Steve sent me an excellent link called Bottle Service: America’s Nightlife Nightmare

In the 2000’s we have seen a corporatization of nightclubs. Now when you go to a nighclub everyone is some kind of corporate jerkoff. Interesting people are no longer found in Nightclubs. The artists, writers, intellectuals, underground DJ’s etc have been effectively priced out of the nightclub with bottle service. The only people that can afford it are the Investment bankers, real estate types, and Celebs (and of course, underworld figures). That is why when you walk into a club you see so many striped shirts that you think you are seeing some kind of 3-D optical illusion. The funny thing is that these are the type of guys who would have never gotten into a club in the old days (nights) when you were picked out because of how you looked, dressed, if you had connections, or by reputation. So today, clubs are full of people that normally would have been standing in line in nights gone by.

Go read the whole thing.

I was daydreaming the other week about what I would do if I pulled $20,000 a month. I fantasized about going to the hottest DC club of the moment and dropping a grand on two bottles of Grey Goose. I’d invite my friends and we’d drink and one of these glamorous DC girls would come by my table and flirt with me and I’d pour her a super strong one. Then maybe I’d get laid after taking her out to dinner and she may even return my calls for a second performance and a meaningful relationship. It would be all be so real and beautiful.

But you know what? I couldn’t look at my face in the mirror if I had a cost per notch in the four digits. Shit, even three digits. My cost per notch this year is… I swear to God… under twenty bucks. When you know the real value of pussy it makes absolutely no sense to overpay. It’s like taking your car to the dealership for repairs.

If I was rich the only different thing I’d do is step up from rail vodka to Absolut. Like anyone can tell the difference between expensive vodkas once they’re mixed with juice anyway.

I have to clarify some things about me that have been going around in this paparazzi post. Especially this photo..

First the 100% Huggable Care Bear shirt. I don’t believe that simply advertising myself as huggable (as opposed to, say, well-endowed or extremely wealthy) gets me an unlimited supply of poon. I will continue wearing it even though there is yellow stainage in the arm pit area.

Second, the floral pink umbrella. In Rio during Carnival I accidentally stole a girl’s potted plant costume hat. Here’s the hat…

The next day it was raining so I needed an umbrella. What’s cool about most cities in South America is that if it starts raining all these umbrella salesmen come out of the woodwork to sell you umbrellas (duh) and trash bag ponchos. I bought one in Rio that matched both the hat and the festivities as well, and not because of anything potentially related to a deep deep latent homosexuality.

It’s unfortunate that the Care Bear shirt matches ravishingly with my pink umbrella, but it’s more unfortunate that this town is so starchy that people stared and made low volume disparaging comments. Yeah but they’re too scared to say it to MY FACE… except for this one guy but he was pretty big so I pretended not to hear.

Postscript: Funny, when I grabbed the photo from pervert meathead’s blog, the filename was gayhairy.jpg.

Not long ago I posted about getting approached by girls and gave an example of a girl who complimented me. A friend of mine wanted the whole story with juicy details so here it is.

One of my first night’s out back in DC, I go out with three Russian guys to Tattoo, a “hip” bar that seems to be hit or miss depending on the night but definitely hit when it comes to your wallet. We were standing in a circle of power when a girl came up to us and asked if we were Greek. Eventually she started talking about my luxurious long hair and how I had Greek features.

I like meeting Greek girls because I’m half-Turkish, and the Greeks and Turks aren’t the best of friends. I tell them that if my mom knew I was taking to them she’d kill me. Actually my mom has a lot of Greek friends and wouldn’t care, but I like saying it.

The conversation was going very well for the first ten minutes, with some light touching. But then a guy in her group bought her and her friends a drink. She turned around to get the drink and didn’t turn back. When a girl gives me the back, I don’t wait for more than five seconds. I turned around and continued hanging out with my friends. We reformed the circle.

Twenty minutes later she came up to me and asked why I stopped talking to her. I said, “You turned around and you didn’t look back, so I thought our conversation was over.” We continued talking and I eventually “broke up” with her because of some random reason. Then she said, “Umm, I kinda have a boyfriend.”

I asked her if she was happy and she said yes. Looking back that was a very stupid question to ask because if she was ready to say no then she wouldn’t have even brought it up in the first place. But I was lazy and wanted to find out quickly if I should continue or not. Then I half-joked, “Yeah ’cause if I was a girl and happy with my guy I’d definitely talk to other guys that I’m attracted to.” Eventually she went to the bathroom. It’s at this time I noticed her friends watching me very very carefully, and I imagined how much farther I would be if her friends weren’t around.

I re-approach her some time later. Her friends were spying and I didn’t want to get cockblocked so I was more focused with being the fun, cool guy instead of trying to get somewhere, but she was really touchy-feely. I needed to isolate her. Half thinking out loud, I said, “How about you come with me to the dark corner over there?”

“Okay.”

Without hesitation, I grabbed her hand, led her to the bathroom hallway, and we started going at it. We were doing that for about five minutes, but then I noticed she stopped kissing me. You know how when you kiss for a while it puts you in that relaxed, drowsy state? My eyes were still closed and my lips were searching for hers. I open my eyes slowly and see her right next to one of her friends, who’s holding her arm. The friend looks at me and yells, “BUT SHE HAS A BOYFRIEND.” In no mental state for a good comeback, I smiled and said “Huh?” before wiping my mouth.

Her friends wouldn’t let her out of their sight after that, and I they actually snarled at me a couple times. I managed to get her phone number but with the boyfriend cloud, friends who I’m sure destroyed me, and the fact she was leaving town for a week, I knew my odds weren’t so good.

Most phone numbers go nowhere so it’s important to always push for the one night stand. It doesn’t matter how much she is into you, but if you don’t capitalize on that hot moment then it may pass forever. I didn’t have a chance with the cockblock A-team.

We’ve talked a few times but I haven’t been able to get her out since. It would have been a Greek flag.

If I was in Brazil at Club Help and saw these two on the dance floor I’d give him a wink and a nod for scoring a sexy prostitute at what I imagine would be a reasonable price, but this was taken in Washington DC.

The guy does not possess any obvious player qualities. In fact, he would be a good example of the anti-player: he’s way out of shape, he has the sleeves of his stale stripped shirt rolled up to reveal what appears to be a calculator watch, and he makes zero attempt to enhance his look with something like creative facial hair. But there is something relaxing about his Chris Farley-like smirk.

The girl is obviously having fun. Judging by the way she is dressed and the care she put into her hair, she wants to continue that fun in the bedroom by engaging in sex. The question is with who. Does she seem like the type of girl that would let any overweight white guy put his meaty paw on her waist and his crotch on her ass? Ultimately, the answer lies with body language.

They’re out on their third date. This man is a player.

1. Tonight is the Happy Hour. Check upstairs of Marvin around 9pm for me and a tall white guy. We’re expecting a surprise performance by Snow Patrol.

2. Couple new blogs to check out. The first is The Modern Savage, a pick-up blog, and the second is Bittersweet Amalgam, run by a one Angelo who lives in the DC area. His drawings are hilarious and over-the-top.

3. Yesterday was the first year of the Iranian calender. We celebrated by eating a gigantic stuffed fish. There is a set tradition where you have to lay out several items, each with their own meaning. You eat the goldfish alive when the festivities are over.

4. I leave you this Friday with a quote from an old book…

The starting point of all achievement is DESIRE. Keep this constantly in mind. Weak desires bring weak results, just as a small amount of fire makes a small amount of heat. If you find yourself lacking in persistence, this weakness may be remedied by building a stronger fire under your desires.

This man looks like the chaperone to the young girl in the pink jacket, picking her up after what appears to be a very rough day at the office. Notice how he kind of just floats out there in the ether instead of being included in the photo—even the flash of the camera escapes him. Poseur. He also bears a striking resemblance to the president of Pakistan.

President Pervez Musharraf

This guy has a hot piece of ass on his crotch and he doesn’t even give a damn. It’s almost as if he’s being bothered by yet another attention whore who will do anything to gain his favor. Obvious player.

Bonus picture:

You see the ridiculously good looking girl on the left? That’s what Argentina has to offer—in the millions—every time you go out. But here she is a beauty queen and will get drooled on by at least a dozen guys a night. I can only imagine the size of her ego (shit, I would have a big head if I was relatively hotter than everyone else too).

If I was at the club that night and bombed with her, I could go home because there would be no other girls worthy at her level.

Me and Roissy (and possibly Arjewtino) are throwing a happy hour this Friday at Marvin.

Stop by and do the opposite of what this guy sings about…

Finger Eleven - Paralyzer

Marvin is a bar that just opened in October 2007. It is located in the “up-and-coming” area of U St near Busboys & Poets.

Ambiance: Your grandmother’s house.

People: Semi-hipsters. The late 20’s / early 30’s people here are “new” hipsters who have just taken up the cause, instead of being the hardcore type with skinny jeans who only goes to Black Cat and drink beer from a can (a low-class way to drink beer in my opinion).

Being a hipster used to be a way to get away from the mainstream, so I find it ironic that hipsterdom has been co-opted by the mainstream.

Girls: Uninspiring for the most part, but posing spot selection makes a big difference. Instead of hanging inside where you’ll just meet frumpy girls who can’t dance, head to the patio where there is more girl traffic ensuring for a better selection. Some undesirable, older women have given me very strong indicators of interest here.

Chance Of Hooking Up Rating: 2 out of 5. You’ll get a number but that’s it unless you are very aggressive with tight game.

The Verdict: Go if you want a tolerable place where people are not obviously lame, but if you want to meet girls who are easy then head deeper into the dregs of Adams Morgan where Grand Central is still a winner.

I was judged.

I went to Marvin (2007 14th St NW), a U-street hipster joint, with VK, Roissy, and fan favorite Insomnia. It’s a tough decision of whether I rather be alone in a mega-club filled with future models that don’t speak my language or with friends in a bar where I can count the hot cute girls on one hand. It was most interesting that most of the male patrons there had style that was better than a stylish Argentine or Brazilian girl—but they weren’t gay (consciously, anyway).

Two young girls walked passed us and I said, “My friends like cats.” It worked of course because of my supreme alpha body language. Three of us rotate between the two girls, just feeling out the vibe. I had a short conversation with one of them, a 21-year-old American college student at George Washington University. She was attractive without major physical defects, but just four days out of Rio I wasn’t inspired.

It took about six minutes for her to ask me what I “do.” I told her I don’t do anything, just some things here and there. She asked me what I used to do and how I can survive without a job. “I have some money saved up,” was my response. Then she said, “You are so idealistic.”

A couple years ago I met a girl who was aggressive in exchanging numbers. We did a coffee shop first date and talked for an hour. It was obvious to me there was no match but I was still nice. At the end of the date, unprompted, she said to me, “I think I know what your problem is…” and then proceeded to tell me what she thought was wrong with me. She was American as well.

Does every girl think she is a psychologist because she took a couple Cosmo personality quizzes?

I didn’t call the 21-year-old out for being a baby who doesn’t know anything besides drinking, homework, and sucking the occasional dick. We already know what her response would have been: “But I’m so experienced for my age!” (Why is it the only people who tell me that are young, white, and privileged?) I politely let the conversation fade and went back to enjoying my Stella beer. I know my revenge will come one day, when about five years down the road she’s in a situation where she questions her path and will regret not asking a couple open-minded questions to a mature man who questioned his as well.

I downloaded some new porn when I got home—I’ve been watching the same shit for six months.

A girl blogger has this to say about me:

If you spend some time reading his blog you’ll find that he is a true misogynist. He never says he hates women, but it is between the lines in every entry. He has been spurned by women and now has chosen to subjugate them in lieu of therapy. Women are no longer people in his blog, we’re dehumanized, gutted, and decapitated for his pleasure/sadism. We are broken down into color, ethnicity, age, number of sexual partners while the bloggers own color, ethnicity, age, profession, number of sexual partners are inconsequential. I think he should do women a favor and visit a whorehouse with a diverse cornucopia of employees. Maybe if they simulate a bar-like setting and slip him their number, it will have the same effect and he’ll be removed from the effective man-pool. Because college, post-college, and young professional men are of the same mindset I think most of them are a waste of time. To be fair, Roosh says as much in the above entry. I hate him and yet were it not for the blatant honesty of his blog I think I would still be wasting my time on male attention.

I feel somewhat responsible that I sent this girl down some rabbit hole of man hatred, but sounds like that was the direction she was heading.

Speaking of DC blogs, a new one I’ve been reading is Jack Goes Forth.

Postscript:

Strong comment left on her post…

I wouldn’t call Roosh’s writing misogynistic, I’d call them observant.

He writes about his experiences trolling for snatch at bars and clubs.

The women he writes about go out to bars and clubs. They let Roosh game them and then go home with him. They make it easy.

You want to be valued for your mind? You want to be respected for “who you are”? Do you imagine that your career impresses people?

Don’t go to bars and clubs and let the Roosh’s of the world game you.

If anything, you’re the misogynist - you hate the girls who let him get exactly what he wants for only minimal effort. You hate these girls for letting men treat them as orifices to masturbate into. You hate them because large numbers of men will never waste time on girls who demand to be treated “like a human being” - a category to which I presume you belong - when there are so many girls who go out every night and spend hundreds of dollars a year for the privilege of being pumped and dumped by alpha males. I won’t even begin to mention the blatant misandry exhibited by this post. But then again you’re a woman so you don’t have a problem with double standards, right?

Look, every single person in this world is looking out for themselves. Roosh wants pussy. You want to be valued. Although you have a pussy I don’t think you and Roosh would make a good match. You will end up with a beta and Roosh will end up with herpes. In the end, your desire for men who treat women as princesses is no better or worse than Roosh’s desire for women who just want a one-night stand with a rugged ambiguously darkish guy.

In the end, you can’t blame Roosh for telling it how it is. As you admit yourself, his blog is brutally honest. Read more of it. You will learn how men really have always felt about women and will probably always feel about women no matter how many times the Vagina Monologues are performed at college campuses and no matter how many women leave the house every day in power suits.

Could it be that everything about women’s liberation is one giant experiment that couldn’t ever have possibly worked? Strange that 40 years later Roosh speaks for all men, isn’t it?