Breakfast in My Borough

Woooooow. Sometimes it takes humor to make a gal realize just how little she might be settling for. (Yes, I'm talking about N here.) This is hilarious, especially considering how much I love "The Pick-Up Artist": http://www.mydamnchannel.com/channel.aspx?episode=351

And now for your daily N update: I'm seeing him on Saturday at a bar on the Upper East. We're setting up two of our friends on a blind date. I find this whole endeavor entirely ironic, since N's and my non-relationship is such a train wreck.

We e-mailed today -- probably 10 e-mails apiece, back and forth. It was all cute, witty banter and good writing and confirmation of our Saturday plans. "But what does it MEAN??" my friends asked me on the phone.

My answer? "Hell if I know." And I don't. No one can, especially with him. My reaction right now is to anticipate my new furniture, drink good wine (I'm sipping a decent malbec right now), work hard, and appreciate my friends.

Okay, so I did buy a new dress for Saturday, but it was on sale and wildly short, and I look amazing in it. I used to want to be a New York Holly Golightly (minus the whole prostitution thing, of course), and I had this thought as I walked home in the cold today carrying my new purchase and a couple of bottles of red from my local liquor store: Of course Holly Golightly would buy a new dress for a date with a silly premise. She'd absolutely fritter away some coin on party dresses, wine, and 400-thread-count sheets and go out with the kind of guy who would give her $50 for the powder room.

I remember this about Breakfast at Tiffany's, though: Holly wins in the end. I don't need a manwhore/writer to rescue me (wow, even though N is exactly that), but I will win this -- of my own volition, in my own apartment, in the city that I've earned.

Superscripted

I really shouldn't be surprised by this sort of thing anymore, but it turns out that the two finalists on VH1's "The Pick-Up Artist" are professionals. They're not socially awkward Average Frustrated Chumps at all. Kosmo is an actor, and my formerly beloved Brady is a model. Thanks to the PUA (helloooo, abbreviation for "pick-up artist") blog A Player's Guide for the info.

Suddenly, the pieces are all fitting together: It was no coincidence that the final two happened to be the most attractive guys. And Brady seemed so shy and sweet because he's a MALE MODEL. Anyone who's ever seen the movie Zoolander knows what that means: He's not mysterious; he's just dumb.

I take all of my hypothetical affection back, Brady. And, VH1? Shame on you. I knew this shyte was scripted, but not to this freaking level.

Okay, one last look at Brady: Blue Steel! No, Magnum! No -- Le Tigre! There we go.

Pick-Up Schticks

And, just as quickly as it appeared, VH1's "The Pick-Up Artist" is gone. Tonight, "Kosmo" (Alvaro's chosen pseudonym) was crowned "The Pick-Up Artist" by crazy Mystery and his somewhat silly-looking partners in crime, J-Dog and Matador.

I've stated my preference for Brady (the second runner-up) before, and I don't feel that Brady was robbed of the victory. If anything, I'm glad he's not going on "tour" -- skank-hunting and picking up STDs around the globe with Mystery and his sycophants. Whiiiiiiiich makes Brady all the more available to come to New York and date me. (Brady: Call me. *making phone signal with my right hand*)

As happy as I am for these guys that they finally have self-confidence -- it was nice to see everyone smiling big, genuine guy-smiles simultaneously during the final minutes, as opposed to their clearly practiced scowls -- I'm a little worried about Kosmo. He really seems to have drunk the Kool-Aid that Mystery's been mixing up: "I love you guys," he said to Mystery, J-Dog, and Matador. But who knows? Maybe he really does love them in that weird fratboy "I love you, man" way.

No, the thing that worries me most is that Kosmo left us with a soundbite at the end of the show that sounded something like this: "I'm not a pimp, and I'm not a player. I'm pick-up artist. And there's a big difference."

Here was my reaction to that, as I sat in my living room:

*crickets chirping*

Okay, if there is a difference, what would that difference be? As a "pick-up artist," you tell women fictional stories (a.k.a. lies, like a player might make up) to attract them. You put them down (like a pimp might, perhaps) to hook them. You weave a web of escalating psychological hot-buttons in order to "close" with a woman (or "girl," as they say on the show) -- be it closing her phone number, closing a kiss, or opening her...um...you get what I mean.

Don't get me wrong: I want to admit up front that I love the show, and I watched every single episode. And maybe if the women are dumb enough to fall for these schticks, then they deserve the predators they eventually fall into bed with. Plus, I would gladly welcome a tutorial from Mystery to learn a few tricks of the pick-up artists' trade to use on men. (We ladies need all the help we can get in the New York dating minefield.)

But, come now: "I'm not a player"? Playa, please. Kosmo, if you'd read Neil Strauss's The Game, you'd better understand what you've signed yourself up for. Get ready to observe some seriously low standards, a few existential/psychological crises, and rampant sexual debauchery. And be glad your "tour" won't be filmed, so your mama won't have to watch you disrespect women the world over.

I'm In Brady's Bunch

I am obsessed with the how-to-pick-up-women reality show "The Pick-Up Artist" on VH1. So obsessed that I'm currently reading the book that inspired it: The Game, by Neil Strauss.

Say what you want about the premise of the show: Mystery's a psychotic, self-aggrandizing, charismatic woman-hater; the concept is mysogynistic; etc. But when I watch, I feel empathy for the nerdy guys and merely want them to succeed so that they'll feel better about themselves or at the very least move out of their parents' basements. Usually, the show stays pretty benign, covering subjects such as how to talk to a woman (or "girl," as they say on the show) or how to take a woman they've just met on an "instant date." Those innocuous topics tend to make VH1 viewers forget that the point of Mystery's "game" is to screw as many women as possible with as little accompanying commitment as possible. That, for the most part, is kept out of the show in the name of quasi-wholesomeness.

Tonight's episode, though, went darker. The guys were assigned to pick up an exotic dancer from a strip club, and when the challenge was announced, I don't know what the guys thought. I wasn't sure if any of them had even seen a woman naked before. In particular, I'm a little enamored of Brady, the adorable 25-year-old blond photographer (nice!) who's hot and quiet and shy. So shy, in fact, that he'd never previously been to a strip club.

Being the best-looking of the crew, he of course immediately picked up a pudgy hairstylist/stripper wearing a Catholic schoolgirl uniform and took her back to the show's limo. Once they were both seated, the stripper started drinking...something that looked like a can of Miller Lite, and Brady had inched so far away from her that he was practically sitting on the outside of the car. He then began a stream-of-consciousness speech that went something like, "I just want to find a nice girl...a sweet girl..." Finally, there was an AUDIBLE "I don't caaaare" exhale from Brady, and he bit the bullet and started making out with her. Because that was, essentially, the challenge. Um, yikes, anyone?

It's one thing to talk to chicks and get their numbers, but it's another to be "challenged" to make out with an exotic dancer in the back of a corporate limousine. Especially since Brady seems to just want to meet ONE nice girl, not swap bodily fluids with all the pole dancers at the local Spanky's.

But, um, maybe I feel this way because I'm starting to crush on Brady just a little bit? The fact that he had never been at a strip club at the age of 25 and the way he doesn't seem to understand quite how good-looking he is endears him to me even more. All the guys, in fact, were a little more attractive to me before they underwent their Mystery transformation and started realizing that a little psychological manipulation goes a long way.

So, Brady? Forget Jillian. If you win the game, don't join Mystery and his cult of douchebaggery and tour the country being a wannabe gigolo. Come to New York. I'll smile at you and listen to all your lame pickup lines, buy you drinks, and whisk you off into the sunset. Bonus: I am a nice girl. Most of the time.