Monday, August 8, 2011

Getting Dirty

A man uses himself and a sense of timing.  The eternal verities for subverting her resistance.  It's our gospel.  And to study the gospel we need a church; our church is a hallowed, reverent hallway where sentient awakenings occur with regularity if one just knows where to look.  Monday night I attend services at a joint in Hollywood.  There are pairs to either side.  Blonde chick to my left has a low slung Red Sox cap over her slightly weathered face, blue sweats conceal the bathtub in back--well, sort of.  Friend past her is pure skank, keeps going out to smoke.  Starboard are a younger, better aped duet engaged with each other, oblivious to men.  But are they?

I chill for 20 minutes.  The Patriots are destroying the Dolphins late in the 4th.  I turn left, pause, "You a Boston fan?"  The question is asked only slightly ironically since: 1) it's obvious that she is but 2) New Englanders value sincerity.  Direct hit:  the dam bursts, she is indeed a Boston fan, all Beantown sports teams are discussed, then the boyfriend, then the dad dying, then her interest in hockey as a pup (long ago it would seem).  I nod, a good listener, leaving a thought at the altar for the dearly departed: her boyfriend.

It's a set up, of course, for the couple stage right.  They are drinking.  One has a cast.  But still they don't look around at all.  I'm waiting for a seam, eye contact, something.  Since, well, I am armed now, I  have integration, they've seen me chatting so now is the time.  But there is nothing.  Nothing, nothing until the casted one says "I have Vicodin for my foot."  She looks up (finally) towards me, I nod slightly.  Pause.  "I hurt my foot [raises the cast]."  "What kind of buzz is Vicodin?" I ask.  I inch forward, I show some interest.  That's it, that's all it took.  After a few more empty exchanges, her friend gets up and moves further down the bar so this chick can sit closer to me.  I have no interest in her, she's hot but whacked because she just broke up with her boyfriend; our drug conversation leads to a discussion of boyfriend's mood alterating reliance on some such pill that made him announce, suddenly, that he has no interest in her.  She moves closer to me, she's crying now.  It happens so fast.  In church, there are miracles every week.

There is religion and then there is science.  In science there is a concept called phenomenology.  Meaning, you act from a place of not knowing, of wanting to learn.  The opposite of phenomenology would be like, an agenda driven approach.  The Guerilla knows how to combine both.  He asks the question with an internal agenda.  But he states it in a way that seems sincere and genuine because it is.  Both questions tonight  were successfully fused (if I do say so myself).  I was a little curious about Vicodin.  But it was a ploy of course.  It always is.  It almost has to be.

For more insight on how a Guerilla approaches the game of attraction, visit

Sunday, June 26, 2011

Teaching Respect

You meet a girl.  She's attractive.  You agree to go out.  She shows up at the joint, a million bucks in heels.  Within the half hour you and she are making out at the bar right there at the plank.  You get up to visit the little boys' room; when you return a half a dozen guys are chatting her up.  She handles them with ease and disappears with you into the night.

Next meeting, you are standing in a different joint, alone, waiting.  She texts you--"I have an awful headache, tried to get rid of it but I just couldn't, this is terrible...was dying to see you."

Ok.  A mulligan.

Next time you meet it's on the day she chooses.  You wanted a Thursday or Saturday; but Friday it is.  Ok.  At first she had said "anytime after 7:30."  You wanted 8.  She said "fine" then a couple hours later the text arrives: "let's make it 8:30."  You get to this joint--a third one--a little early, sweating and anticipating.  Another text, 8:28 pm:  "I'm on the road."  8:50 pm:  "sorry traffic is terrible!"

The student stays and waits.  The professor sends the following text back:  "You didn't leave until 8:30 and it's Friday night, thus the traffic was likely to be horrendous.  Plus I gave you a chance to change the time.  I'm not feeling well and going to go home."

9:02:  "I'm parking, wait, I told you the traffic was bad."  Then a phone call--now, she wants to talk.  You ignore the call.  Another text; this one is angry and confused.

It's confused because no one treats her this way.

Being with women truly is about respect.  It's about teaching respect.  But here's the thing:  you aren't teaching them to respect you.  You are teaching you to respect yourself.  Try it on for size.

Friday, May 20, 2011

A Rainy Way

It's morning and a curiously quiet May rain falls, spinning its fine aura over the city.   Without trying the rain seduces you by being sly and sexy even as it gums gutters and soaks your shirt.

One of the things I continually emphasize to men who ask me for advice about women is that you have to use those parts of YOU--parts that already exist and that in a large sense cannot be invented for the purpose--in order to position her for seduction.  It is not easy to directly describe the process but I can tell you what it feels like.

More than anything, it feels even, like the quiet rain.  It is not jerky or loud or arrogant; it isn't weak either of course but it does hold a quiet consistency, a focus that is nearly impossible to resist.  When you are truly using yourself to talk to a woman the thoughts and phrasing come from all over your past; the associations you draw--what you choose to say and choose not to say--do not need to be mapped out in advance.  This is how you weave a connection.  Do not underestimate the impact of this style on a woman, who is used to being endlessly played, punked and objectified.

Suppose instead of the rain, we look to music as a proxy for a Guerilla's education.  Not music you play when the prey is already cribbed but music that is you when you think about using yourself to first say (without actually saying it):  This Is Me; I Am Attracted To You; I Can Create A Wicked Connection Between Us.

Listen to a piece of "Upstairs" on Pell Mell's CD Star City:

When you bring this vibe to the table, many things will happen, some good, some awkward, some surprising, some you can't control.  A woman may say, for example, why are you looking at me like that while she talks because while her mouth is moving you are looking into her wench eyes thinking "yeah, yeah"--answering a question she hasn't thought of yet.  She says this because she is used to a structured interaction, delivered by a pizza boy looking to pick up.  The boy uses nothing of himself; he's all technique.  You brought something different.

For more information on how the Guerilla approaches life and love go to

Tuesday, March 22, 2011

Castles in the Sky

Movies now are wham-bam computer benders (Transformers), flicks that cater to a particular interest group (Hairspray, Barbershop) or are idiot comedy/chick outings in the barf house (anything with Adam Sandler or Jennifer Aniston).  Back in the day, they made a different kind of film.   Offbeat, specific character studies based on a life lived by a soul perceived as anonymous and reluctantly heroic; the personality that didn't quite fit in.  Things rarely exploded.   Death wasn't used as MSG for overwrought pork.   

These movies--many, many of them, most of which you will probably never hear of--came and went.   The style had its moment; it's gone now and perhaps what we've ushered in is more entertaining.   The Social Network is our new character study.  Certainly it's faster and more fun to watch.  More to suck us in.  So timely.  So Big.

But for a Guerilla, for a student of the game, the older films had a particular edge and quality to them.  It's not that they were sharp, per se but they were interesting, ineffable, personal.  They were moody. 

I'm thinking specifically of Shampoo, a 1975 film about a (straight) hairdresser in Beverly Hills, played by Warren Beatty.  Warren's character is a monstrous hound, peripatectically gash grooving on the Triumph he ransacks the streets with.  But that isn't what is really significant about the film and the movie almost consciously lures you into the trap of thinking it is before pulling the rug out.  The quality of his encounters,  the vibe, or atmosphere--just call it the context of how he holds his unfolding drama--is far more significant than his "techniques" around women.  The content is secretly larger than the form.

Observe:  In one famous early scene inside his salon, Beatty stands in front of a woman drying her hair.  He has her bent completely over, butt of her head resting against his cock as he casually fluffs her locks.  His nonchalance is comical and of course titillating.  Very visual, screams HOUND, what a groove the dude is you say to your celibate self.  That's the form; it's what sucks you in.

But here's the content.  Later in the movie, after a blow up with one of his bitches, Beatty is talking to a friend.  He says, after a rare reflective moment, "Maybe I don't love all of them.  But no one can tell me I don't like them very much."

Other lines are better known, like when Lee Grant is asked what she wants for dinner at a party and replies "I want to suck his [Beatty's] cock."  But I think "maybe-I-don't-love-them-all" is the most interesting in the movie.  The gripping thing about it is that it does not come across as funny--which it certainly could have.  It's faceted, and the bottom facet is really, actually...touching.  That's the content.  Among other things, it leaves Warren's character defying any neat description because, well, yes he's is a hound but he is conflicted, sensitive to how he perceived and, at bottom, trapped by his needs and inability to control himself.  It's all there in that one statement.

Maybe you're not doing hair for a living and maybe you don't own a Triumph.  But when you talk to a woman, Munchkins, figure out how to go vertical.  The techniques sold by the web artists emphasize the form over the content; they are thin lines stretching from you to a bank account.  Not that you want to come across as a conflicted hound necessarily, but figure out how you can be personal and create a different mood than what the little lady expects.  Maybe not then but weeks or months later she will wake up one morning and say to herself 'you know that guy was a little different.'

For more information on how the Guerilla approaches life and love go to

Tuesday, December 7, 2010

The Jungle

When they bang us in the club baby you gotta get up, thug nigga's, drug dealas, yeah they givin it up

The darkened dance club with a modern Beowulf standing at the front door and the hobbyists boozing and gawking, waiting for a hole in the slipstream, presents both a challenge and opportunity for a young Guerilla to capture the memories of a lifetime.  The nefarious twank that goes on inside these places is legendary, and for a good reason.  I remember being at Grace Jones show in a Paris club, drunk on 25-franc Heinekens (and this was 1981, munchkins).  The Jamaican dyke had long since left the stage (after a great show I might add) and I was swirling alone at like 5 am on a postage stamp dance floor.  Suddenly I was approached by maybe the hottest bitch I have ever seen, swarthy-dark French complexion, straight black hair, exquisitely slutty get up.  She hovered over me like a UFO; I could feel her breath.  I paused, frozen in the headlights of this Athena.

Later I learned she was a whore.  Well most likely.  Well maybe. 

These places are usually set in the tony part of large cities.  They attract hot chicks who are dressed up and spending money (theirs or someone else's)--they excel at cultivation of the ingredients for an event.  If you've followed me at all you know I encourage men to look for women when there is a sense of occasion front and center.  The gonads of all ladies sweat when there is money and exclusivity, when they smell the sense of special.

But the event may turn out to be you roasting on a spit if you let it get the best of you.  Ergo should you choose to dip a toe in this River Styx here's a few hints.

Feline on Guard
One of the problems with these places is that they are as stuck on "on" as a broken vibrator.   The game is being played full tilt; no such thing as a genuinely innocent convo.  The damsels thus have their drawbridge up--way up--and if you bring it, you have to bring it strong or you'll fall in the moat.  This doesn't play into some guys' "technique" too well.   It can be daunting.  Foxy chicks, loud music, obnoxious bartenders.  It's a war.

Example:  asking a chick to dance.  If you bust out with an approach, "ask" with confidence--ask the question like there is only one answer.   And be ready to move.  One of the antidotes to these joints is authenticity.  Sincerity will sometimes beat down the player.  Dance in a groove; if you get into it and do it for what it is, do it for real--instead of using it as a pick up tool--you can sometimes snap a chick's resistance.

The Inverted 6
Another issue is that because the bitches is dressed up and because the players are out in force, a girl will upgrade herself.  Don't lose your bearings.  The same girl in a bowling alley you would barely notice has not been genetically mutuated just because she threw on her spandex and lace.  Deal accordingly.

Frustration Factor
The guys (and it is guys) that own these places have a simple business model:  get the hot gash in the door and sell pots and pans to the miners.  You are, my friend, therefore nothing but a wallet and you are dispensable--there are 50 more of you waiting at the door (that's why Beowulf is guarding it).  When you first apprehend this fact, it can be frustrating, especially if you hate being played.  But don't get frustrated--it shows immediately to the ladies.  Many clubs have outside/quiet areas.  Go and chill and get back into the action when you're ready.  You're here to hunt and have fun doing it.  Reclaim the lost property.

For more information on how the Guerilla approaches life and love go to

Thursday, November 4, 2010

Bob Crane

I was always a fan of Bob, the genial Colonel Hogan from the TV show on CBS back in the day.  There was something about the guy that transcended the menial role he played in life.  Before he went in to acting, Bob was a disc jockey in L.A. in the 50's; I remember my dad telling me that his style was almost absurdly breezy.  He was as easy as the era.

Here's the thing.  If you want to study a true Guerilla, you need to watch the credit roll introduction to Hogan's Heroes.  As the flutes play and the POW's line up, there is a close up of Crane smiling and shifting his eyes ever so slightly.  Note his expression carefully--the smile is assured without being smug.  Crane knew the difference between the two.  Most guys don't.  Most guys trip over it and wind up coming across as soulessly cocky.  Bob Crane wasn't cocky.  He was simply confident.  He was handsome and he knew it.  He was a charmer and he knew it.  In his mind, he never had to prove anything.

This kind of even approach works well with women.  But it needs to be cultivated; you don't see, say, many 19 year olds that give you the vibe that Crane does.  The tricky bit is that there is rolling thunder behind the veneer; women need to sense the thunder while at the same time being drawn in by the equanimity, the ballroom confidence.  If you watch an episode, study how Crane flirts with Klink's secretary (Sigrid Valdis, whom he married in real life).  No sharp movements; no lurid vocals; no whacky antics.

It is the precision of the hunter.

For more on how the Guerilla approaches the game of attraction, visit

Tuesday, October 26, 2010

Tails from Two Cities

On traditional dating websites like the livestock announce their bill of particulars--a "soulmate" and the "true love" that fuses with a "lifetime bond" based on "mutual respect" for this "unwavering damsel."  It's Nathaniel West before he ventured out to L.A., four-cornered in the lonely Manhattan hovel of Miss Lonelyhearts, the fossilized desperation of the defined seeker.  These sites give me the spooks--simultaneously sonorous and weird; the men are no great shakes of course but take the women and (most especially) the 40-something women and brace yourself for a kind of kill pen auction; one way or another they'll be carted away by the Amish bidders that have never heard of PETA, that don't know how to treat an animal.  You just know it so you hide your eyes but even then a kind of dyspepsia arises--the screen starts to look more vertical than horizontal and the women literally all look the same.  Another high angle photo (gotta hide those extra lbs), another 14 sentence screed on the eternal female virtues delivered with an earnestness approaching Mach5.  And for dessert, any amusing, offbeat or erogenous moment will not (I repeat not) arise from a chewable reference to sexuality or  raw passion but from their collective fascination with Bill Maher and Jon Stewart, the "crush" they have on Stephen Colbert.  The smugly assured, "clever" comic is their man-hero because he appears to upbraid society (while profiting immensely from the very same), he holds sway on behalf of the downtrodden, he stands for women's rights (from the steps of the Playboy Mansion).  The faux revolutionary with a hand-picked audience is their boy, it's how they get liquid before you come in and try to prove yourself.  Plus he wears a suit.

Contrast that to other sites, like ones where cheatin' women hang. is an example.  You'll see very different animal indeed--no livestock here but rather a cougar of some sort, a felicitous, untamed feline filled with playful sexuality and pent-up desire.  There's no Maher/Colbert groupthink fetishism and thus ROOM for a guys like you and me.  We can sink our teeth into many of these (at both ends) and it's a kind of sanity restored.  We're in Emma Bovary's world now (in the sense of being sensually bored) or we're chilling with Atlas Shrugged (in the sense of individualized urges being lifted out of the box so they can veer off in all directions--even away from a lifetime of monogamy).  SHE has a man, SHE has her security.  So what does she desire now?  Why to branch out, of course.

Ergo, when you place your designs on a woman, dear reader, do understand the priority of needs--which comes first and which (alas) rides the caboose.  And yes, you can wonder about how these two ever shake hands; how "irony" somehow manages to be far beyond the grasp of many women.  Of course, it does help to know the old saw.  A preacher stands at the pulpit one Sunday:  "Oh good, God-fearing people, do you know of which virtue I shall preach today?"  "No, Reverend," comes the reply.  "Outrage," he thunders, "I will not deign to bother with such an ignorant, lazy bunch of non-believers!"  Next week, he asks again if they know.  "Yes, Reverend," they say recalling the disaster of the previous Sunday.  "Splendid," he replies, "then let those who do know tell those who don't."

For more information on how the Guerilla approaches life and love go to