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