The Game

reinforce the belief that we’re okay just as we are. But it’s not enough to just be yourself. You have to be your best self. And that’s a tall order if you haven’t found your best self yet.
    That’s why the workshops were so life-transforming: We told each student the first impression he made. We weren’t afraid of hurting his feelings. We corrected his every gesture, phrase, and item of clothing, because we knew he wasn’t living up to his potential. None of us is. We get stuck in old thought and behavior patterns that may have been effective when we were twelve months or twelve years old, but now only serve to hold us back. And, while those around us may have no problem correcting our minor flaws, they let the big ones slide, because it would mean attacking who we are.
    But who are we, really? Just a bundle of good genes and bad genes mixed with good habits and bad habits. And since there’s no gene for coolness or confidence, then being uncool and unconfident are just bad habits, which can be changed with enough guidance and will power.
    And that was Papa’s asset: will power. He was an only child and used to taking any measure necessary to get what he wanted. I demonstrated some of my best routines on him—the jealous girlfriend opener, the best friends test, the cube, and a new piece I’d made up involving C-shaped smiles, U-shaped smiles and the personality characteristics each conveyed. Papa recorded every word on his digital recorder. He would later transcribe them, memorize them, and ultimately use my exact words to pick up Paris Hilton.
    I should have recognized the signals then. I should have realized what was going on. This wasn’t teaching; it was cloning. Mystery and I were traveling around the world making miniature versions of ourselves. And we would soon pay for it.
    Our first stop was a lounge on Queen Street. After watching Papa crash and burn in a couple of sets, I started interacting. For some reason, I was on fire. It was just one of those nights. Every woman’s eye was on me. A redhead who was there with her fiancé even slipped her number into my pocket. I figured this must be what they call seducer’s aura: I was emanating something special. And what a perfect evening to do it, too—in front of a student.
    I noticed Papa talking to a cute girl with short brown hair and a round face that perfectly matched his. However, she wasn’t paying attention to him; her eyes kept twinkling in my direction. This was what the PUAs, in their worst acronym ever, call pAImAI, which basically translates as an unspoken invitation to approach. (Literally, it’s a pre-approach invitation, male approach invitation.)
    When Papa walked away, I said something to her. Afterward, I couldn’t remember exactly what I said—and that was a good sign, because it meant Iwas internalizing the game, that I was getting away from canned material, that I could ride a little without the training wheels. After two minutes, I noticed she was giving me the doggy dinner bowl look. So I popped the question: “Would you like to kiss me?”
    “Well, I wasn’t thinking about it before,” she said, holding eye contact.
    I took that as a yes and moved in for the kiss. She responded enthusiastically, thrusting her tongue into my mouth and grabbing my knee with her hand. I saw a flash in the background; Papa was taking a picture.
    When I came up for air, she smiled and said, “I don’t have any of your albums, but my friends like your music.”
    My response: “Umm, okay.”
    Who did she think I was?
    Then she smiled and licked my face, like a dog. Maybe David DeAngelo was right with his whole canine-training advice.
    She looked at me expectantly, like I was supposed to talk about my music. I didn’t want to correct her and rob her of the story she thought she’d earned by kissing me, so I politely excused myself. She gave me her phone number and told me to call when I got back to my hotel room.
    On the way out, the hostess of the lounge pulled me aside and said, “Thank you very much for coming. Here’s my card. Let me know if we can ever do anything for you.”
    “Who does everyone think I am?” I asked.
    “Aren’t you Moby?”
    So I wasn’t having an on night after all. Apparently, because of my shaven head, the hostess had thought I was Moby, and she’d told half the people in the room. All that time I’d put into seduction could be subverted simply with fame. To truly get to the next level, I’d