not afraid of dying. I’m afraid of not living.
The years ticked on and I played in a few punk bands, started and dropped out of video game college, whored myself in warehouses and convenience stores and dated a few girls that cheated, or dumped me. Depression arrived and I made love to weed, booze, and video games. I’ve slayed ogres, wizards, and Russians. I’ve lived immortal inside virtual worlds. Yes, I’m a nerd.
At twenty-four, I found a job installing home theater systems for rich jerks. I didn’t like it. I was on construction sites all day and there were no women. I needed women. I needed to see swinging asses and titties and pretty smiles. Because of this I knew I could never be a monk. I’m not that Zen. There was a hole needed fillin.
It wasn’t an artistic job. It was cold hard labor only slightly superior to installing furnaces. But the pay kept me self-sustained: stoned, drunk, sheltered, entertained and fed. Just, not laid. One day I was asked to train a few newbies on some software. Instead, out of laziness, I wrote a manual and emailed it. I fucked around and made it funny. Some comments about Syphilis and the Sphinx or something. It was all right. The next day my boss took me aside.
“Sebastian. What are you doing here? At this job? It’s not for you.”
“Why? I’m not bad at it,” I said, offended.
“Sebastian, this manual is fantastic. It’s funny and well written. You should be a writer, or a philosopher. You’re not a laborer.”
“Yeah, but, well…”
“Sebastian,” he said, placing both his hands on the desk. “You’re not right for this. You’re a writer.”
I didn’t know whether to slap or hug him. Was he masturbating my ego so I’d quit and he could hire a real laborer? All it takes is one person to believe in you, and off you go down the rainbow to your dreams or whatever.
I wrote articles for music rags. I wasn’t destined for journalism, but I learned to write. It was cool. I got into shows free and met a bunch of rock stars. Arty chicks were interested in my job and wanted to hang out with me, so that I’d write about them. But even with my hip, music journalist status, I was still a sad, man-boobed man who couldn’t pull ass.
One night at a party one of my friends slapped me on the back and said, “Y’know what? I like drunk Sebastian the best!”
Really? So I drank more. When I drank, I became something better. I forgot about my tits and insecurities and anger and loneliness. When I went to parties, I’d be social, funny and charming. Women noticed this. I’d catch them flirting with me, winking coyly, poking my soft belly, or pointing at my dimples. Unfortunately, I had no idea how to get them to fuck me… not the ones I wanted anyway. I didn’t see the method; just that alcohol for me was like spinach to Popeye: Eyyy, kkyye, kyye. Sluts!
I had a pellet gun, and at night I would hold it to my head and pretend it was real. I’d stare in the mirror at my titties and punch the walls. At twenty-six years old, I hadn’t been laid in two years, and it was fucking me up. For a young man to feel content, he needs to be able to attract women. We will lie and say things like, I don’t care about chicks—they don’t matter. Bullshit man. It’s genetic. We need you. Most of us aren’t Buddhist and we haven’t renounced the pleasures of the flesh, or the experience of emotion. We need your skin, your smell, your love and attention. To have no choice, no ability, is to be denied the human experience and be a slave to genetic and societal circumstance.
I felt like a pathetic runt of the litter, as many men do. I had all this talent and couldn’t attract a girlfriend. What would I need to do? Sell a million records? Write a best seller? Take steroids? I’ve always been fascinated by women and felt I deserved the best of them.
When I was six years old, I had a vivid dream of lying in a bed and holding hands with a redheaded classmate I’d been crushing on. I didn’t even understand what crushing was. It wasn’t even sexual. It was just an exchange of energy, a deep feeling, like a psychic understanding or massive unresolved gastric anomaly. My most romantic moments have always been in my dreams. Reality is much harsher. Reality is a punch to the nut sack; it’s hurts long and slow, the peaceful painless moments are taken for granted, and the rest is spent avoiding more pain.
One day in 2006, I sat drunk at my computer and searched, ‘man tits.’ There were pages and pages of information on something called, Gynecomastia. I even found a whole forum with over ten thousand members, all men, asking each other whether or not they should just suck it up and get liposuction on their pathetic little man-boobie chests. The resounding
voice was for surgery (because money can buy happiness). It wasn’t that expensive either; just a thousand dollars—which any ambitious first-world asshole can manifest.
I bought a ticket to see a surgeon in Toronto, waited an agonizing month, flew there, and got my tits removed. That was it. The doctor anesthetized me and in twenty minutes had sliced out the swollen glands. He kept them in a mason jar and asked me if I wanted them.
“Uhhh, no, thanks,” I said.
I was wrapped in bandages, loaded with morphine, and sent back to my hotel to spend a few days in Toronto while I healed.
One night I was walking around the city feeling awesome, and a very pretty drunk girl charged across a busy street, nearly killing herself, grabbed my arm and yelped, “You’re hot!” Then before I could reply, she was dragged away by her fat friend into the manic city night. I had no idea what to do, but I liked being hit on. It really felt good. Validation is powerful. She approached me because of my energy; my positive glow was contagious. The way she came at me, her vibe, it’s the same way I try to attract women now, with a force-like radiance of awesome. You can pull women by emanating love. I mean, you should also be a badass, but be a happy badass that farts joy from every pore. It’s hard to love people, because they suck. But fake it. Do it for the pussy and love. If you fake it enough you’ll become what you pretend to be.
I needed to figure out this girl problem, and fast. Just because I had a normal chest meant nothing to anyone but me. Insecurity is funny like that. I took the flight back to Vancouver, where my roommates joked that I went to Toronto for the gay pride festival. They couldn’t see a difference because they never noticed my chest—only I did—because the human mind is constantly grinding and comparing equations that mean nothing. I didn’t tell anyone about my surgery because I was embarrassed. So yeah, they thought I was a fag.
No, they were teasing, I think.
Maybe we’re all capable of being gay but choose not to. Think about it, bro. Smiley face.
I felt like a ten-thousand pound weight had been lifted. I had a second chance at life. I’d never been happier. To this day whenever I feel down, I remember how I used to be. Nothing seems as bad… such is the power of vanity.
The week after the surgery, I was sitting with my roommates taking bong hits and watching Jackass when a documentary about pickup artists came on. I didn’t even know there was such a thing as pickup artists. It was like someone telling me Bigfoot was real. This dating coach on the documentary said that any guy, any size, shape, race, or age, could learn to seduce beautiful women through the practice of not-so secret techniques. And there were Internet forums where amazing and powerful pickup tactics were being shared freely.
I looked at my roommates to see if they were excited. One was picking his nose, the other was launching a new game of God of War on the Xbox. I ran upstairs to my room, got onto the Internet, and started reading. I devoured articles all day and all night until the sun was rising over the smog of Vancouver.
You bro, are going to be awesome at this.
Here was my answer: I would approach beautiful women, learn pickup and become a super hero. It was as obvious as pooping, breathing air, or paying rent. The next morning I woke up early, ate a greasy breakfast of eggs and bacon with an Americano, marched to the nearest hip street, and prepared my first approach.
It works. Everything changed.
Chapter 2
Transmogrification (Newb)
“Fuck it,” I told myself as I attempted my first approach… ever, with my heart hammering through my sore and bandaged chest, sweat running over my palms, bladder quivering, and every pre-installed voice screaming, Don’t do it Sebastian! You’ll be bludgeoned to death, your bloody remains scattered as pigeon feed! Go back to your tribe you pussy. Go back to being lazy, sad, and poor. You’re gonna have a panic attack. You’re invading her privacy and she’s too pretty for you.
I lurched towards her, wiped my brow, lowered my sunglasses, and said, “You have the whole bench to yourself, nice work.” It was the best I could come up. I’d forgotten every pickup line I’d spent all night memorizing.
“Hello,” she replied, lowering Anna Karenina and looking up at me.
Her teeth were shiny and perfect; her lips, puffy and youthful. She was hot.
“What are you doing?” I asked meekly.
“I’m just chilling out. It’s my day off. I live in White Rock but I looove Vancouver.”
It was going ok, but I was too nervous. There was something about relating roller coasters to sex and I was supposed to touch her a lot, or hypnotize her; but I’d smoked too much pot that year and the short term memory suffered. My heart beat even faster, and it took effort to push air through my lungs, so I coughed, and the world flipped upside down like in that movie Inception. I was on the verge of another panic-attack. This is what usually happened when I talked to pretty girls. This is why I wanted to learn how to pick them up—to end my brain’s tyrannical reign over my body.
“Ummm, well I’ll just be over, cough, ummm, at that coffee shop ok…bye,” I stuttered.
“Umm, bye?” she said with a furrowed brow as I fled with my terror. Oh my terror. How embarrassing.
Then there was a serene calm like a beachside breeze in autumn and a smile broke across my twenty-seven year old face.
You did it. Fuck them all you did it. You’re awesome.
She was into it. I should have stayed there. I should have got her number. I should have taken her for coffee. I should have done lots of things but I didn’t. I decided then that I’d do whatever it took to figure this out. I learned more from talking to one girl for fifteen seconds than I did from reading forum posts all night. The real, “ahah,” moments, the epiphanies, only formed after I approached a girl. Experience is the key; it holds the answers. You don’t learn to play guitar by listening to music; you don’t become a world champion athlete by going to games and sitting in the bleachers. Pickup isn’t a spectator sport. If I don’t talk to girls, I don’t meet them, attract them, or fuck them, or marry them, or whatever.
I went home and watched my roommates play Xbox. I thought about that girl on the bench. I could have done much, much better. I would.
Chapter 3
Esther (The Stupid Club)
My band wasn’t that popular yet, but we still managed to land small bar gigs. At one show there was this cute little Bjork looking girl with these giant blue eyes, short-cropped black hair and a small, pretty mouth.
I’d like to fuck that mouth.
Dude. Relax.
She looked real nice, like a best friend’s little sister that you always wanted to fall in love with, and bang (same thing for me). She was flirting her way around the bar so I watched her as I played. I was the lead guitarist and the singer, so in theory I should be able to get the girls, because I’m a cool shit rock star.
Bands; I always hoped that women would launch themselves at me like sex crazed torpedoes. I was into the idea of groupies. Sometimes there were, but I’d screw it up. They’d just stare at me, and I’d stare back. Then they’d pretend they weren’t curious, and so would I. Usually I would just play my set, get my pats on the back and load my gear. I’d go home and spank it, but it’s all about the music anyway, right? The glory of it all?
I’ve always loved being on stage. Maybe that’s why I became so good at seducing women; the entire act is a rock and roll show, or your own movie. There’s a reason they called them pickup artists and not pickup scientists.
Fuck, the, mouth…
Shhhh!
I never wanted to be a pickup artist, just to be desired by the ones you look at and go, “damn, she’s amazing.” There’s no perfect body, or perfect laugh, or perfect anything. It’s just something that sets your guts aflame. Some chicks get it right: looks, moves, and mind—we fall for them. Those are the ones that make you stay-put and be a good-boy.
The better I got with girls, the harder it became to find women like that, so the harder
I pursued them, like my astrology sign, Pisces: eternally chasing tail. And once you’ve had the best times of your life with a brilliant, sexy girl, the bar is raised. Those dimes are a real challenge for average guys, frustratingly difficult, but so rewarding—especially when faced with competition from taller, richer, more popular, and handsome men. That’s why game was created, to compete with them, and to teach us what our fathers failed to.
Large glass walls surrounded the bar, so that passersby could peer inside. It was like a fish tank full of drunks. I was on the stage, and just outside a laughing baby ran away from its mother, into the glass wall. It fell and started wailing. The mother picked it up, gave it a mild scolding, then comforted it, and carried on. I’d just witnessed the loss of innocence—that’s how we learn to fear pain.
I finished my set and put down my guitar. Little Bjork was standing just to the right of the stage, sneaking glances at me and twisting one toe on the sticky floor. This time I knew what to do…
Talk to her.
I said, “Are you drilling a hole to China?”
“Ha ha. You guys are really good. I like your shoes.” She pointed at my dirty Chuck Taylors.
“You can’t have them. They’re mine,” I said.
“Shut up! I have two pairs at home.”
I moved aside so the other band could set up their gear.
“Yeah. I want them, give them to me,” I said. “Where do you live?”
“They won’t fit you, crazy. You’re funny, what’s your name?” She took a step forward.
“I’m Sebastian. What’s yours?”
“Esther.”
Something amazing was happening. I felt that warm glow deep inside that gently whispers up through your vessel, like a slow opium-boat ride to Laos, and says, you got this buddy—you got this. You’re the Eiffel Tower of Power; you’re James Dean, Martin Luther King, and Santa Claus at the same time. Reach for the stars, grab a planet, devour the inhabitants, and take a nap.
