A cautionary tale about the payoff for Googling people you date.
The man of the hour
Monday night I went on a date in San Francisco with a guy I met on OkCupid named Jeffrey. The date was pretty weird, but the guy was a physical specimen so I took the strangeness with a grain of salt. Yet later in the week I had this nagging suspicion that something was off. After some heavyweight Googling, oh holy shit, this result popped up.
The woman in this article went on a date with Jeffrey Allen, who, as it turns out is a 42-year-old professional pickup artist (PUA). He’s been teaching live dating bootcamps for men since 2003, has released DVDs and books, is a founding member of Real Social Dynamics (with Tyler Durden) and was a key player in Neil Strauss’s book “The Game,” a bestselling expose on the world of PUAs. In 2013, Jezebel also posted an warning article about this same man. Given that he was reticent to tell me what he did for a living, saying “I’m self-employed” and “I sell stuff on the internet,” this makes sense. Apparently part of what he sells online are T-shirts that say “beast mode.” Super.
While this woman was at the restaurant with him, he invaded her personal space and she told him that she would not allow that. She left the restaurant and by the time she made it to her car, he had texted her “kill yourself n*****.” To another girl who had met him online and cancelled before their first date he told her she was fat.
So, what was my experience with SF’s douchebag PUA extraordinaire?
Note: The idea for this letter came from my very dear friend, Satan M.D.
Dear Latina Janitorial Staff at Every Corporate Job I’ve Ever Had,
Don’t think I haven’t noticed. Your judgement is wrapped so completely in apathetic boredom that it appears nonexistent but I know it’s there. I know that behind those half-lidded eyes, that gum-chewing maw, those pink Gumy Reggaeton-blasting earbuds, beneath that messy bun of hip length, gloriously lustrous and full-bodied brown hair, deep inside that cranium, you’re judging me. You’re seeing that I’m still working at 6:45 p.m. and you’re thinking, “This perra must suck at her job.”
So now I’m informing you that, on behalf of every corporate employee ever, I don’t appreciate it.
You don’t know me. Maybe I’m so dedicated to my team, my job and my impending promotion that I work twelve hours a day, sacrificing all personal needs and any shred of remaining social life. Or more realistically, maybe I spent half the day sexting that random bartender I finally heard back from and now I’m playing catch-up. Either way, there are important things afoot and I would like to attend to them sans judgment. Continue reading
In June of last year, I started working as a copywriter and content creator for a gargantuan national retailer, by far the largest corporation I’ve ever worked for. Along with learning the veritable alphabet soup of job position and department acronyms, I started to become keenly aware of the liberal, one might even say egregious, use of corporate jargon.
The jargon goes far beyond laughable terms like “synergy” and “paradigm shift,” and has weaseled its way into everyday, non-meeting conversations. Some are barely noticeable, like physical tics, and others are so horrifying they make you want to move to Iowa and become a beet farmer, leaving the board rooms far behind. Continue reading
I could say that this is a bullshit holiday invented by capitalist pig greeting card companies and manufacturers of waxy, mediocre chocolates. These same companies that undoubtedly have contracts with Weight Watchers and 100 Calorie Packs, which as we all know, if you mow down a box of six, does not equal 600 calories. It’s science.
None of this is untrue, but there’s another side to this ugly die. Let’s all keep this in mind as we approach this miserable holiday:
Even when you are head-over-heels, shit-eating grin, dance around the house, window-licking in love, Valentine’s Day still sucks.
It never won’t suck. Continue reading
Dear Woman Sitting Behind Me in 12A on This Flight to Vegas,
For the last two and a half hours I’ve been suppressing a distinct and snowballing hatred for you. You insist on squawking at full volume on and on about all the mundane things that come to your mind. Dismal proof of your repressed suburban life. Mindless chatter that sets those subjected to it back decades of intellectual years when heard at normal volume, but at your chosen decibel level, it’s simply unbearable.
And of course, you have a Southern accent which makes your inane yammering sound, if at all possible, more vapid.
As if that was not enough, after one and a half Shock Tops you’ve taken to laughing at everything you say. Your favorite topic has been how ridiculously hot it is on this plane. When the flight attended asked you if you wanted anything you requested air conditioning and then threatened to “strip down to your skivvies.” I got a good look at you when you went to use the lavatory, and seeing you in your skivvies would be an event so unholy, I would sell my own mother into white slavery to keep your clothes on. Continue reading
Editor’s Note: This was a rant that I wrote my first year at SCAD in 2007-08. I submitted it to District, SCAD’s newspaper, the following year but of course it didn’t get published.
We’ve all been to one at some point in our lives, or at least we’ve seen the pictures. The mindless droll that sets us back five intellectual years with every photo we see. I’m talking about Eighties-themed parties. You can’t spend a weekend on a college campus without hearing about one.
Party of the year
The first quarter I was at SCAD, I got invited to “The Party of the Year,” according to some very credible sources and Facebook bullshit. My knee-jerk reaction was to say no because it was, in fact, an Eighties party. I get dragged to said party because I have unfortunate lapses of judgment and moments of pathetic weakness.
Since these events are always about the clothes, my wardrobe choice was an outfit a la Debbie Harry-meets-Nancy Spungen (deceased girlfriend of the Sex Pistols bassist, Sid Vicious). It was a completely ridiculous mix of glam rock and punk including a leather jacket and overly teased hair.
I didn’t expect too many people to be dressed as ‘80s punks, but when a friend told me he was going as Dee Snider, I figured there would be a few people there representing hair metal, or glam rock like David Bowie. At the very least, I expected to see some power suits with huge shoulder pads and skinny ties, because let’s face it: it doesn’t matter if you’re in a nursing home or the fourth grade, everyone’s seen Miami Vice.
I was wrong.