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#takedownfeminism:
The Original Internet #pua
Responds To #takedownjulienblanc

by RAY CHARLES GORDON

(NOTE: I am the Original Ray #pua, not Famous Ray #pua, or Ray Bari #pua).

Why Julien Blanc? Why now? Why did Time ask if he was The Most Hated Man On The
Planet, over, say, the head of ISIS? Why have Australia, Canada, Britain, and several other
countries either denied Mr. Blanc a visa, or hinted that they are doing everything they can to
make that happen? Why are feminists only now taking issue with something that has been on
the internet since 1998, and in the mainstream since 2005? Most importantly: why is there no
move to take down any *other* #pua companies? The infrequent use of #takedownpua in no
way changes that this new feminist "takedown mission" has a singular target: Julien Blanc, and
Real Social Dynamics (RSD), a company co-founded by Erik "Mystery" von Markovik, and
mentioned in Neil Strauss's bestseller The Game (HarperCollins, 2005). Since I was there, and
most of you were not, it's time for a history lesson; pull up a chair.

Is #pua A Scam?

To ask this question is to really ask: is the scientific method a scam? The scientific method
involves 1) creating a hypothesis (that a man can learn techniques for seducing women by
rote); 2) testing the hypothesis (by attempting to seduce women by rote); 3) refining the
hypothesis (by studying the initial results); and 4) retesting the hypothesis, with the new
refinement (attempting to seduce more women with the refined method); until 5) significant
statistical evidence allows the researcher to draw a conclusion (that, say, being a famous rock
musician will get a man laid). A specific #pua teacher may teach inferior methods, or be an
inferior teacher, and a #pua student might be limited in his potential, or apply himself poorly,
but this in no way invalidates the scientific method. Until hot women stop having sex.

#takedownericweber?

In 1970, Eric Weber self-published a mail-order book entitled How To Pick Up Girls, the
success of which inspired a 1979 movie-of-the-week with the same title. Young men, like my
twelve-year-old self, learned two things from the movie: 1) #pua could be taught; and 2) there
was a lot of money to be made teaching it. This more or less knocked professional athlete from
the top spot on my list of dream jobs. Scant attention was paid to Weber's actual advice,
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considered quite basic by modern #pua standards, but designed for a much weaker era. Bobby
Fischer's chessgames from that time period are riddled with errors as well, most of which were
not discovered until 1988 and beyond, when chess computers began taking over as analysts.
With no internet, Weber's work did not go viral, allowing his students to avoid many issues
faced by today's #pua, such as saturation. Neither the book, nor the film, attracted any
"takedown" efforts, and Weber has long since moved on, save for an interview quoted in The
Game.
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The Nice Guy As #pua

Self-proclaimed "nice guys," or average frustrated chumps (AFC), often deride #pua from
their moral high ground, but the AFC's origins, in the early 1970s, tell a different story. The
trilogy of liberalism, feminism, and the sexual revolution left women declaring that their new
ideal male was sensitive, treating women as equals, supporting women's rights (as they were
called back then), and not being afraid to show their emotions, even if that meant crying.
Examples of this new "alpha male" included Alan Alda, Phil Donahue, and former President
James Earl "Jimmy" Carter. "Traditional" men were Neanderthals who needed to be
"educated" to become more "modern," though they were tolerated as byproducts of an
obsolete way of life to which they were, most unfortunately, exposed. Even minor progress --
such as getting an older man to stop calling women broads -- was an achievement. For
younger men, like me, however, the message was clear: women want nice guys. This has
yielded a generation of AFCs who would have just as easily eaten their young, if women had
said that would get them laid.

The leftist AFC narrative -- that being decent, honest, liberal, and nice will get a man laid --
lingers in the public consciousness thirty-four years after it began perishing, in 1980, with the
election of "badboy" Ronald Reagan over "nice guy" Jimmy Carter. Soon after, M*A*S*H ended
its run, Donahue gave way to Geraldo, and then Springer, and Sylvester Stallone, Arnold
Schwarzenegger, and Clint Eastwood took over the box office, the latter by specifically targeting
liberalism-gone-awry through the Dirty Harry saga, a rather tame one compared to Charles
Bronson's vigilante character, Paul Kersey, in the five Death Wish films, most of which
portrayed New York City as a lawless jungle, which it pretty much was in the 1970s. Books like
Bruce Feirstein's Real Men Don't Eat Quiche (Pocket Books, 1982) posited that men had lost
their masculinity to feminist dogma. For the most part, the mainstream media ignored the
paradigm shift, leaving men to figure out on their own, through brutal experience, that
something had changed.

AFC-Era Dating Advice (1980-1998)

Contrary to the #takedownjulienblanc narrative, #pua methods fail now not because they
were wrong, but because they became overexposed, much like card-counting after Edward O.
Thorp's Beat The Dealer (Vintage Revised Edition, 1966), which led to casinos first attempting
to evict card-counters, and then, when that failed, using eight-deck shoes to eliminate its
advantage. One of my early wingmen, a professional horseplayer from the early 1980s, was
shown the door at a casino after doubling-down on twenty and drawing an Ace from a single-
deck shoe. That card-counting no longer works takes nothing from Thorp's incredible
achievement. The internet's ability for instant, global peer-review led to the refinement of a
body of theory which, in 1998, was so powerful that almost any man who used it achieved
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better results with women than he ever had in his life; the #pua community would never have
grown otherwise. The success inevitably led to women reacting like the casinos, with
censorship movements like #takedownjulienblanc, and by simply sabotaging any known #pua
method, once the artificial nature of the behavior became known.

The lack of collaboration in the pre-internet era was double-edged in that overexposure
was not an issue, but this also meant that men were on their own to cobble together a #pua
method that worked for them, drawing from peripheral fields of study, their own experience, a
very balkanized media, their social circles, and, of course, their direct interactions with women.
Only in 1998 did #pua come into its own as a standalone discipline, rather than as a small
subset of men labeled confirmed bachelors, and dismissed as sad, lonely exceptions to the AFC
norm, despite their recognized prowess at getting laid by hot women. Each #pua from the Class
of 1998 had a different backstory, reflected in the theory they would simultaneously unleash on
the world in 1998, literally decades of pent-up study and practice that yielded a theoretical
earthquake likely never to be duplicated, if only because the internet is now part of our
infrastructure, in which the fruits of decades of labor do not suddenly appear one day, as
occurred in 1998. I cannot speak for other #pua, so I will present my backstory instead.

Death Of An AFC

While women admonish the AFC to develop "true feelings" for a woman before trying to
sleep with her, if the object of his desire fails to reciprocate, their advice on what to do next is
ripped straight out of the #pua playbook: get over it and move on. In other words, play a
numbers game, and pretend to love the hottest woman who says yes, which is exactly what
the #pua does, except he may or may not invoke the L-word to achieve his aim. It clearly
benefits women to have men lay their cards on the table, but since the AFC's ideal woman is
beautiful, this ensures that all but one of the hundreds or thousands of AFC who want to marry
her, for the same reasons, will wind up heartbroken, and a huge nuisance to her, especially if
he attempts to "win her over," forcing him to actively reject him, often brutally, and often for
the "wrong" man. This will often cause her to act defensively, paint the AFC as the bad guy,
even a harasser or stalker if he continues to contact her, until she finally deploys the nuclear
don't ever talk to me again!

Of the two women I wanted to marry, women I truly loved for the "right reasons," each
would keep me in the #friendzone for extended periods of time, but not without multiple
indicators of interest, if not outright signals that they wanted sex from me. In one case, bad
timing made it impossible for me to capitalize, while in the second, I deliberately showed sexual
restraint during what I knew was a booty call, late one Saturday evening, only to have her
accept my invitation to a first date a week later, before cancelling at the last minute. These
were not fleeting interactions, but intense, sustained friendships which I could have continued
to this day had I not tried for more, and which I could have turned sexual had I tried for more
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earlier, the way a #pua would have. To the women who say I need to give women, and "true
love" a chance, I say simply that I tried it your way; it failed.

My failure with my one true lust, my first "designated soulmate," was straightforward:
after an ambiguous year in the #friendzone, she told me point-blank that she had chosen a rich
man because she "deserved the best in life." We had been incredibly close friends, always
seeming one step away from hooking up, but instead she dumped her first serious boyfriend,
then dated two of my (broke) childhood friends, before her materialism kicked in, allowing me
to buy one date with her to a sold-out concert, even after she had let me down easy after my
declaration of true love. I realized I had not been truly rejected by her until LimoDude entered
the picture; her tone that time had a finality lacking in the previous rebuff, because she knew I
would never be able to fix my privileged-by-normal-standards finances (or so she thought). I do
credit ("the OTL") with the best #pua bootcamp a man could want, for the year I spent listening
to every detail of her complicated love life, a privilege I lost once I became an adversarial,
unrequited suitor. After a half-hearted suicide attempt, I waited until I went away to college to
resume my soulmate search with a healed heart.

During my self-imposed exile in the summer and fall of 1984, I hatched a seven-year plan
to "win back" the OTL, by getting a 4.0 GPA at Binghamton, which would get me into Harvard
Law, paving the way for me to become a rising star on Wall Street with a six-figure starting
salary. This would delay my ultimate gratification until age twenty-four, but it was easy to
envision myself surpassing LimoDude's success with women, since I was taller, better-looking,
smarter, and more interesting (without money she never would have chosen him). During the
summer, I spent most of my days playing the most serious chess of my life in Washington
Square Park, to keep myself occupied, and much of my time at home perusing the legal and
financial dictionaries I had purchased, to get me started on my quest for riches. I wasn't sure
when I would move into the OTL's league (the concept of "league" is anathema to AFC-style
"true love"), but I did not care, since my studies would keep me occupied along the way.

College

Quite unintentionally, I arrived at college with a perfect #pua mindset, but only because I
still wanted the OTL, and other women meant nothing to me, even the ones who were sending
clear IOI. I attended Binghamton solely because I knew I could get more work done, without
the distractions of Manhattan life. Determined to get the jump on my professors, I attended
every class for the first three weeks, hung out with the occasional attractive woman, while
putting NHBDorm, who was completely devoted to me, into the #friendzone, because she
wasn't pretty enough (if I had it to do over again I'd have ravaged her), while remaining
singlemindedly focused on my studies, as reflected by my initial exam scores, which had me so
well on the way to getting my 4.0, that I began cutting class and socializing more, mostly with
the physics posse, a group which included my best friend from back home, a physics major who
had slacked off his first semester, with "only" a 3.44 GPA, eliminating him from 4.0 contention,
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but in a much more difficult major. Individual women were still invisible to me, until the night I
met Kate, on her eighteenth birthday.

Kate (SHBFashion, a super-elite) was by far the most striking woman on campus, even
more than the girl from Wagner, more than any other female I had ever met. Physically
flawless, with an amazing sense of style and body language, she left a strong impression on
everyone she met. We spoke briefly at the bar, but her dominance over her table of ten or
twelve had me thinking it would be better if we got to know each other in the dorms, or when
the bar was quieter, so I ejected. For the next week or so, she would stand demurely in the
background as her friend, NHBCig, bummed cigarettes off me. I was definitely attracted to Kate
from the moment we met, but no more so than to several other women on campus, some of
whom had all but propositioned me, as I continued to refuse to nibble on any opportunity.
Finally, one Sunday afternoon, I was having an early dinner with the beer posse (it might have
been more than beer; it was so long ago), at a horizontal table for twelve (6x2), with NHBCig
sitting opposite me, and Kate directly to her left, one seat diagonally from me. Within a half-
hour, the group was reduced to just Kate and me; we would wind up closing the joint, at 7:00
p.m.

What I had thought was a fun interaction with a fascinating woman turned deadly serious,
when she opened our isolated conversation with ”Tell me your life story." Wanting to avoid a
replay of the OTL, I finally broke my #pua character, the one who had impressed her with how
"cool" he was, not because I was trying to be cool, but because I was just downplaying any
feelings I might develop for any woman, and it was easy to act like I just didn't give a f**k,
when in fact my standards were so ridiculously high, I had resigned myself to not being able to
seduce women who met them until I was a six-figure, rising-star on Wall Street. If having
feelings for a woman I couldn't have meant being told never to talk to her again, or suicidal
ideation, I was fine with avoiding that. My plan worked brilliantly, until I met Kate, and until
she asked me this question, which awakened me from my romantic coma, leaving me glad, for
the first time, that my date was not the OTL. From then, it was game on.

Like a world-championship chess match, Kate and I had both brought our A-game, hers
intentionally, and mine as a defense mechanism. Kate's social acuity was off the charts, making
her immune to c**kblocking, bird-dogging, or what #pua call AMOGing (for "alpha-
male/other-guy"). The beer posse's best attempts to derail me had clearly backfired, but it was
the physics posse who were dissing her as if she were a "vapid party girl," when I realized years
later that they had been rejected by her, leading to their fixation on my progress, a fixation
shared by the entire campus, it seemed, including the three men who congratulated me after
dinner. Having arrived in January, I had not realized that Kate had rejected just about every
man on campus, and that I was the last man standing. Being nerdy (but also athletic) and from
Manhattan fueled her interest in me, something I was unaware of at the time, or I'd have just
forgotten her and told her to meet me in The City over the summer.
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Kate's opener was as pointed as a Kasparov novelty, and I realized I was across the board
from his social equivalent. I knew I was being probed, with my every word affecting whether or
not I would have sex with this, the most beautiful woman I had ever met, inside and out, one
for whom I was rapidly falling in love, tempered strongly by my heartbreak with the OTL. No
matter how much I would wind up loving Kate, I was going to test her as much as she would
test me, and if she had a problem with that, she was free to move on, knowing that the second
she did, I would forget her as well, something she seemed not to want. Trusting my instincts, I
spilled my life story to her, so that she could render her verdict accurately, with complete
information. To my utter astonishment, this act of blubbering AFC stupidity did not knock me
out of the running. I knew this because three days later, a member of the physics posse took
me aside to inform me that Kate was out of my league, something I had known from the get-
go, as well as knowing that she was out of every man's league, placing me on equal footing.

After the dinner, I panicked slightly, knowing that the stakes had just been raised to the
highest level. in a world where many men die as virgins, or without ever having had sex with
even an NHB, not only had I already had sex with a super-elite (SHBPolitics, who took my
virginity in a fool's-matte one-nighter in 1984), but now I had one seriously considering me as
her next boyfriend, or hookup. In order to avoid the #friendzone hell I wound up in with the
OTL, and with no need to relearn the #pua lessons that justified this hell for almost a year, I
resolved to stop pursuing Kate the moment I stopped making progress. This was good in that it
protected me from wasted time and heartbreak, but bad in that it forced Kate to effectively
lead me on a bit more than she otherwise would have. Nevertheless, I'm glad I made this
decision, because it accomplished its goal, however heartbreakingly.

For the next few weeks, Kate and I would talk at length when we crossed paths, usually
through the beer posse, until one night when she was showing me her fashion portfolio, and I
feigned attentiveness, for which she called me out by rolling her eyes. Figuring I had blown my
best AFC chance to impress her, I ejected, ignoring her for several days, until that Sunday, after
brunch, when she ambushed me in her dorm as I was visiting the physics posse, with the most
excited expression I had ever seen on her face. What had inspired her gift of the score from the
musical Chess was the lead character, a greedy, American world chess champion. My honesty
at the dinner had paid off, because she emotionally stereotyped me as this character, thus
revealing to me what would become the heart of my first #pua success, the chess persona that I
would milk for several years.

An AFC would have simply thanked her for the gift, but my inner #pua was awakening. All
I could think to myself was "Super-elites dig chessplayers!?" That was actually my second
thought, after first believing that becoming a chess champion was the way to Kate's heart.
Never in my life would I have guessed this, or even cared, were it not Kate. It's one thing when
a shy, geeky woman like NHBDorm is enthralled by the implied intelligence of a serious
chessplayer, but when a super-elite, future-millionaire fashionista goes out of her way to let
you know her mind has made this positive connection, and you are seeking insight on super-
elite female sexual selection, it causes a theoretical earthquake for the #pua. Our dorm region
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had a tournament, which I won, though this did not impress Kate, which caused me to abandon
the chess persona as a #pua strategy, but this was not the national championship, an
accomplishment I was convinced would cause her to take note. As it was, my studies were
beckoning again, and I got back to work on my 4.0.

After her gift, I redirected my attention to Kate, speaking with her whenever I could, but
becoming increasingly frustrated at finding myself again in the #friendzone, except I could not
be sure we were just friends, since she had never actually rejected me. I contemplated asking
her out on a date, but was scared of rejection, so instead, in a flash of inspiration, I ran
Kasparov s**t (grandmaster-level game), for the second time in my life, the first since
NHBSkates. The checkmate was simple: isolate Kate in my dorm room, on a Saturday night,
with my roommate away, as he was every weekend (we got along great). I would do this by
paying for a keg ($35.00), on the condition that my wingmen, who lived two doors down,
retrieved and returned the keg, which they placed in the hall bathtub, and hosted the party in
their room, without realizing that the university had scheduled a dorm party downstairs for the
same evening. All of my friends and my wingmen's friends were invited, including Kate.

With perfect plausible deniability as to my true intentions, I invited Kate to the party, and
she arrived about a half-hour after it started. Somehow, we isolated directly to my dorm room,
where we talked for forty-five minutes. No self-respecting AFC would dare have made a move
on her here, as that would have meant treating her like a piece of meat. I also wanted to show
sexual restraint, to let her know I could be trusted even when alone in close quarters. I really
just wanted to talk, hoping the conversation would turn romantic, yet I was not yet a
sufficiently smooth #pua to make that happen. Instead, I just talked mostly at her, completely
clueless to the strong signal of sexual interest she had just sent, and she wound up leaving my
room, forty-five minutes later, not caring that the physics posse she had to pass on the way out
would be convinced we had sex. Figuring I had blown my best chance, i returned to my room,
dejected, when I noticed a woman's coat, neatly draped over my chair.

"Great," I thought. Now she'll need to come back later to retrieve her -- oh my GOD!!" I
felt pretty much like Rocky Balboa in Rocky, when Mr. Jurgens asks if he'd like to fight Apollo
Creed, for the heavyweight championship of the world. Having already "gone the distance"
with the OTL, I was now faced with even higher stakes, with a woman with whom I was falling
in love, and who I now knew wanted to f**k me, or at least send the most unambiguous of all
booty-call signals not involving a direct proposition. That I would strike out was practically a
given; I was shocked to even be at bat. Further complicating matters was that I had given Kate
a clear way out, stepping down to the campus party to offer to give her back her coat, which
she declined, saying she would visit me later to retrieve it.

My "game" had been taken to its limits, and I was out of ideas, with no time to figure out
how to proceed. In Bettor Off Single, I called it The Battle Of Kate, likening it to the 300
Spartans who perished at Thermopylae, in a defeat which paved the way for ultimate victory, in
this case of my fledgling #pua self, who was still figuring out how to win games, let alone
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against super-elites. Like the Spartans, I would be annihilated by a hopelessly superior

opponent, but also like the Spartans, the lessons from this "battle" would form the bedrock of a
#pua method which would one day spread throughout the world, netting me a decent amount
of cash, but nothing compared to what others would profit from my work.

While my "inner AFC" had not yet died, it had been mortally wounded, not only by its own
failure, but by the success I was having as a #pua, this time with the same woman I seemingly
made no progress with as an AFC. In truth, Kate was highly commitment-averse, and seemed
to want just a hookup or a fling. A week later, when she cancelled what would have been our
first date, it was because she realized that she would ultimately break my heart by breaking up
with me, and that it was better not to lead me on. She was right, but I would have been fine
with just having sex with her once; the OTL had taught me how to handle even the worst
heartbreak. Rather than face Kate, I went home for a five-day weekend to cool off, retreating
to Manhattan, as I'm sure she figured any true New Yorker would.

The break was helpful in allowing us to remain civil, and she wound up choosing another
man, FunDude, a friend of PhysicsDude's I had met on a campus visit a few years earlier. I did
not blame him for "stealing" Kate, since I had fumbled her away perfectly on my own. It was
actually a drunken conversation a month or so later that caused me to fall permanently in love
with Kate, leading to my "bar meltdown" and isolation through finals, where I managed to
secure my 4.0 GPA. She wound up breaking up with FunDude over the summer, replacing him
with a male model, then no one, as far as I could tell. To this day, it appears she has never
married, which further reinforced my belief that the AFC construct was insulting to women,
with its view that men be the provider. Unlike the OTL, Kate never took money from men,
making her fortune in the fashion industry. This, of course, meant that I was competing for her
against every broke man on the planet, also unlike the OTL, who could reliably be bought.

While I had yet to fully cross over to the dark side, by now I was well on my way, confident
that no one would ever pass the Kate test. As a true AFC, my soulmate now had to be a
woman I would remain with even if Kate were to come calling, something I refused to rule out,
given the way I was seeing women respond to me more positively when I ignored them. I was
open to the idea of finding my soulmate, but the odds of her exceeding Kate's ridiculously high
level of quality approximated that of being dealt a Royal Fizzbin.

Readers should note that my final verdict on the AFC is that his existence has never been
legitimate, due to the price of admission, the shallow requirements we all have in our partners.
The first chapter of my #pua novel based on this concept can be found free at
http://www.toosmarttofail.com/poa.pdf. The novel is based on my current top #pua student, a
man privileged with youth, brains, a decent job, a future that starts with a university degree,
and, of course my teaching (his testimonial is on the BOS website at
http://www.toosmarttofail.com/bos.html). Teaching him sent me into retirement (almost),
since he is living proof that #pua coaching comes down more to sexual market value (SMV),
rather than "game," which can only bring a man to his true potential. Like my student, my own
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privileged youth left me blind to the incredible limitations of "AFC game" on men with low SMV.
If someone like me could have all these problems, a man of average height, intellect, and
money, faces an uphill climb I could only understand once over the hill.

Birth Of A #pua

At home for the Summer of Eighteen (1985), yet another broken heart had knocked me
out of yet another summer of running game in Manhattan, in what would turn out to be my
last summer in the city. My routine again included chess in Washington Square Park (though
not as often as the year prior), one trip to Shea Stadium, where the Mets scored a boring,
professional 3-2 win over the Giants, coming back with a three-run sixth after giving up two in
the first (a far cry from 1980, when I was three out of five-thousand total who attended the
final home series), and trips to Belmont, Roosevelt, and Manhattan's many OTB parlors. At
night, often all night, I would flip on an FM station, pull out my notebook, and begin scribbling
chess-like notation, for perhaps the deepest post-mortem ever run on a single encounter with
the opposite sex.

My mission was simple: find the lay in The Battle Of Kate. What bothered me, to the
point of insomnia, even more than losing my "designated soulmate" was knowing that, in this
chessgame, I had checkmate staring me across the board, and I was determined to find it, so
that my next similar opportunity would not be squandered. I analyzed every interaction, not
just with her, but with everyone on campus, from the moment I met Kate, to see not just what I
could have done differently to change the outcome, but how the f**k I wound up isolating her
to my room at 2:30 a.m. on a Saturday night in the first place. As Andy Soltis once said of a
player who upset Karpov, "Only people named Kasparov usually get positions like this against
Karpov." From the standpoint of #pua theory, I had checkmated one of the most beautiful,
sexy women who had ever lived (according to many), and I needed to discover the winning
move, even if it took me all summer, or longer, to do it.

For work, I had built a concession in the family's home-based typing service, offering
manuscripts, mass-mailings, and resumes to the general public, earning $300.00-500.00 a week
(for spring break I did a $275.00 cash job the first two days I was home, giving me a nice
amount of spending money), and building valuable secretarial skills. I also experienced my first
bout of reverse-discrimination, from temp agencies which rejected me on the grounds that my
family experience didn't count, but the real reason was my gender. As long as I was making
money at home, this didn't matter, but it annoyed me that I wasn't getting the high-paying
assignments, instead scoring only a four-day assignment for $7.00/hour. That spring, however,
I had been summoned from a chess session to type a contract for a Wall Street executive, who
paid me $25.00 an hour. With money not an issue, I was able to do pretty much anything I
wanted, and did.
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My conclusion from the post-mortem was that I should have made some type of move on
Kate, and that my odds of success were good had I tried, but I still could not figure out what
type of move to make. Kissing her would have been simple, with the worst she would have
done in response was rebuff me, in a situation where my conduct would have been expected by
any reasonable woman. I ruled out kissing her because of the probability of rejection,
ultimately realizing that verbal escalation was the key. Had I let her know I wanted her as my
girlfriend; saying something like "stay here as my girlfriend or walk out of here and never look
back" would either have done the trick or avoided a further waste of my time, either outcome
markedly superior to what occurred. Instead, I went the AFC route, asking her out on a date,
which I later realized was obsolete, because dating was no longer necessary for men and
women to converse in isolation, thus reducing it to nothing more than asking if she wants to
f**k.

Like the original Capablanca-Marshall game, where Frank J. Marshall sprung the Marshall
Counterattack on a world champion who once went eight years without losing a single game,
decades of analysis has yet to definitively reveal the correct moves for either side. Every few
years, I gain new insight into The Battle Of Kate, like my new theory that Kate isolated to my
room not to have sex, but to ensure that other women would not be there in her place,
especially the second time. I wondered if maybe my football-playing roommate was who she
really wanted, but she could just as easily have made a move on him herself. In the end, I still
believe this was a booty call, that I was just a clueless AFC, waiting for a "signal," or for her to
make a move, not realizing, like even a beginning #pua would, that her eagerness to isolate --
twice!! -- was the signal. In 29 Reasons Not To Be A Nice Guy (Snodgrass, 1999, free here at
http://www.toosmarttofail.com/29reasons.pdf), I entitled Reason #2 Treat Your Soulmate Like
A Sl*t, as my commentary on the "battle."

By the end of the summer, I had identified my major mistakes with Kate, and particularly
with our mutual friends and acquaintances, who I realized only served to interfere with my
chances, either directly, or just by distracting our attention from each other, delaying what
should have been a quick resolution. I was proud that I had forced the issue by asking her out,
as this caused Kate to resolve in one month rather than one year, but I found myself with no
women to "move on" to, since all were markedly inferior to Kate. I also knew, however, that
like the OTL, Kate would one day become a memory, that I would get over her, live to fight
another day, and that the woman who finally took my mind off Kate would be almost as
incredible, and probably a bit better-looking and sexier. Like Kate, I also expected her to be
something other than what I expected, but I also knew it would be quite some time before I
ever called another woman my soulmate. It's been thirty years, in fact.

The Class Drop

It happens all the time in horse racing: a Triple-Crown hopeful fails to win the three big
races, then romps when entered in lesser stakes, against weaker company. Horseplayers call it
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the class drop, while dating experts call it lowering your standards, something I refused to do
after the OTL and Kate, with the exception of flings, hookups, one-night stands, and any
relationship not leading to marriage.

While my mindset was still AFC, my actions were increasingly #pua, as evidenced by my
first conquest after Kate, HBHalloween (8.6), a woman who had been crushing on me all spring,
while I was hung up on Kate, who then moved into the corner room of the hall I had moved out
of, and into Kate's dorm (where PhysicsDude lived, and where I had wanted to live when I got
there). By remaining close to Kate, I was able to ignore her, since her rejection of me became
evident every time she ignored me, and I wouldn't waste time chasing her. As it turned out, I
moved into the adjacent dorm a few weeks into the semester, due to a hall and roommate
conflict, which gave me needed separation from Kate. I also coined the term phantom
girlfriend, to describe my use of the #friendzone to avoid bothering Kate, or other women who
didn't want me, while establishing social proof, or what I would later call the pivot. PG-3, as I
would call her, had a boyfriend back home, and was using me as a shield against other men. it
worked out great. PG-3 lived next door to my old room.

As part of my mission to avoid Kate at all costs, I hung out almost exclusively with PG-3
during the week, injecting me into her social circle, which included a few former friends who
had lived in the hall the previous semester, plus some new additions, as well as HBHalloween.
In PG-3's absence, I wound up in HBHalloween's room, listening to both sides of The Moody
Blues's Days of Future Past.

While changing the record, she bent over in front of me, in a rather indisputably sexy way,
leading me to think she might like me. These suspicions were confirmed when she told me
about a dorm Halloween party the following Saturday, where she let slip that she'd be wearing
a French maid outfit because "a guy she really liked" would be at the party. Finally, the
lightbulb went off, and I had a chance to correct my mistakes with Kate, while scoring a lay
from an HB dressed as a French maid. My summer post-mortem was about to pay off. That I
didn't want a relationship with this woman, let alone consider her my soulmate, meant
nothing. I had finally found the hottest woman who says yes. All I had to do was say and do
the right things, and the sex was mine. After all, if my feelings counted for anything, the OTL
and Kate wouldn't have turned so cruel on me. This had to be the "right woman."

After dinner in her dorm (my old dorm) on Saturday, I visited HBHalloween, already in
costume, for our trip to the party, for which I had not dressed up at all. We chatted for a half-
hour or so, then headed downstairs, with our hands finding their way to each other, as we
began nuzzling on our way to the dancefloor, where we paused, before moving back to the
main room, to retrieve some beer. The kino (touching) continued to escalate, to the point
where I suggested we just go back to my room. She seemed tempted, but resisted at first, at
which point I decided to resolve matters by planting a deep kiss on her lips, which lit her up like
a Christmas tree, eliminating all resistance. I confidently led her back to my room, where we
began making out, before having sex. I had done it! I was no longer a loser who can't get laid,
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or the loser obsessed with Kate. Once again, I had conquered a woman far sexier than most
men will ever share a bed with in their lives, all by age eighteen. At this point, I had nothing left
to prove to myself, taking my ability to get the women I wanted into bed for granted.

After the sex, HBHalloween looked at me as if she expected me to become her boyfriend,
but all I gave her in response was a cold, empty stare, my mind wondering only why this wasn't
Kate, the woman I truly loved. I had no such feelings for this woman, yet it did not matter, and
in fact it was my lack of feelings which caused the sex, because rather than become hung up on
someone like Kate, I simply played the numbers game, waiting for a strong enough IOI, from
the hottest woman who would have me, and escalating until she gave in. This carried no risk
of heartbreak, because I had no feelings to exploit, leaving me completely in charge. We would
not speak again until a few months later, at dinner in her dorm, where an actual fire set off the
alarm, and she expressed mild anger at my "telling my friends" about us, when it was the
hickey she had planted on my neck that was the real tell. We remained civil from then on out,
but rarely interacted.

The choice between heartbreak at the hands of the OTL or Kate, and a lifetime of sex with
women like HBHalloween, or even sexier, once I figured out what I was doing, was a no-brainer.
I resolved to propose marriage to any woman who passed the Kate test, but quickly became
convinced none ever would; Kate was that incredible, an opinion of mine which has never
changed, though she is well past her #pua expiration date. In Bettor Off Single, I called my new
"game" reluctant #pua, that run by a man who sought no-strings sex with beautiful women,
without ever committing to one, not because he didn't want a soulmate, but because the
women he called his soulmates didn't want him. The notion of pretending to love a DupliKate,
when I knew I would leave her in an instant for Kate, just seemed phony, and something that
couldn't in any way be considered nice. No one wants to be someone's second choice,
especially if they know the first choice can make them history at will, however unlikely.

For some odd reason, #feminists often use sexual taunting to ridicule dissenting men,
calling them losers based on imputed incel status, as if the ability to get laid was how they
judged men, despite feminism's primary mission of ending "objectification of women." Calling
a man a loser because he is not scoring sex with hot chicks is about as objectifying as one can
be, yet by that standard, my #pua conquest of HBHalloween made me a "winner," even if I
didn't feel like one. The sex was excellent, and I often think of my students, many of whom
have spent their whole lives wishing for even one experience to match what was my second
such lay (SHBPolitics being the first). Most important of all, HBHalloween never tired of me,
never told me never to speak to her again, and never thought me a crazy, obsessed stalker,
because I simply didn't care enough about her to bother, nor would I ever feel strong enough
about an individual woman to do so again.

Many #pua play hard-to-get; I was hard-to-get. I doubt HBHalloween had ever been
rejected so coldly, let alone after giving a man one of the best sexual experiences of his life. My
"inner AFC" was now hanging by a thread, on life-support, but I had still yet to get Kate out of
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my system, nor would I be able to, for as long as we shared the same campus. I did make it
back to dinner with Kate, in our mutual, empty dining hall one Saturday evening (to reduce
work for the cleanup crew mainly), and we had a brief moment where I fell for her all over
again during a 6:00 a.m. fire drill where she sat, looking angelic, on the stairs of my dorm lobby,
but my bar meltdown had finally gotten her to back off, having seen my broken heart through
my waterlogged eyes, a level of pain similar to an animal one would want to put down to spare
it further misery. To the world, I had gotten laid, by a hottie in a French-maid costume, no less,
and who had given me a hickey! I was proud of my #pua skillz!

For the remainder of the semester, which would prove to be my last, I buried myself in my
studies, secured a very difficult 4.0 GPA (one of two As from over a hundred in one class, and
three from over fifty in another), and hung out with PG-3 whenever she was on campus, and
the physics posse on the weekends. My new hall was loaded with hot female students, many
of whom would hang out in my room, with my roommate and his friends, at all hours of the day
and night, but I never made a move on any of them, even though one repeatedly sent
ambiguous IOIs. My self-esteem had been slaughtered by the OTL and Kate so badly that I had
become risk-averse, with standards so high that I had become almost impossible to attract,
save for a super-elite literally throwing herself at me. I had rejected a TA who grabbed my arm
in a bar, saying "you deserved that A," the one she gave me that I did not deserve, preserving
my 4.0. With financial pressure forcing me to leave school, Kate was the least of my worries,
and I bade her a mental farewell as my taxi to the train station departed the campus.

On a chess note, I came within one late blunder of making Binghamton's chess team for
the Pan Am Games, which would have set the chess persona into motion a year earlier. Kate
was never made aware of my performance, nor would she have cared much if she had been.

Beating The System: Dancing With The Red Queen

In Back To The Future: Part II, Biff carries a Sports Almanac from 1950-2000 back in time
to 1955, where he slips it to his young self (killing his older self in the process), who then goes
on to build an empire with his winnings, turning the tables on the McFlys. Many of us, including
myself, have had similar dreams, with mine allowing me to experience going back to the track
the same night in my sleep already knowing who had won. A #pua with the opportunity to
time-travel would dream of running powerful theory from 1998-2014 from 1980-1997, and how
easy it would be to use his skillz on unsuspecting women, while rival males remained
completely clueless. I actually got to experience the latter, since the world had no idea what
even a pivot was until I debuted the tactic in 1999; Mystery's negs likely gave him a similar
edge, which he ruthlessly exploited. Even the Class of 1998, however, including me, severely
underestimated the speed with which the "red queen" would render our methods less
effective, or completely ineffective. One never appreciates what they have until it is gone.
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In December, 1985, I found a similar advantage to what the #pua community had in 1998,
or more like 2004, right before The Game raised too much awareness in women and rival
males. On a chance trip to a mall, to replace a shot glass I had broken at a dorm pre-finals
party, I stumbled upon a copy of Andrew Beyer's The Winning Horseplayer: An Advanced
Approach To Thoroughbred Handicapping And Betting (Houghton-Mifflin, 1982), in which
Beyer claimed to be winning hundreds of thousands of dollars a year (he mentions one six-
figure week in the text), a vast improvement on his titular outcome detailed in My $50,000.00
Year At The Races (Houghton-Mifflin, 1978). In his 1982 update to his horseplaying saga, Beyer
complained about how the prices on his "speed figure" horses had dropped, as a direct
consequence of his having told the world about his $50,664.00 year in 1977.

Having seen what happened to blackjack after Beat The Dealer, and to Pac-Man after Ken
Uston's book solved that game, I knew that the Beyer speed-figure method was on its last legs.
I also knew the method was profitable, having scored my $800.00+ win in 1982 using only a
portion of the method (the raw speed ratings). Not only did I believe in the figures, Beyer's new
recommendation to incorporate "trip handicapping" (racing luck) by taking notes on every race,
for future reference, was taken directly from a harness handicapping playbook taught to me by
Dad from age five. As an impending college dropout, facing reverse-discrimination in office
work, and suddenly learning that I was also facing eviction from a rent-stabilized apartment at
one-third of its market rent, my life back home had become a blank slate, with my only source
of income about to perish along with our lease. With plenty of time to kill, and very little
money, finding out if Beyer was full of s**t or not was a no-brainer. If I won, I had a new
career, and if I lost, I'd just move on.

The #takedownjulienblanc movement likes to portray #pua as a scam, as if it were not

possible to beat the system -- in this case by getting easy sex from super-elites -- with
information readily available on the open market, yet both Thorp and Beyer's works clearly
refute this: casinos did not actively thwart card-counting until the mid-1970s, almost a decade
after Beat The Dealer was published, while the Beyer-Kovitz method was still going strong even
in 1986, when I began using it myself. Sheldon Kovitz, a classmate of Beyer's, was the "brains"
behind the figure method, with his work solving two important equations which allowed Beyer
to put his theory into profitable practice.

Kovitz, a theoretician and math professor, told me personally that he had no problem with
Beyer "killing the goose," and that he still made money in certain extreme situations the public
overlooked. Steve Davidowitz, author of Betting Thoroughbreds, and a close friend of Beyer's,
defended his "killing the goose" by saying he could always recreate his advantage, and that he
learned more by publishing than he gave up, through feedback by his readers and others. What
I overlooked in 1986, as I tried to live the Beyer dream, was that Beyer, and the other men
named above, all had jobs which gave them steady paychecks, and publishing deals for Beyer
and Davidowitz, which ensured their survival even if they never won another cent, whereas I
was going to be "singing for my supper," the ultimate test of a gambler.
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What makes this extremely relevant to the #pua community was its absolute proof that
one could in fact beat the system with a method contained in an inexpensive book, available
to anyone with enough faith to put the method into practice, much like occurred with those
quick enough to implement The Game before women grew truly wise, and who, of course,
implemented books like Outfoxing The Foxes (Snodgrass Publishing Group, 1998), my first #pua
tome, or 29 Reasons, my followup, written in the voice of a "newbie" to the community, who
has just stumbled across all of this incredible information, meeting the market need for a
single-reference volume that contained all the powerful new theory. My earliest readers had a
seven-year head start on The Game, which led to substantial profits (though not millions), and
my work being pirated and plagiarized on a historic scale. Like Kovitz, many more people know
of my work than will ever know of me. I have even had women suggest I use some of my own
#pua tactics, while many women now earn livings as a pivot.

My initial experiment with Beyer's method was a smashing success from an ROI
standpoint, but since I had begun with only $15.00, that I turned into $125.00 at Yonkers one
Monday night in January, I remained conservative, even after winning $650.00+ five days later,
on a hit taken directly from Beyer's playbook. Combined with my own handicapping, which had
been profitable for most of my life, I managed an ROI of $1.17 for every dollar wagered, and
$1.25 on the riskier "exotic" wagers, for a full month, a very promising beginning, but still not
enough to convince me to bet as much as I would have needed to in order to save my
apartment (and business) and remain in Manhattan (that would have required $100.00 a race,
or $5,000.00 a week, to yield $1,000.00 weekly profit).

While I did not save my apartment (a few close calls would have changed that), I did win
several thousand, however, making me the horseplaying equivalent of an AFC who found the
#pua community, and went from being rejected by NHBs to sleeping with super-elites. Yes,
Virginia, it is possible to beat the system, if one is enough of an independent thinker to sort the
wheat from the chaff. Unfortunately, I had to choose where to live in July, 1986, between
going into a business partnership funded by "Boards" (with relocation expenses), or remaining
in New York, probably in Binghamton, so I could return to school while I worked, and bet the
NYRA tracks from upstate, capitalizing on my speed-figures. I could have in fact returned four
days into the semester with my $800.00+ win as a bankroll, as my dorm room had not been
reassigned, but that would have left me without the business I left for in July, vowing instead to
win money on the mid-Atlantic tracks, with which I had some experience on days OTB took
them.

My experience with Beyer, and familiarity with Thorp, led me to insist to the #pua
community as far back as 1998 that Game Over was inevitable. I had originally thought this
would occur in 2003, only a few years before The Game, and then VH-1's The Pickup Artist, but
the #feminist pushback I was expecting has only recently come to fruition, a full sixteen years
after the #pua community assumed its modern form, an indication that the Red Queen moves
slower online, precisely because the information is "hidden in plain sight" among a global sea of
social-media and mainstream-media noise that has every man once again fending for
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themselves, not knowing who to believe or who to trust. In 1986, the media was tightly
controlled, with every piece of work, like Beyer's, heavily promoted, with far less competition
for its attention. It is also noteworthy that no work since Beyer's has "gone viral," achieving the
level of influence of his first three works, including the one I used as a blueprint for my "career"
as a professional horseplayer.

Discrimination

Without my future knowledge of the employment matrix, and without civil-rights laws
allowing for the recovery of damages and back wages (that would change in 1991), I was at the
mercy of the employment agencies and Wall Street firms I had hoped would hire me so that
Mom and I could remain in Manhattan, and save our business, which was yielding enough
money to cover our basic expenses, but not enough to save our lease, and Philadelphia was the
closest city we could afford (Mom hung on until September, while I left in July). Prior to
leaving, I spent every Tuesday (NYRA's dark day) registering with employment agencies, and
seeking entry-level office work on Wall Street.

My efforts yielded nothing, and I was more or less oblivious to the extreme looks-
discrimination that fueled the sexual-harassment scandals of the 1990s, and which made me
"employable" only as a broker trainee, which I could not afford to endure, instead hoping for
the $14.00 an hour that attractive women with my skills were making. This was the first time I
noticed that white males were not as privileged as feminists would have one believe. Only my
new business opportunity in Philadelphia allowed me to shelve this issue in my mind, but it still
struck me that the leftist media had ignored this, especially given the feminist outcry for
"modern" men willing to break gender stereotypes. My belief that women would find solidarity
with my plight was naive, to say the least. Down the road, I would begin to connect the ethical
dots between individuals who had no problem with illegal conduct, particularly motivated by
sexualizing the workplace, and their poor relationship outcomes, leading to a #pua method that
ruled out secretaries as unethical wh*res, and the men who hired them as poor choices for
ethical women, about as far a cry from the teachings of RSD as one can be.

Nice Guys Sleep Alone (1986)

After my move to Philadelphia, to enter into business with Boards, who I had met at the
OTB parlor, and who had won a considerable amount with my speed figures, we found
ourselves with several hours a day to kill in Houston Hall, the UPenn student-union building,
where our typesetting/word-processing store was located. Come September, the "resume
crush" would yield five-figures in profit, followed by another lull, and then midterm and final
paper seasons, with Ph.D. and graduate theses, plus a smattering of other work, rounding out
our year. Our free time, and weekends, was split between handicapping and betting on
horseraces and #pua brainstorming, pondering questions like how it was possible for every
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female we knew to have a boyfriend, while every male we knew had no girlfriend. We
concluded that either lots of men and women were lying, or a few men were getting all the
women (Darwin's alpha-male theory). During a ride home from one of our Sunday-night
racetrack outings at some faraway harness track, Boards handed me a copy of Nice Guys Sleep
Alone, whose author I recognized immediately.

Like me, Boards was primarily AFC, and in search of his soulmate, but his wealthy father --
the famous CEO of a large, global conglomerate -- enabled him to develop some seriously mad
#pua skillz at an early age. His family's money (not his money) was more than offset by his lack
of height, and skinny appearance, which he simply worked around, focusing only on the women
who did not reject him for his appearance, including a surprising number of hotties. His name
was given to him after he scored two super-elites on the rebound, secondary to his instinct to
know exactly when to pounce on a damsel-in-distress, using his intelligence and logic to
persuade her that he was the better choice than her ex, or any other man, who would likely be
just like her ex. A few months after I moved to Philadelphia, he spent the weekend in his
bedroom with the ex-wife of a friend of his from the south, one of the hottest twenty-one year-
olds I had ever seen in my life, who left our horseplaying posse speechless, as she dutifully
retired to his room, prior to his kicking us out (only after we were made aware of his prowess).

With so much time to dissect Nice Guys Sleep Alone, we debated the merits of the book,
concluding that the author had hit the nail on the head many times, and that we were wise to
take heed of his warnings to avoid being "too nice," while stopping short of the more obvious
conclusion that we should deliberately act like jerks just to get laid, on the grounds that we
were better off without the type of woman who would reward that type of behavior in our
lives. My post-Kate funk had deepened considerably, which sent me back to the thinktank for
more of a post-mortem, when I finally resolved to exhaust all winning chances, by sending her
a birthday card on her twenty-first, in 1988. This would let her know my new address (I fished
hers out of the student directory), making her rejection of me truly final, simply by ignoring me.
When I left school, I was definitely making progress with her, our separation probably
reminding her of what intrigued her about me in the first place. I would later learn that she had
moved into Manhattan almost on the very day I had moved out.

Speaking of "later discoveries," it should most definitely be noted that, way back in 1986,
it was presumed that once two people severed contact, that this was the end of their
interaction. Never in my wildest dreams did I ever think I would call Kate once more, after
finding her number online (my logic was that a #pua guru worth his salt should not be afraid of
calling a former friend), nor did I think I'd be able to learn of her entire life and work history
through the internet, with most of the information put up by her. I also learned a great deal
about the OTL, but contacted her with just an e-mail to let her know that Mom had died in
2007, because they were close. My only other recent internet contact was with SHBSchool,
which served only to prove why my first kiss did not lead to my first romantic relationship. I
generally recommend that men avoid revisiting the past, since women tend to hold grudges,
and instead to just move on at the first sign of trouble, lest they be wrongfooted and shamed
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into submission. During My Dinner With Kate, it gnawed at me that while Kate was showing
strong interest in me, the OTL had disposed of me as if I were dirt; who was wrong?

The World's First Pivot

The pivot is among the strongest #pua tactics ever developed, right up there with
Mystery's neg, an absolute hottie-ambush on an unsuspecting target, now seen through as a
#pua tactic, which takes nothing away from its once-omnipotent strength, documented not just
on the internet, but in a 1993 Cosmo article, where a female author suddenly admits to having
slept with a man she met at the gym, who she did not want until he quipped "it won't help" as
he passed by her stairclimbing machine. Without attempting to one-up the neg, the pivot was
so incredibly strong, especially in Boards's hands, that it became my go-to tactic when all else
failed, which was rarely. Unlike me, Boards made active use of pivots, particularly his
SHBLunch, nicknamed "Lunch" by one of our investors, in honor of Boards's habit of dining
alone with his pivot, allowing her to leave, then remaining alone at the table for several
minutes, during which time a procession of HBs and above would approach him. Having seen
this in action for myself, I embraced the new theory instantly.

Today, women earn good money as pivots, essentially escorts without the sex, often
referring to themselves as wingwomen, a term coined by my rivals to avoid crediting Boards's
innovation, while shows such as Rachel Ray have devoted entire episodes to "exposing" the
tactic. Ray had several male #pua guests confess to using pivots, with their girlfriends next to
them on stage, most claiming they would never have gotten involved with the men had they
known they were using #pua tricks to seduce them. Whether or not the women actually
dumped these men is something only they would know, but I would not be surprised if a few
stayed. For me, it was like being Biff in BTTF2, in that Boards and I were the only two men who
knew about pivots, yet I almost never used the method myself, because...I didn't need to. As
with the neg, I was not at all eager to attract women so easily manipulated by social proof,
Cialdini's term for the social dynamic underlying the pivot.

Birth Of The Chess Persona

For most, The term #pua conjures up images of tophats, a Fedora, black nail polish, and
cheesy opening lines and routines, designed to demonstrate high value to a target population
of braindead, usually drunk, social-climbing wh*res who believe they have been blessed by the
holy grail that is the alpha male. That real alpha males send their minions to fish out live
targets, or just have them stop by their expensive residences, or private jets, is lost on the sub-
elite women whose looks ratings soar a few points in the nightclub, before the ugly lights are
turned on, exposing Cinderella at midnight. For that, we have the media to thank, just like we
have it to thank for my Kovitz-like anonymity, which is why no one associates #pua with
deciding, at age twenty, to become the hardest-working chessplayer in America (the only "title"
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i could give myself instantly), on a fifteen-year mission to "win" Kate by becoming world chess
champion.

Whether or not my plan -- the artistic equivalent of the seven-year plan to win back the
OTL -- would actually work concerned me not at all, for even if I "failed," I would still be world
chess champion, with a bevy of super-elite chess groupies, thanks to Kate's gift revealing to me
that super-elite chicks do, in fact, dig chessplayers, at least the crazy-genius kind who appear to
have a shot at becoming world champion. This knowledge was significant, because the
realization that I might actually seduce Kate with this diabolical plan was quickly followed by
the realization that she would be thirty-five years old in 2002, and almost certainly too old and
unattractive for me to even want her (I was proven right on this count by 1998, when she had
gained a substantial amount of weight, though she has retained her striking physical features
underneath the layer of fat).

Beginning in December, 1986, with my business failing, and my having to move back in
with Mom to save money (in March, 1987), I was pleased that my financial and housing
situations had stabilized, however modestly. The greatly reduced cost of living compared to
Manhattan made survival easy, with Mom and I always able to dig ourselves out of any hole,
with a single large job, or a win at the track, or at home through PhoneBet, though I continued
to struggle with the mid-Atlantic tracks, which played much differently than the NYRA races,
something Beyer had said should not be an issue, but was.

With horses too expensive to bet, I could only make figures, without trip notes, and could
not sustain any attempt to play professionally, especially with the store eating up my time. I
had made several thousand dollars on the Wharton resume crush, a crash course on the
corporate buzzwords of the day, with every MBA using similar combinations to stand out. I
quickly lost respect for corporate America, glad to have been in business for myself (and Mom),
even if I were struggling. By now, Mom and I moved off-campus, working from home, freeing
up my schedule for fulltime chess training, interrupted only by paying freelance word-
processing jobs.

My chess persona would have the most humble of beginnings, with five used books, a
single regulation set for training, and all the time in the world to train myself to become the
best player I could be, building on my natural talent, my years of social play against my friends,
and my daily lessons from late Washington Square Park legend Richard Gilmartin, while I was
recovering from the OTL during the Summer Of Seventeen. Those lessons led to Kate's
emotional stereotyping of me as a crazy-genius chess champion, which led to the chess
persona. With an eye towards making my debut at the 1987 World Open, in the under-1400 (u-
1400) section, as a "sandbagger" whose true strength was closer to 1800, or equal to the other
sandbaggers in the section (I wound up missing first by one win). Unlike most players, who
focused on short-term improvement, my plan was to spend four years studying nothing but
openings, four studying nothing but endgames, four more studying middlegames, and three
years combining my knowledge, with a method I called isolation and integration.
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An AFC in my situation would have done nothing to improve his chances with women,
while I remained completely convinced that chess was the path to #pua glory, for at least as
long as I remained a viable future champion. The Samford Fellowship, a $30,000.00 stipend
awarded to the most promising master (2200+) under age twenty-five, offered the natural
cutoff date of July, 1991 for my retirement, the final rating list which would determine my
eligibility. If I reached 2200, not a difficult task, I would apply for the fellowship, continue
training if I won it, and retiring if I did not. I vowed also to never break character, lest I appear
incongruent. This character would attract scorn and ridicule from most males (and females) in
the civilized world, but if women like Kate were the exception to this rule, I was going to make
them my groupies; who wouldn't?

Neil Strauss, whose Elo rating I do not know, likened The Game to a chessboard, yet I was
the one who was actually living the life of an international chessplayer, rather than just using
weak analogies. My analytical mind, sharpened by fulltime (overtime) chess training, devoted
specifically to the art of getting laid, was anything but what #takedownjulienblanc cavalierly
dismisses as a one-dimensional "scam." Men foolish enough to listen to the #pua haters will
find no alternative advice, and will miss out on proven tactics from men who were simply more
determined to get laid by hot women than they could ever imagine. The only legitimate
debating response to #takedownpua is to present a condensed summary of my work, however
wordy it may appear.

Rome was not built in a day, and neither is a world-class #pua. As in chess, the most
talented "players" will improve the most with long-term training. By age eighteen, I had scored
two lays with HBs or above, and had the presence of mind to isolate from the game while I
fixed both my finances and my broken heart. For whatever my life may have been in
December, 1986, from then on it was never boring. Chess, I had decided, was "what I would do
whenever I had nothing to do." Every #pua should have an equally fulfilling avocation, one
which plays to his natural strength, such as fixing cars if he is mechanically inclined, or using his
muscles if he is physically blessed, and so forth. #takedownjulienblanc notwithstanding, there
is a large market of men who need to be taught these basics, let alone the larger market of
men who have never come close to running Kasparov s**t. This was not a cheesy pickup line,
or a transparent routine, but an entire persona, the ultimate in Kasparov s**t. Like I said, I just
wanted it more, while the men who claimed that sex with super-elites shouldn't be a priority,
sure act disappointed when rejected by them; their actions belie their words.

It took very little time for the chess persona to begin paying dividends. In May, 1987, I
went for a long session in a floatation tank (for creativity), after which I was offered a massage
by NHBHypnoMassage (later a much more shallow and hot SHBHypnoMassage), which left me
feeling so incredible (and turned on) that I just had to add the massage gimmick to my
repertoire, a nice complement to the hypnosis gimmick I had suspended after a disastrous
attempt to deploy it with the OTL; it would be five years before I attempted it again, this time
successfully, before going on to make thousands of dollars producing a "sexy hypnosis" audio in
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2002. I began paying for regular (nonsexual) massages, both for relaxation and creativity, but
mostly to learn the techniques my masseuses were using by paying extremely close attention to
what they were doing. I very quickly learned how to give deadly hand massages, and how to
mimic the movements well enough to relax the rest of the body. The primary #pua problem for
me to solve was how to deploy the gimmick, but that would come with time.

At the World Open, while I was mopping up in every warmup tournament (before my
$2,000 choke in the final round of the main event), I swiped SHBTwentySix from her arrogant,
twice-her-age, fat, college-professor boyfriend, a man so engrossed in his tournament game,
and so slow to move, that I was able to f**k his girlfriend in their room upstairs, returning to
the tournament hall with him never having gotten up from the board. As my training
intensified, my rating improved, and my tournament stakes grew higher, I would foolishly
abandon my habit of dropping chess whenever a live (super)-elite showed up. Opportunities
like this proved few and far between, especially as familiarity bred contempt within the chess
world, but even one lay like this is one more than most AFC will ever score in their lives. Had I
been "stuck" with the OTL or Kate, this never would have happened; whether or not that is a
good thing is still up for debate, but I sure was pleased with myself at the time.

Le Club

The only lingering benefit from my chess persona was Le Club, sister of PatronDude, who,
along with MomOfClubs, and her ex-Marine father with a "soft spot for chessplayers,"
comprised my road family, where I was always welcome to stay for nearby tournaments, or
those requiring a long drive from PatronDude, or TheoryDude, my primary sparring partner
from back home, who introduced me to this family for our stay at their home during a major
holiday tournament. That evening, I met Le Club, a super-elite-in-the-making fourteen year-old
whose first expression upon meeting me the who-the4-f**k-is-THAT look, one I'll never forget,
despite her nearly-instant recovery to her poker face. We connected instantly, as if we already
knew out future, or how it could wind up. Her family and TheoryDude knew as well, yet it
remained the thousand-pound gorilla in the room, mostly because no one wanted to light the
powder keg by speaking it into existence. Our six-year age difference forced us deep into the
#friendzone, where I ran clock-ticking game, a #pua gray area, but the only practical option.

Kate's little gift was the gift that kept on giving, by far my all-time favorite. In one short
year of deploying the alpha gimmick it inspired, I added the hypnomassage gimmick to my
skillz, scored a same-day-lay (SDL) with SHBTwentySix, met PG-4, Le Club, MomOfClubs
(extremely hot in her early forties), and had a pretty interesting life for someone who had lost
everything over the past few years. Meanwhile, back in Manhattan, my former neighbors were
at the bars, impressing the bridge-and-tunnel social-climbers with their financial DHV, as they
had nothing else of interest to offer. I had slipped so deeply into my character that I had even
fooled myself into thinking chess was my top priority. The geeks, particularly the virginal chess
prodigies, thought I was too old to become a champion, and just crazy or weird, labels I no
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longer minded, as long as women like SHBTwentySix reacted the way they did. Indeed, much
like today, the mainstream media dismissed anything but the AFC narrative as irrelevant, while
stereotyping the PUA narrative, though I definitely fit the artist stereotype, which I minded not
at all.

My friendship with Le Club developed smoothly, often with late-night conversations in her
living room, with her dressed in a discreet robe, looking like the perfect future housewife, a
well-trained version of her mother, who spoiled me so bad that I never won a tournament for
which I had stayed at her home, save for a blitz event 17-2 whitewash prior to my arrival. As
the clock struck four during one of these conversations, I realized why I had shown sexual
restraint at The Battle Of Kate. On Valentine's Day, 1989, shortly after her sweet sixteenth, we
spent several hours deep in a conversation that let her know I was serious, and which let me
know she didn't seem to mind at all, even if her family was ambiguous. MomOfClubs even paid
a visit to my area, to which I brought my mother, wondering later on in my #pua years if
perhaps she was aiming for a different outcome. Two years earlier, my SHBCousin had driven
down to cry on my sofa about her broken marriage, leading me to wonder if perhaps I think too
much about the #pua dynamic of every visit from a female; nothing happened.

Mo' Skillz/Mo' Problems

An AFC's problems with women usually leads to questions like "How do I talk to women?"
You know you've made it as a #pua when your problem has you wondering what to tell the
police if ActorDude, the drunk, high-school boyfriend of the super-elite SHBDancer, were to
plunge nine stories to his death off the roof of my building, when they arrive to find me alone
on said roof, with said girlfriend. Even at the time, I realized that I had truly arrived as a #pua,
because "sh*t like that only happens when you have mad skillz." I could have made a move on
her, right in front of ActorDude, who refused to even engage us, but figured that our
connection as "fellow artists" would win the day, and the lay. For any rational, sane #pua, it
would have, but chessplayers are not known for any of that. I would be given nine easy shots at
this basket, missing all nine, before she finally gave up. Her existence, however, proved my
Kate-inspired thesis that super-elites dig chessplayers. Kate's gift had yielded someone who
was actually passing the Kate test.

Anyone who thinks a man cannot use #pua theory to improve his love life needs a serious
reality check. In sixteen short months, I went from having no money, no life, and living with
my mother, to this, effectively refuting almost all standard dating-advice. I was financially
unstable, though earning $18.00 an hour as a temp, my chess persona having eroded any
gender discrimination, since the placement counselors felt they were contributing to the arts,
or perhaps they wanted to know a future champion, but I was more than qualified. I began
registering with agencies in the spring, even popping up for a week-long assignment, staying
with my cousins, PhysicsDude,, and in Boards's four-bedroom, three-bathroom family
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penthouse condo, which I could have passed off as my own had I wanted to pick up B&Ts from
the local bars. With my target-roster loaded, I had no need to do this.

Men should be careful what they wish for: one bad step by ActorDude on that drunken,
(now-closed) rooftop night, and I might be just getting out of prison about now.

Extreme Kasparov S**t

Having watched way too many episodes of Dallas, and daytime soap operas, I found
myself hatching the most diabolical, and effective, #pua scheme of my life, after a chance
revelation on SHBDancer's answering machine informed me that this Tischie would be dorming
directly across the street from the Washington Square Park chess tables, her constant reminder
of my alpha gimmick DHV, and a plausibly-deniable basis for my "brilliancy." I recruited
TheoryDude and PatronDude to drive me to Washington Square Park for the day, left a note for
SHBDancer in her lobby that said "Why don't you throw a stone over by the chess tables and
come pick it up; I might be playing," but got no response by the end of the day, after which I
wrote off the scheme as a failure, thinking to myself that repeated trips on SEPTA/NJT were
expensive, humiliating, and stalkerish. Two weeks later, she called me to say "I've been looking
for you every day at the chess tables!" Like I said, super-elites dig chessplayers. A week later,
she would return to Philadelphia, while I took my August sublet in Brooklyn. In September, I
would return to Philadelphia just as she was returning to NYU. Congruence has its price.

Back in Philadelphia, after seeing ActorDude making out with another young woman,
SHBDancer became fair game, but it appeared to be too late, until Thanksgiving evening, when
she dropped off a term paper, while I was at the Adam's Mark, registering for the u-2000
section of the National Chess Congress, a six-round tournament usually filled almost entirely by
regional players. She scheduled a Saturday evening picking, around 9:00 p.m., which I could
have made after a short fourth-round, or a bye, since I would likely be out of contention at that
point. I could not have her pick up the paper at the tournament because I couldn't correct the
paper. As fate would have it, I opened up 3-0, facing a strong fourth-round opponent, not
wanting to give up the half-point bye. After trying to make short work of the game, and losing, I
returned home to learn that SHBDancer had picked up the paper and left, for yet another
blown easy lay.

I forgot to mention: the birthday card to Kate went unanswered. Oh well.

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#pua A Scam That Doesn't Work?

At the cost of admitting I still watch #snl, I must ask: Really!? This #pua stuff, where a
man rigorously applies his genius-level intelligence, and some-college education, for most every
moment of his life, to the single goal of securing sex with super-elites, is unsound, invalid,
ineffective, and, if taught to "desperate, clueless men" (such nice things to call those one claims
to be helping) are nothing but a scam on a par with the proverbial snake oil? Let's review my
results, to see how I perform as a case study.

From 1980-1985, as an AFC in search of his soulmate, I landed one MLTR, a few dozen
kisses, a staircase makeout, an MLTR, extensive practice in proper dating (thank you), a "fool's
mate" lay with a super-elite (SHBPolitics), a year-long, one-on-one #pua bootcamp with the
OTL, followed by The Battle of Kate, the #pua equivalent of Kasparov-Karpov, with two of the
most desired men and women tying up a large number of suitors who were waiting for them to
resolve so they could see if they had a shot. From Kate, I ran my first true Kasparov s**t (the
keg party), but my #pua progress was undone when I asked her out on a formal date, like an
idiotic AFC, though not before Kate would inspire the chess persona. My attempts to find a
wife led to a suicide attempt, and a public crying fit in a bar. By May, 1985, I had simply had
enough of declaring women my soulmate. My feelings for the OTL and Kate were as genuine as
humanly possible; applying the lessons from my AFC failure to #pua was common sense. Now
let's examine my results as a #pua.

In October, 1985, I f**k-closed (f-closed) HBHalloween, who I had no interest in making

my girlfriend (out of AFC loyalty to my "soulmate," Kate, of course), but who made a winner out
of me because I could "get laid" by her, so easily that all I had to do was show up at a party and
try, because I had completely ignored her until she literally threw herself at me, the rough
equivalent of folding without ante in a poker game until one is dealt a straight-flush.
HBHalloween was completely risk-free of rejection, precisely because I had become a #pua,
instead of a oneitis-prone AFC. Despite the better results, however, my AFC years were not a
mistake, since they gave me the skillz to pull off this class drop, and I had legitimate chances to
wind up married to the OTL and Kate, a lot closer than I would have come if I had just scored
lays from NHBSkates and NHBDorm (who I should have dominated and would have loved it if I
had).

By late 1985, the AFC train had left the station, and my #pua results figured to only
improve, as I gained experience. After another twenty-four months to completely heal, exhaust
all winning chances with Kate's card, and develop the chess persona, I scored a same-day lay
with SHBTwentySix, met Le Club, learned hypnomassage, met SHBDancer and NHBGroupie,
rejected an astonished SHBGroupieCousin, laid SHBBartender, and now, two nights after
Thanksgiving, I found myself leading a six-round, $2,000.00 chess tournament with a 3-0 score,
and have to choose between attempting to go 4-0, or simply laying SHBDancer, whose paper
explained that a massage from a dancer was an "unforgettable experience." In two short
years, I had gone from a heartbroken, completely shattered AFC to a #pua who was so f**king
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complacent that he left a super-elite from Tisch all but ready to f**k on the Washington Square
Park chess tables where she hunted me for two weeks, while I couldn't be bothered to close the
deal because I was training. I now consider the exact point in time absolute proof that the #pua
lifestyle is infinitely superior to that of the #afc. It doesn't get any stronger than this.

My final missed chances with SHBDancer occurred in January, when I met her coming out
of her lobby just as I was going in to ring her up. She was with a friend, and asked if we could
hand out later, but I was tired, traveling, and playing in an "important" training tournament at
7:00 p.m., which I was supposed to blow off to f**k her, but I did not, the second time in two
months congruence with my chess persona had cost me one of several opportunities of a
lifetime. After the OTL and Kate, this was the third ace from BOS; Le Club was the fourth. The
OTL was the Ace of Diamonds, Kate the Ace of Spades, and this love-crazed, free-spirited
dancer was clearly the Ace of Hearts, while Le Club's nickname should now speak for itself.
Clubs are loyal, hot, perfect-wife types who are usually overlooked by #pua, much to their
delight, and who quietly pounce on the AFC with the highest SMV they believe they can keep;
for Le Club, that was me. TheoryDude, a proud AFC expecting fate to deliver his soulmate, had
a one-year start and the same proximity, yet it was me on the phone with her for almost seven
hours on Valentine's night.

In an era where AFC dating advice (if one could call it that) still ruled, men like me, Boards,
or even PhysicsDude and WaiterDude (another classmate who held his own as a #pua, to the
limited extent he wanted hookups) had to develop our own theory, collaborating within our
small social circle, observing the boyfriends of gorgeous women (a no-brainer), and figuring
everything out for ourselves, like Boards did with the pivot. We were unlikely to go "media
viral," or make millions as famous #pua gurus (perhaps one day we thought we might), and
were just regular guys trying to figure out how to score with the same super-elites the AFC put
on pedestals, for the same reasons, but without the creepy, stalkerish behavior that results
from severe heartbreak, like I had with the OTL and Kate, neither of whom I had contacted
more than once in two years, with no intention of regaming.

Branching Out From The Chess Persona

The Thanksgiving tournament raised my confidence that I would one day exit the Class-A
(u-2000) section, but with the prize money the same in the next two higher classes, I worried
less about the Samford Fellowship, which I could make a last-minute run at in 1991, and
winning a $10,000.00 Class-A prize. I began taking down minor prizes, such as a $35.00 score in
an u-2100 section with my rating at only 1912; PG-4 and I almost hooked up, when someone
we'd never spoken with more than twice plopped himself down at our barstool; she confessed
two days later that had I waited for her to return from the bathroom, that she would have
rented a room. Le Club and I got closer, and while she didn't care at all about my chessplaying
(except to be happy if I retired), she did appear dazzled by a half-hour chess lesson given in a
skittles room at a tournament she had come with MomOfClubs to watch, because her brother
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was playing. PG-4 walked in on the lesson and just looked beaten, while my social proof with
the virginal prodigies went up a notch, perhaps with them figuring out why I behaved as I did.

IN early 1989, Kate's gift yielded yet another dividend, when I coached the newly-formed
Parkway Gamma chess team in the city high-school league, with my top board as my top
student at the time. I took them from 0-3 to 5-5 and third place, with a 9-1 combined score
over Washington in the final two matches, the average game won in twenty-five moves or less,
a miniature. On the way home from one of the squad's only two losses, a super-elite sixteen
year-old, almost a perfect ten in looks, stops me on the street while I'm exhausted. "I'm very
young," is all I remember from the conversation, from which I ejected, not wanting to turn up
on an episode of COPS!, even though sixteen -- Le Club's age -- was perfectly legal in
Pennsylvania. As for Le Club, her parents trusted me enough to let me sleep in her bed, moving
her to a guest spot, an example of the road hospitality which inspired my terrible winning
percentage when staying with them.

My secret weapon during my chess "career" was my work as a temporary receptionist,

often at positions which encouraged me to "bring something to do," effectively giving me a
training stipend of a few hundred dollars a week, especially when I worked second or third
shift. Even on first shift, I trained myself to awaken around 2:00 a.m., so I could train for my
best five or six hours, before heading into work, and then home early to sleep, also ensuring I
was never late. I called this lifestyle integration, and it's a common #pua teaching that
#takedownjulienblanc either ignores or dismisses, but is as much a key to getting laid as any
other tactic or strategy. The productive use of my work time at a low-status job resulted in a
high-status gimmick, much like the OTL's first boyfriend, more musician than box-clerk in her
eyes. Many writers take watchman's jobs which allow them to crank out books; in 1998, I
would become one of them. With discrimination as a strong headwind against permanent
employment, it made sense to sacrifice very little extra pay for the freedom to literally hold
down another job while at my job, with the boss's blessing.

In May, 1989, on Preakness Day, where I had just cashed $206.00 on a cold $25.00 exacta
of Sunday Silence over Easy Goer (as I had in the Derby as well, and would again in the Belmont
when Easy Goer turned the tables), MomOfClubs made her invitation for me to meet her at
Thirty-Ninth And Chestnut, at a psychic fair (think: sexy hypnosis). I was surprised by the invite,
but since I was intending to possibly marry her daughter, I thought only in terms of using the
opportunity to meet her mother. Revisiting these events for my #pua books left me seriously
wondering if this had been a booty call, since I had no way of knowing the status of her
marriage, and it would have made sense for her to venue-change me into isolation closer to my
home, under perfectly plausible pretext. My view at the time of her as "too old" for me gave
way to that of an amazingly sexy and hypnotic, late-forties MILF who just might have had a
thing for the twenty-two year-old aspiring world chess champion delivered to her doorstep.
For all I know, she also could have been testing me on behalf of her daughter. Women are an
amazingly confusing puzzle, the challenge of solving often driving many men like me to #pua.
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In the spring of 1989, I managed another week-long temp assignment in Manhattan, and
more tournament training, with visits to the family and old friends interspersed, but it felt like
travel, this time, instead of setting up for a move as I had a year earlier. In May, I retreated
home to train for the World Open, which I funded with a $300.00 bet on the Pistons to beat the
Lakers in the Finals, which they did. PowerBase, my application of the Elo Rating System to
make pro and college basketball ratings and pointspreads, had begun seriously eating away at
my chess time, as was my increasing desire to make $18.00 an hour in Manhattan, as I had
temping, including a week at Xerox on my the old 6085 system, soon to be obsolete, which put
me in business in Philadelphia, until we could no longer profit from it; Xerox didn't even send
anyone to pick up their equipment when we defaulted on it. Right before the World Open,
when I had the money and preparation to enter, I just bailed out, playing in just a few warmup
tournaments, before heading to the Adam's Mark to watch the Saturday action, on the first day
of the big show.

On my way to the #44 bus stop at Nineteenth and JFK, I found myself victimized by
#streetharassment, with SHBTakeout (SHB 9.999999), with whom I had flirted while she
handed me my takeout orders placed over the phone (chicken salad platter with hard-boiled
egg on top mmmm). following me down Chestnut Street, rapidly gaining on me. I crossed the
street in the hope my SHBStalker would take the hint and move on, but had no such luck, as she
cornered me by Thirty-First street; my slowing down to less than a half-mile per hour may have
helped. She asked where I was going, and I said to a chess tournament, but first I was going to
grab breakfast in the lobby restaurant at 2101 Chestnut, home of another chess posse member
and his NHBWife (7.2). Over breakfast, I made a complete idiot out of myself, destroying my
chances, after which I compounded the error by #closing her instead of just spending the day
with her, because she went to dance camp for five weeks the next day, returning with a new
boyfriend and a quick rejection when I asked her out. That one also haunts me to this day,
though it was yet another indirect #pua dividend from Kate's gift, and my dating practice with
SHBLunch.

After my #pua disaster on Saturday, Mom and I took a cab to the Adam's Mark for the
World Open Blitz, an eighteen-round, open event featuring the world's best blitz (five minutes
per game per side) players. HustlerDude, a/k/a Washington, D.C. hustling legend Thomas D.
"Murph" Murphy, my unofficial coach and sparring partner, was in his element, crushing
internationally-ranked players in time-odds money games, in the skittles room, having arrived
just a few hours earlier, off a full day's sleep, at his home court, a two-mile walk from his
grandmother's home on Girard Avenue. Mom, who always had a spare meal and spot in the
living room for Tom, whose visits sharpened my opening and blitz play, with our park games
drawing crowds. After conferring, Mom paid his $40.00 entry fee into the Blitz, for which he
was eligible for the u-2200 prize. I drew future world championship challenger Gata Kamsky in
round one, getting slaughtered shortly after holding him even fifteen to eighteen moves of each
game, validating the first part of my isolation-and-integration training. Murph split his
matches with four-time US champion Robert Byrne, and IM Anthony Saidy, to cruise to the
$300.00 u-200 prize, while missed u-2000 by drawing on time with mate in two on the board.
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At the time, I had no appreciation of the magnitude of Murph's accomplishment, knowing

only that in a blitz tournament, on his home floor, at night, it would take a world champion to
truly defeat him. As Mom and I figured, he would make the most of his chance to shine as
something other than a well-respected hustler, one who definitely had use for the $300.00; we
let him keep the entry fee. From then on, he had the respect of someone who had won a prize
in literally the world's biggest blitz event of 1989. Murph and I would continue to spar
privately, usually during professional sporting events on television in bad chess weather, until
his grandmother died in 1999, prompting him to rebuild his life in the nation's capital, where he
plays for his survival at the DC Chess Center. Reports of his alleged homelessness are greatly
exaggerated, as he has a very large family, and the ability to work high-paying jobs, as he often
has. He is more willing to spend long stretches outside; at six-foot-four, and a veteran, he is
extremely self-reliant. I always felt the white-collar Philadelphians who derided his lifestyle
were underappreciative of the world-class chess he brought to their doors; I was not.

In September, 1989, an improvement on the Beyer Speed Figure method (see Price And
Probability at http://www.toosmarttofail/pap.html) allowed me to make more accurate
adjustments for the extra turn in distance races, by using Beyer's own charts to condense a
sample of seven different class levels, with four data points for each average, into a single
average with twenty-eight (Beyer's "universal claiming pars" allowed me to adjust for class
among the seven claiming levels). With this innovation, I could generate an accurate turn
adjustment for tracks like Keeneland, which ran for ten days, or Saratoga, which then ran for
around one month. This led to more accurate figures, and more profits, including a $450.00+
score on Labor Day, on a double with 6-1 French Fighter and a 31-1 winner of the ninth. Boards
noted that I had forgotten about the double hit, which he resisted the temptation to swipe, lest
I recover my memory. Temp work was steady, and the business was still generating a nice
second income. The more I strayed from the chess persona, the better the rest of my lifestyle
seemed to get. On top of this, Le Club had just turned seventeen.

Late 1989 was fascinating, netting me a same-day lay with SHBWharton, whose body and
moves put most strippers to shame (not sure if she ever was one, but many use stripping to pay
their way through college), and a pair of gentile rejections, first from SHBMed, who blew off
our first date for ResumeDude, a Jewish, fellow medical student, and an HBActress I met on the
#21 bus, who promised to remember me if I came to her show, which starred a black Scrooge.
We shared a cabride back, with her showing increasing IOI, until her parting-shot question --
"What's your last name?" -- blew me out of the water. I should have added "Stein" to my
answer, perhaps sarcastically.

Things became increasingly intense with SHBMed, who I protected outside the ACME
parking lot by diverting three thugs who had cornered us, so she could escape (Mystery's
"protector of women" dynamic), and she kept asking me about my massage class, while inviting
me to a party she was throwing at 1:30 a.m., which I declined. I became friendly with both her
and ResumeDude, since conflict with a close neighbor made no sense, nor did I covet his fiancé,
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even as I wondered if she was coveting more than just a perfect Jewish resume. As fellow
native New Yorkers, with a love of advanced language and prose, we had a ton in common, and
always related much like I had with the OTL, pre-crumbling. I still wonder if she wanted to f**k
me after the ACME incident, but choose to believe that she did, since most women would have.
In 1992, when I had a fulltime job at UPenn, we shared a surprise lunch meeting at McDonald's
inside CHOP, and I all but fell completely in love with her, not telling her about her man's
rubbernecking on Walnut Street, in reaction to his eyes being confronted with the ambulatory,
attractive female form. Modern internet-snooping revealed that her last name had not
changed.

As the Winter Of Twenty-Three descended upon me, my transition from potential chess
champion to chess degenerate was becoming clear to me, even as my rating was peaking (at
exactly 2000, to qualify me for master-expert tournaments, and flooring at 1900), I was pulling
off some impressive upsets, including a near-miss against former Moscow champion Anatoly
Volovich (IM-2508), who beat me on time after being slaughtered out of the opening, in a game
published in the August 1990 in Chess Life as Andy Soltis's Reader Game Of The Month. The
Pennswoodpusher had published my twenty-five move win (as Black) over the Washington
captain, prompting his coach to deride my emphasis on openings, only for his school to get
slaughtered by my Parkway students 9-1 at the end of 1990; Masterman was another story,
proving that great coaching can take a team so far.

I drilled my players, daily, for three hours after school, shaping them into a well-prepared
squad with a deadly opening repertoire, backed by the principles of how to play the opening,
and enough natural middlegame talent to finish the year 5-2 after I got them. Their
teacher/coach called me, astonished at the end. I would later help the top board improve his
SAT score from 900 to 1260, landing him at Cornell, after his guidance counselor had suggested
Pitt-Johnstown instead. I was proud of this achievement, until he flunked out of Cornell, only to
secure a 4.0 at community college here, before returning triumphantly to the Ivy League.

In 1990, Mom and I broke through at the track, thanks to our improved figures, my
abandoning trip notes for my own trainer studies (trip handicapping was being red-queened
into unprofitability), and the August opening of the Center City Turf Club, a British-owned,
world-class OTB parlor, on a mission to include simulcasting from NYRA, and the rest of the
country, hopefully in time before the Beyer Armageddon, the day Beyer's figures would appear
in the Daily Racing Form. One reason Beyer's method remained profitable prior to 1992 (when
they wound up in the Form) was the prohibitive cost of making figures for multiple tracks (to
cover shippers). Mom and I were spending up to $50.00+ a week just buying enough Forms to
cover the eastern seaboard, while having no ratings for the Midwest or California. We were
winning so much money -- Mom hit a pair of $2,500.00+ pick-threes (p3) at Garden State, while
I racked up almost two dimes in the spring meet, enough to purchase a suit. With the figures
about to lose profitability, chess was moved to the backburner.
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The impact of my chess persona on my increasingly wealthy cousins was striking: a three-
hour lesson for one netted me a travel reimbursement, for babysitting, while a visit to
PUACousin's led to an impromptu chess jam session (he's a musician and understood the
concept of booking up instantly), and more respect from this side of the family than I'd ever
gained; for the weekend, I won a pair of $100.00 prizes in single-day events at the Roosevelt
Hotel. Chess prizes were abysmal, often allowing me to break even. My biggest
accomplishment, by far, was scoring five out of six points, on two hours sleep, tying for first in
two Manhattan Chess Club quads (I've played Carnegie Hall, where the club was located, over a
hundred times), including a draw, as Black, against legendary hustler Asa Hoffman (2558), who
holds wins over Bobby Fischer in blitz games. Though far from the alpha male in playing
strength, I remained a fixture on the east coast chess scene, doing my time at the usual
tournaments, when I wasn't busy gaming Le Club, or enjoying the incredible hospitality.

Without question, my life was more balanced at this point, and chess still held some
promise, but after my mistake against Volovich, I realized I was a half-step or so slow, and
would probably remain that way for my entire career, enough to rank among the top ten
players in the world, but not enough to threaten or dominate. At the track, on the other hand,
Mom and I were threatening to get rich, or just pay our bills while living well (like in
Manhattan), without having to work so much.

I had a huge falling-out with PatronDude, who gave me a self-reliance lecture when I
asked him to use his credit-card to help me rent a Mac on which I could do a $3,000.00+ Ph.D.
thesis job, but was saved by someone more acquaintance than friend, who believed in helping
those who helped themselves. From then on, I began asking for Le Club directly when I called,
contemplating adding MomOfClubs to my target-roster as well, just to spite PatronDude.
TheoryDude seriously creeped out on me once, as only an extreme AFC could, which severed
our friendship, while just prior, he had asked me if I wished Le Club was just a little older; I
didn't bother telling him he was aiming in the wrong age direction, nor that I took for granted
that I would be dating the daughter in short order, which I think he knew.

I may not have been rich, but I was young, tall, good-looking, fit, intelligent, creative, and
interesting, the latter almost exclusively because I became a #pua, and, as part of my
development, actually made sure that women found my "tactics" and "gimmicks" fascinating
enough to want to approach me, to want to get inside my head, and to want to experience all
of me, in a way only possible via carnal knowledge. While my results were generated by my
#pua skillz, my #pua repertoire was quite thin, consisting mostly of the chess gimmick, from
which almost all of my live targets, and lays, were spawned. Putting all my eggs in one basket
was correct, for as long as I appeared on course for greatness, but near-great players wind up
toiling in obscurity, no doubt with their share of groupies, but they do not transcend chess, the
way I had with SHBDancer, who found herself caring about the game once she learned I was
playing it.
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I did learn, oddly, that PG-4 and NHBGroupie both had a history with a rather famous
American player, demonstrating the value of status, and how #pua game would help a
grandmaster not to have to settle for what I had more or less #friendzoned. PG-4 and I left the
#friendzone a few times, mostly because she was an excellent hypnomassage subject, giving
me excellent practice, which prepared me to finally deploy the gimmick with absolute success
on HBPhD, a neuro-biochemist with very little free time, who didn't mind my low-status job, as
it allowed me to adjust to her timetable. I completely brainwashed her after our first date, to a
level which almost scared me. "I have never been so relaxed in my life!" she exclaimed,
unaccustomed to her Ph.D. brain being rendered completely mindless and obedient. The term
erotic hypnosis had yet to even be coined, and the closest I had come to experiencing it live
was with NHBHypnoMassage, the inspiration for what would lead to this lay.

What separates the #pua from his rivals is his dedication to improving his results. When
SHBDancer referenced massage in her school paper, I took the lesson to heart just as I had with
Kate and chess, realizing that had I developed the massage gimmick, I could have deployed it,
especially if I had purchased a massage table. This inspired me to take a fifty-hour, $900.00
massage class, from the late, legendary Jack Minieri, with my personal masseuse (no hypno
from her) as his teaching partner. The class was interesting, with a decidedly professional vibe,
and it taught me how to give a legitimate, full-body, Swedish massage, putting me on par with
Leo from General Hospital, a masseur/con-artist who fleeced the wealthy women of Port
Charles. For the fall of 1990, I took an "indefinite" temp assignment at Temple Hospital, which
yielded lunch dates with HBOptometrist and NHBNurse, neither of which led anywhere.

#takedownjulienblanc supporters seem shocked at the notion that a true #pua could, in a
single year, date or f**k a Ph.D. scientist, a registered nurse, a Wharton student, and a sculptor,
but that's what happened. Many of my #pua skillz, like proper English, and formal education in
general, the foundation of the more advanced, specific knowledge which forms the basis of my
#pua method, Foxhunting. Blessed by extremely hot, extremely smart, extremely well-off, and
extremely shallow parents, my DNA offered as strong a tailwind as a man could want. The
question is not why I would become a #pua, or write about it, but why wouldn't I? Someone
has to counter the mindless groupthink that is #takedownjulienblanc and what seems like, but
isn't, #yesallwomen in social media. I can write an article of this length -- about as concise as I
could make it -- because I have the skill and the time: I like to say I write like my Dad and type
like my Mom. I'm proud of the work I've put into #pua, and put my findings out for the general
public. If that public chooses to consume material from others, while ignoring mine, that's on
them, for I have more than done my part.

Bettor Off Single: The Turf Club

The title of my 2010 book -- a comprehensive, middle-aged analysis of my entire love life
until that point -- was inspired by my realization that, while super-elites did not dig
horseplayers, even if they won (they carry a risk of ruin not shared by say an attorney), they
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sure dug the money they won; all the horseplaying #pua needs to do is not share the source of
his sudden riches, or that they are sudden at all. The other premise of BOS was that I never
would have developed into a winning horseplayer (or bettor, or investor) had I been married,
because my wife would have bailed after the first bad losing streak, as happened to both
Robert Kalich (author of the amazing #pua/gambling novel The Handicapper), and to Billy
Walters, whose wife left him right before he went on to become one of the richest men in
Nevada, and the most feared sports bettor in the world, given his penchant for betting against
his real picks, to sweeten the line so he can crush the books for ten times the amount the other
way, with two or three free points. Once wealthy, everything is great, but only after absolute
riches have been won, as it probably should be.

In 1986, had Mom and I placed a winning Double Exacta bet in 1986, we'd have turned
$48.00 into $70,000.00, or about $45,000.00 split twice after taxes, enough for me to impress
the OTL for a few weeks, or to pay for my return to college through graduation. My failure to
pull that trigger was but a symptom of the restraint which prevented me from winning back my
lease. These winnings, pure gravy on top of my paycheck, proved critical in my completing the
massage class, the gift from SHBDancer and NHBHypnoMassage which kept on giving, as well as
the gift from Kate, since I would not have met either of those two without the chess persona.

Like any formal education, #pua knowledge builds on itself, with more impressive
advances in theory over time. By now, I was becoming one of the deadliest #pua in the
country, yet I still had so much to learn. With only an "indefinite" job for which I was not
considered for hiring (due to a freeze), and still living with my mother, I continued to "pull" hot
women, without difficulty, though I'm sure I was overlooked by many with whom I never spoke.
SHBMed did not reject me for this, and in fact became close friends with my mother, while
SHBWharton was fully aware of my living situation. Only a golddigger or social-climber seeking
free housing will generally care, since most intelligent women -- my target market -- quickly
realized that I would have no difficulty building a nest with them, should the need arise, or just
take them to the roof and f**k their brains out, as I did more than once, before the
Philadelphia Fire Department c**kblocked me. With the chess persona on its last legs, the
hypnomassage gimmick would be among what would take its place.

With my job at Temple a few miles north of the Turf Club, I was restricted to playing by
phone on weekdays (which I didn't), or live on weekends, at Philadelphia Park (now Parx
Racing) and Penn National; the convenience took Garden State Park off my wagering menu. To
rectify this, I began searching for assignments in center city, preferably with a lawfirm, where I
could gain the coveted legal experience necessary to get these jobs; temping was the best way
in the door. I wound up scoring an $11.00 hourly assignment at a large firm a block from the
Turf Club, which allowed for perfect lifestyle integration. I was even allowed to take a lunch
that allowed me to bet the first three races. I began capitalizing immediately, almost matching
my paycheck in winnings many weeks. I didn't hang on to the money for long, due to bills, and
overspending on everything from clothing to entertainment, and especially taxicabs, when I
could just as easily have walked or skated. With all this financial and employment stability, my
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#pua results should have improved, but they were actually declining. I needed to shake things
up.

Escape To New York

On New Year's Eve, 1991, my lawfirm temp assignment ended, without the permanent
job I was told might materialize occurring, due to massive recession-induced layoffs which had
me annoyed at my agency for plucking me out of Temple, but I would have left North
Philadelphia anyway. Now, WaiterDude offered me a spare bedroom in his rent-controlled
apartment, for next to nothing, an offer I couldn't refuse. It was cold, rainy, and all I could
manage was $12.00 an hour with a word-processing service, leaving me so little disposable
income I could not play horses or go through with my first date with Le Club, who I refused to
let see me in that living situation, which I enjoyed as a brief return home, but which quickly
soured along with the weather. Le Club would have made the most of our date, but it was me
who was uncomfortable being seen at anything less than my best.

I did lay SHBIndian, who reacted to the chess persona with her number, and an invitation
to "play" anytime I was in Manhattan; she did not disappoint, but left for India soon after.
Suddenly, my target roster had gone from loaded with super-elites to Le Club and no one else,
something I had no difficulty with. I never could pass or fail her Kate test, but knew from
MomOfClubs that she would have made an amazing wife. With my return to Philadelphia in
February followed immediately by a stay at her house, where I caught the flu (at the
tournament), not much happened, nor would it, until we finally got around to dating in June,
1991, with my fling with the sculptor interspersed. My connection with her family was a
definite hindrance, since it felt like they were with us on our first date, which ended without so
much as a goodbye kiss; the date itself -- an afternoon in New Hope -- went well, but it was
so...perfunctory.

New York as a twenty-four year-old, almost-retired, chess degenerate, and male secretary,
was a far cry from the twenty-one year-old, promising player who had a great job, and played
four tournaments a week at the Manhattan, while devoting his spare time to training (and
SHBBartender). I had no qualms about moving back home, since it was cheaper, and I knew I'd
be able to find work through my bread-and-butter temp agency. This also allowed me to bet
horses again, and I won enough to cover a few months' expenses, as the Beyer figures, now in
the Racing Times, were about to migrate to the Form, eliminating the cost barrier that was
keeping them profitable. Mom and I began to feel like winners of one of those contests where
you have three minutes to grab as much money as possible from a wind-blown cage. This led
to our becoming much more aggressive with our wagering. For the years of 1990-1991, we
paid taxes on well into the five-figures in winnings, with the cash bounty bringing the total
profit to close to $40,000.00, enough to get us through the recession, without Mom receiving a
single call for work through her business, which I had quit to find regular employment.
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"You Needed That Job..."

In 1990, Jesse Helms won reelection to the Senate with a controversial ad of an angry
white male ripping up a job rejection letter, with the announcer declaring that reverse-
discrimination had caused this perfectly qualified individual to be denied a chance to earn a
living. Helms was dead right, as the Supreme Court would later confirm in a series of cases.
Without my chess career to distract me from the ground I was losing to my less-qualified, but
more attractive, female age peers, I now had to confront an issue which was costing me tens of
thousands of dollars a year.

Also In 1990, the dearly departed Ms. K was overheard by me, while on the phone, as I
was dropping off my time sheet, attempting to sell a client on the virtues of a "less attractive"
secretary (still female), rather than terminating the call, as she should have, and may have been
legally required to do. Since she was also finding me work, I considered it redlining more than
discrimination, and ignored it. In February, 1991, however, when I was hired to cover an "F"
level permanent position at Temple, from 9:00-2:30, and the "G" level senior secretary quit on
my first day, leaving me alone to train at chess for three weeks, I applied for the "F" job when
the bosses returned, only to be told that they were required to hire any minority or female who
was hired, at the time what seemed like a legitimate position, but later ruled invalid by the
Supreme Court. The source of this blatant reverse-discrimination? Affirmative-action.

In my dream, the Democratic presidential candidate is asked this, after stating that he
supports affirmative action: "Can you tell me what affirmative-action is? How was it created,
who does it cover, and how is it enforced?" Odds are you do not know that Executive Order
11246 mandates that all government agencies, any government contractor doing $50,000.00+ a
year in business with the government, and any subcontractor doing $10,000.00, must file an
Affirmative Action Report, in which goals (not illegal quotas) are set to increase job
incumbency in positions where women and minorities are "underutilized," i.e., whose
population is of a lower percentage than the area average, e.g., with 2.9 percent female
construction workers versus the lofty "goal" of 6.9 percent. Where the math falls down is in its
failure to recognize reverse-discrimination, so if a company has "only" 89 percent female
secretaries, it needs to set a "goal" of the area average of 96 percent. Terrible math.

As a staunch #feminist, even as I lost faith in the AFC romantic narrative, I still took civil
rights very seriously, but when I was told, to my face, that being a white male had disqualified
me, it merely confirmed what I already knew: the deck is stacked against male secretaries, and
even paralegals, and highly in favor of attractive women. I still couldn't sue for damages (the
Civil Rights Act of 1991 would come later in the year), and a lawyer wanted a $3,500.00 retainer
to bring suit, so I dropped it yet again, just doing my best to find work, which I did, through the
Restaurant School, which was moving to Forty-Second and Walnut, a stone's throw from home,
which would allow me not to go to the Turf Club for lunch, but straight home, where I could bet
on PhoneBet and watch the races on cable, for excellent lifestyle integration. There, I wound
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up working the pastry shop, giving Mom the office job, to boost our combined income, which
was further boosted by several four-figure wins in my few months at the school, before I quit
the shop to seek work in center city, increasingly fed up with temping.

I hear women complain all the time about discrimination, and rightly so, yet their "horror
stories" are tame compared to what I face, with masses of horny executives not even
considering men, or women who are ugly, fat, or old, for a job that pays well, despite requiring
rather basic skills. These office wh*res are a blight on our meritocracy, increase costs for the
consumer, and decrease the quality of the work, but the men and women are less concerned
with the common good, and more concerned with their own sexual or financial interests. At
the lawfirm, I was encountering women not much older than me who were contemplating
retirement at thirty, something even the staff attorneys could not afford, due to student debt
and a late start, while many legal secretaries would be hired straight out of high school, pile up
the overtime, save as much as they could, and wind up very well-off as early as their mid-
twenties. Men have similar alternatives, but most involve physical labor, like working the oil
fields, or Alaskan fishing boats, neither of which appealed to me. I was breaking gender
stereotypes, yet being betrayed by the very people I was told that, as a white male "oppressor,"
I had a duty to help, yet the "oppressed" were living better than me. It gave me pause.

Like many #feminists, who complain that their gender concerns are dismissed or
trivialized, I felt the same way, as if I was just supposed to either shut up, or just find another
profession, one more suitable to men, arguments which caused #feminists to go ballistic even
at the mere mention. This was yet another #feminist double-standard, like the one that has
women wanting to abandon sexist practices, like discrimination, which harm them financially,
yet who still wanted to marry up, and so forth. While I recognized the double-standard, since I
was now experiencing it firsthand, I had yet to connect the dots between #feminist politics and
#pua, or dating in general, but that would come soon, as I began to make a similar connection
thanks to the recession, questioning those who remained on speaking terms with those who
fired them. My five-to-nine rule was born, which said simply that it is good practice to avoid,
away from work, those who mistreat us at work, including laying us off to boost corporate
profits. Many fired workers would still attend church, and socialize, with their oppressors. I
found it unwise to surround oneself with unethical people.

After I quit the pastry shop (because I was a secretary), and Mom and I had gone through
our $1,200.00+ win on Memorial Day, I found myself strapped for cash yet gain, due to a lull in
the word-processing business, and a sudden drought of temp assignments, even with my best
agency. Desperate for cash, I landed a third-shift data-entry assignment at a bank, at a
whopping $8.50 an hour, for a bank. I lasted all of four hours in the data center, being treated
like an elementary schooler, before I walked home, at 4:00 a.m., vowing never again to temp.

After four years of ignoring this discrimination, I just became determined to land any
fulltime secretarial position, no matter how modest the position, and no matter how
underemployed, and underpaid, it made me. I had to start building a resume, and temp work
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was the perfect excuse for not hiring me, since I lacked "resume stability," something never a
concern when an (S)HB landed in their office for an interview. In late June, I received a call
from the late Sol Sardinsky, founder of a small CPA firm, a block from the Turf Club, officially
ending both my temp and chess careers, the latter from which I never looked back. My starting
salary was $18,500.00 a year, about half of what women my age were making.

Sol Sardinsky was a terrible man, and a highly abusive employer, but at least he didn't
discriminate against me. While in his employ, I was asked to tell blacks who wanted to rent his
apartments that they were no longer available, while passing the names and numbers of white
callers to him. It was explained to me that the 2700 Block of Brown Street in Philadelphia was a
"white block," as if any dissent on my part would have made me the badguy, or at least enough
of a troublemaker to fire. Had I not been facing my own discrimination, which inspired me to
take a page from Jackie Robinson's book and say nothing for one full year, to prove my
"employment stability," I would have quit on the spot, since racism disgusts me. Sol also loved
to throw his financial weight around, dropping names of local public figures as if they were
close friends, and attempting to mold me in his own racist, classist, sexist -- er, "traditional" --
image. His very existence inspired my horseplaying, already in overdrive, due to the rumors
that Beyer and the Form were about to come to terms, killing my horseplaying goose.

For my first month or so, I kept my horseplaying to myself, which was not easy, because
my lunch hour was fixed at 12:00-1:00, rather than 12:25-1:25, which would have allowed me
to bet the first three races instead of the first two, but I refused to risk my resume stability over
something so minor, especially since I was winning money both at lunch, during my break,
when I'd go over for the fifth race, to cash my early wagers and place my later ones, in the
evenings at Penn National, and on weekends at both Pennsylvania tracks. Each Friday
afternoon, I would risk roughly half my paycheck on the races at Philadelphia Park, and usually
turned a nice profit that funded my play for the next week. If I lost, I would regroup with
$20.00, usually winning back what I had lost by Sunday. Like the early #pua who ran game
before women caught on, my edge at the track was continuously spitting out money, fueling my
lifestyle game like never before, most notably demonstrated by several dates with NHBNurse,
who ruled me out for sex because I was not "mature" or "financially secure."

One of these dates with NHBNurse reinforced her belief in my financially secure
immaturity, when she met me at Philadelphia Park while I was competing in its handicapping
tournament. Instead of the World Open, this time I paid a $100.00 entry fee for a shot at a
$10,000.00 first prize, with my speed-figures making me an even bet to destroy the field, which
I almost did, opening up a huge lead until my second choice, at 8-1, beat the 3-5 shot on whom
I had tapped out, wiping out my bankroll, which was almost triple the second-place contestant I
was attempting to obliterate along with the rest of the field. NHBNurse suggested a very
expensive restaurant in New Hope, and I was $20.00 shy of the check, but this was because
Banned4Life, my horseplaying "wingman," had taken $2,000.00 in cash back home to Mom, my
PhoneBet winnings for that week. Sick of her verbal abuse, on the way home, I deployed the
freezeout technique for the second time in my life, causing her to crumble, noting that the
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tactic worked, though #feminists would certainly call that "emotional abuse," while giving
NHBNurse a pass on her vitriol.

NHBNurse was attractive, but also pushing forty, and a very difficult lay, though not for the
middle-aged businessman who made a quarter-million a year, who she found an excuse to
pretend to be attracted, with the deficit in that area leading her to use me as an artificial limb.
Most disturbing was how I was being punished for being discriminated against, for choosing to
tough it out in a female-dominated profession, and for being punished because I was feminist.
A commitment to civil rights is one thing, but when women were profiting from violations of
my civil rights, while punishing me for not being "financially secure," this raised severe ethical
issues which radically altered my view of women, and my love life.

Avoiding Toxic Women

Most #feminists assert an air of moral superiority, particularly over men, citing any
injustice against "women" as proof. Crucial to this narrative is to deny the reverse-
discrimination I was enduring, where pretty women willingly benefitting from sexualized hiring,
would deem me financially unworthy, because they earned more, and because, thanks to their
having stolen my job by flirting with some middle-aged loser in the job interview, and f**king
him once hired, I cut expenses, making me a loser who lives with his mother in their eyes.
That I grew up in a building I call The Exclusionist, one of the wealthiest on the upper east side
of Manhattan, vanished in the distance the moment I moved to Philadelphia. Instead of
working to help me fix the problem, which they had the power to do, they exacerbated it, to
the point of being willing to commit perjury in court if asked about what goes on in their offices.
As a #pua, with more women to choose from than I could ever care to count, it made simple
sense to rule out office wh*res, on the grounds that the same lack of ethics they revealed with
regard to discrimination against me would ultimately manifest itself in the relationship,
destroying it.

Men who use other #pua methods, which don't correctly screen for ethics, will conquer
some secretary, marry her, watch her age, and then finally wonder why he was so unlucky to
chose a woman who runs away with her boss, or a coworker. "Why does this happen to me?"
they cry, not realizing they had simply, and inevitably, wound up with a partner whose ethics
matched their own. By excluding the office wh*res, I wound up not only with ethically superior
women, but they were also hotter, since they weren't stuck in an office all day, and more likely
to remain that way for many years. Best of all, they were less likely to cheat, or sabotage the
relationship the way a secretary who has to fend off men at work every day might, when she
gets home, secondary to severe stress, and an inability to be honest about what's going on. If a
man like me tells the husband that his wife was hired for her looks, he goes ballistic, calls me a
bitter, whining loser, and is an even bet to physically threaten me, even -- especially if I am
right.
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Unable to even raise this topic, given the conflict it incites, my only option is to apply the
knowledge in my own love life, and marvel at the stupidity of those who don't get it until it's
too late, when the secretary has cut down the ex-husband by taking half of his wealth, a large
chunk of his future income, and left him financially unworthy for women like NHBNurse,
herself stuck with some loser with money, instead of properly valuing someone like me, even
though we did go on several dates. Interestingly, of the "four aces" in BOS (five, counting
SHBMed), only the OTL (the Diamond) was disqualified for playing to gender stereotype, as a
college-dropout in a high-paid secretary -- er, administrative assistant position, a title which
sounds professional, except for its relatives: executive assistant and personal assistant, jobs
which often pay six-figure salaries, and do not require college, or anything other than looking
and acting like a high-priced callgirl, which many certainly are. In 1991, this was not as proven
as it would soon become.

Le Club, who had never worked an office job, and who was on her way to college to
become a nurse, a job removed from the secretarial slime that would have caused us to argue,
finally agreed to date me, shortly after I began working for Sol, whose name I now use freely
since his addition-by-subtraction passing in 2012. We spent a lovely afternoon having lunch in
New Hope, at an outdoor cafe, more awkward than any previous meeting, thanks to her
family's looming presence, which she acknowledged. Having pretty much just gotten the first
date out of the way, we resumed our friendship, almost as if nothing had happened, our
longterm outcome still unresolved. After four years of knowing this date would take place, it
was anticlimactic, yet necessary.

Aside from NHBNurse, the only other live targets were NHBWine, a lay I scored from a Turf
Club pickup of a glass of wine, and a $2.00 cold trifecta ticket that netted her $130.00, when
the third horse just got up, and SHBAmtrak, a legacy target from my chess persona, who called
to return a $0.25 used paperback about Bobby Fischer, leading to a lunch date, where she
threw me the cheek as I went in for the goodbye kiss, a maneuver I had never encountered.
When I called to ask her out on a second date, lunch at the Turf Club, on me, with $20.00 set
aside for betting, half of which would be hers at the end of the day. "My parents said not to
date gamblers," she said, as if she had never disobeyed her patrons, the folks supporting her in
an apartment in center city, with no job, which is why I offered the date. I wound up winning
$575.00 on that date, half of which would have been hers, but I did wind up meeting
TrustFundDude, a neighbor.

My First PUA Bootcamp

My seventh-grade math teacher, and first huge crush, Ms. Muse (who left two months
into the year), used me as her muse, assigning the class a math test like none I had ever seen
before: one which rewarded speed, in addition to raw intellect, and technique. With this test,
the separation between me and the second-best student in the class became clear enough for
Ms. Muse to confide in me that she had not bothered to solve the questions on the test,
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instead just using my test to grade the others. I was floored. Anyone who thinks Mystery is the
greatest #pua who ever lived, never met TrustFundDude, who could match Mystery target for
target in the clubs, but who could sustain his performance anywhere, particularly while running
what they call #daygame, or meeting women as they go about their daily business.

When it came to #pua, TrustFundDude was a comparable savant, a man given an

allowance of $1,500.00 per month from his rich family, enough for him to survive without
having to work, yet not so much that he would abuse the luxury. For most of the summer, we
would spend four days out sarging (Speed Seduction creator Ross Jeffries's term for prowling
for sex), after which we would return to his apartment to hang out, before he'd kick me out so
he could f**k his hottie du jour. Come autumn, my game was infinitely sharper, with the
groundwork laid for my becoming both a full-fledged #pua, and, ultimately, a #pua guru. This
was not a mass-marketed franchise with different instructors red-queening the material
covered into oblivion, but a summer-long apprenticeship under the expert tutelage of a #pua
wizard whose skillz far exceeded those of even my PUACousin.

As the eager student, playing at a level way over his head, I let Trust take the lead,
opening sets as if the b**ch shield had been bred out of existence. His magic opening line?
"Hey, how ya doin'?" followed by asking her name, then asking if she's relaxed, her answer
supplying all the info he needed to proceed. I quickly figured out that he let me tag along
because I would step in whenever he was in over his head intellectually, talking him up without
making him sound like the sociopathic-ish player he was. His standards could best be described
as indiscriminate, a mix of everything from NHBs even an AFC might thumb his nose at, to
elites, usually scoring in the low 9s in looks, but clearly not on a par with Kate or the other Aces.
I knew from my year with the OTL that Trust would have too much difficulty with the super-
elites to offer the sustained, singleminded attention they require, which was my strong suit.
When it came to just picking up random women on the street, he had no match.

Since I was now able to have my wing open literally any set, anywhere, at any time, I was
able to develop my smooth talk, mostly by watching Trust, and listening to his side of any calls
made to his targets once we arrived back at his apartment, a few floors down from mine. Every
day, we would return to at least a half-dozen messages or so from random hot chicks begging
for his attention, while they ignored dozens of messages from respectful AFC. One evening,
Trust was about to head out to f**k one of his harem (he had a woman literally for every day of
the week), when another of his conquests called with a better offer, changing his plans. The
next evening, the first woman from the MLTR called back, angry for a few seconds, then
wondering if he could come see her that night instead. Behavior like this seriously undermined
my respect for women, especially having been on the receiving end of the lies they feed #afc
while desperately throwing themselves at men like Trust.

Trust's spiritual compass pointed directly at Steven Seagal films, which we would often
watch while at his apartment. His alpha gimmick was a an Akita, which he used not so much to
get women to notice him, as to give them an excuse to approach him, just as his approaches,
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which would have been unwelcome had his SMV been lower (or mostly hidden, if comprised of
points for brains). His money and looks were definitely assets, but no more so than for many
other men who never approached his level of #pua prowess. It is especially worth noting that I
did not happen into the opportunity to learn from Trust, but instead reaped the fruits of my
labor with speed-figures, which made me a profitable horseplayer, which piqued Trust's
interest, and so forth, much like Le Club was an indirect product of the chess persona, though
she was not a chess groupie (the chess-groupie males in the family allowed me to meet her in a
"venue" other men could not access). Trust was so good that he once brought home two
strippers, leaving one in the living room, figuring I'd know she was left for me, as if he were
picking up an extra slice of pizza, rather than waiting for him to finish with the other.

Not long after I met Trust, he told me that I if I ever developed my game that I could
become a stronger #pua than he could ever dream of, which I found odd at the time, but I
quickly learned why he said this. For all his conquests, Trust's game had serious limitations, not
the least of which was lack of super-elites, women on the level of the four (five) aces. One of
these aces, SHBMed, never went for him, though I never checked if he had tried, though he had
with most of the building. I did know that he had failed with SHBWharton and NHBNurse,
though he hadn't expressed much interest in them. This led to our experiment, where we
would hit on the same ten women, except they would not know we knew each other, and
compare notes. Trust won easily, by a score of 8-1-1, but the only one who wanted me was
SHBWaitress, a super-elite (9.9) who was a dead ringer for that month's Playboy centerfold, a
sign that I really was attracting super-elites, and not just women I had rated as perfection
because they were the best I could get.

For as much as I learned from TrustFundDude about how to open a target or a set, I
ultimately lost respect for him, along with for PG-5, who kept me under lock and key in the
#friendzone. I suggested he hit on her at her retail job, telling him only that she loved David
Bowie, which he dazzled her by guessing, explaining that she "had that Bowie look," which she
bought. One evening, after telling me she couldn't hang out, Trust invited her over, and she
arrived at his door before he could even hang up the phone. To further prove just how little
respect women have for AFC, I had him call her at 2:00 a.m., after a night out -- something for
which she would have killed me or any other AFC -- just to see how she'd react; she told him to
please not do that again. When I finally clued her in to what was going on, she was surprisingly
friendly, showing a newfound respect for my game. A year earlier, I had sent her a dozen roses,
which she found annoying; later, I realized I should have signed the card with the Bowie lyrics of
I had to like someone, so I picked on you.

Where I lost respect for Trust the most was with SHBWaitress, who he sabotaged by
telling me she didn't like me, even as she would conspicuously wave to me upon my entry into
the Turf Club, where I was just another crazy horseplayer (though profitable). Not wanting to
make waves at my "place of business," I backed off, before realizing that my wingman was
harming my game. One Sunday, after using $500.00+ in early winnings to buy an expensive
casual outfit (beige silk shirt, expensive shorts, overpriced casual shoes from some Italian
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designer whose name I couldn't pronounce ($125.00), and even a bunch of $11.00 dress socks.
Looking fine upon my return to the Turf Club, I passed SHBWaitress on her way to the
restroom, almost causing her whiplash from the double-take I provoked. By far, the #pua's
biggest nightmare is failure with super-elites, especially once he starts coming so close, yet so
far, because the odds of getting laid, even for a world-class #pua (or AFC) are so slim.

Unlike today's internet #pua gurus, TrustFundDude had no commercial motivation, his
primary interest instead to have a wingman, and a male friend, since his lifestyle did not lend
itself to interactions with other males, most of whom could not handle the ugly truth about
women, especially that, deep down, most of them wanted men like Trust. Most would also
assume, incorrectly, that they lost women like the four aces to Trust, when in fact they were
losing them to stronger betas -- Richie Cunningham types -- like me. His other motivation
might have been to tell his story to the world, through me, knowing I might one day write a
book, as I had mentioned to him that I was doing research not just for myself, but with an eye
towards eventual publication.

After this bootcamp, I went to work on digesting all this new #pua theory, and quickly
focused on our incredible strength as wings, with his looks, money, and charm making him
almost invincible, yet with his one weakness -- brains -- my strong suit, which explained why
SHBWaitress wanted me and not him (the woman who wanted neither of us is probably a
#feminist writing an anti-#pua piece as we speak), and why the eight other women, who didn't
value my intellect or never probed for it, wanted him and not me. This led me to design CUPID,
a romantic power rating method, which took into account individual preferences. CUPID --
explained fully in Foxes -- rates men and women on a 1-25 scale in looks, brains, status
(including money), and personality. As a 23-25 in brains, I attracted minddiggers, while Trust
attracted mostly looksdiggers, and a few low-rent golddiggers, or high-rent ones who treated
his looks as currency.

The second biggest lesson I learned from Trust was that a #pua's greatest asset is time,
not money. It is far, far easier for a #pua to fix his finances than for a man with money to fix
everything else. Money is just stored energy; it has no personality, and accomplishes little
when not deployed. My first inkling of this was at The Battle Of Kate, where my $35.00
investment in the keg party landed Kate in isolation, in my room, late at night, something many
AFC spend ten times as much attempting to accomplish. Trust was such a glaring example of
this, because his relatively modest income afforded him unlimited time; had he taken a job to
double that income, his money wouldn't have attracted many additional targets, while the loss
of time would have destroyed him.

Left to my own devices after this bootcamp, I retained my AFC roots, as I continued to
apply my AFC knowledge to #pua, similar to Rocky III, where Rocky became unbeatable by
allowing Creed to teach him how to box. Against Lang, Rocky followed Creed's blueprint, until
he used it to enhance his natural style as a brawler, for the most technically accurate thug-
beating in the history of cinema, rather than the miracle-comeback signature of the other films
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in the series. Many #pua on the internet would condescendingly advise me to take a
bootcamp, so I could learn what they "know," not realizing that I had already learned from the
best, and that it was they who needed to learn from men like Trust, rather than me from their
mass-produced #pua gurus. My bootcamp took place in 1991, when the secrets didn't lose
their value due to internet overexposure; its value, far exceeding a few thousand dollars, was
unspeakable. Looking back, I cannot believe I was ever this motivated, or this fortunate.

For as great as this bootcamp was, it came just after I had retired the chess persona, and
had begun slipping into the normal, boring life of a fulltime secretary, albeit one who wore a
shirt and tie to work every morning, and who was in constant proximity to the corporate
hotties I had dismissed on ethical grounds. Seeing these women in their natural habitat only
reinforced my decision. More than once, office drama would spill into public areas, or I would
see a boss at lunch with his HBSecretary, who'd often be dressed more like a stripper or
prostitute than white-collar support staff. Most of these women were high-school graduates
from South or Northeast Philadelphia, with no interest in college, and who often were just
looking for a white-collar husband, either their boss, a coworker, client, or someone from a
neighboring office and a different company. It was clear that women saw work much
differently than I did, treating it more like a social and networking environment than a simple
place to get work done. I found this highly disturbing. The men also showed why the super-
elites ignored them for a chessplayer like me; they were just so boring.

Lawyers Like Little Girls

Contrary to what my internet haters would have one believe, I never set out to vilify
women as office wh*res, or their bosses as quasi-pedophiles, but was just trying to figure out
corporate America, while on my temp assignments, by spending just enough time at each one
to add another piece to the jigsaw puzzle of American business. That this curiosity led to my
quickly noticing a pattern of severe looks discrimination is not my fault, nor is it my fault that I
noticed a large number of teenage girls in Catholic school uniforms on my way home from
work, leading me first to conclude that the school day was too long, and then to realize that the
girls were working in law offices, part-time, to gain the "legal experience" used as a pretext for
not hiring me, for immediate hire upon graduation, and a fast-track to double my income or
greater within a few short years, with retirement an option at thirty or thirty-five. I was shut off
from this career path because the attorneys recruit their teenaged "talent" from all-girl
schools. One sicko attorney who declined to represent me in a discrimination case a while later
noted that he had hired a sixteen year-old fulltimer, saying she was "all he ever wanted."

A few isolated instances of discrimination can be ignored, while even the blanket
oppression I was facing could easily be worked around, especially since, as a white male, I could
easily have exploited my privilege by seeking a man's job, advice similar to that which drives
#feminists to become homicidal when similarly patronized. If I had wanted women like
SHBDentist to stop verbally abusing me for living with my mother (as she did during a chance
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meeting on the street, after she had moved out), I could easily have just conformed to society's
gender bias, started over by wiping seven years off my resume, and rising up through the ranks,
as I certainly would have in retail, construction, or any other male-dominated profession, not
because of bias in my favor, but simply because women didn't want those jobs, making
sexualization a non-issue.

I was literally losing women who would wh*re out at the office, to men who would use
their own or their company's money to steal their attention and time. I tried to imagine
SHBDentist's future husband being proud that he was chosen for his resume, and just pitied his
low standards, and being stuck with a toxic, two-faced, unethical woman for whom no #pua
should have to settle. The argument ad populum debate fallacy strongly favors "everyone"
who plays this game, ignoring illegal conduct at work, to preserve the money they need to buy
women, or to avoid being bought by men, the pretending that those who would break the law,
or remain silent while others did so, are not toxic partners to be avoided, and the punishing of
me for not having as much money as I should, even if they and their bosses were the ones
illegally denying me work. Shooting the messenger by telling me to stop whining doesn't
change that men who ignore these serious red flags when choosing a partner, are going to pay
a huge price, and no amount of ridicule or insult will change that outcome.

I continued to win money until the Beyer Armageddon, which finally hit on April 1, 1992,
after which I was no longer a profitable horseplayer. I had been migrating my wagering to
college basketball, where PowerBase was profitable in a way similar to what I had with speed
-figures, but for only the two months a year of conference play, and maybe a third in
December, if I got my opening ratings right. This left a gaping hole in my schedule, a gap I filled
with an increasing focus on CUPID and becoming a dating expert, so that my prepared
response to the probing question of what I did for a living would change from "secretary" to "I
teach men how to get laid by beautiful women, and teach women how to avoid the men I
teach," the second part being added after my first anti-#pua book dropped in 1999. Targeting
the same anti-#pua audience that is now enraged, and wants to #takedownjulienblanc, that
book did not sell a single copy, nor was I invited to talk about it on Oprah.

My First Serious Girlfriend

My new financially stable lifestyle had destroyed my game so badly that I actually took
the easy way out, becoming ResumeDude for SHBSeventeen. Four months later, I all but ran
out of a restaurant, in the middle of a dinner date, to reclaim my freedom. The experience
convinced me, once and for all, that, with a few notable exceptions, men truly are Bettor Off
Single. As Boards put it, "anyone who thinks men get married to get laid has never been
married." The notable exception here are men who run soulmate game, offering marriage
solely because an SHB requires it before she will put out. Most of the "happy couples" we see
in the course of our daily lives are anything but, as evidenced by everything from the existence
of relationship counselors, #pua gurus, strip clubs, dungeons, and prostitutes, who make almost
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all of their money off of married men who wound up trapped in a hell I have very deliberately
avoided; that I am still free of alimony and child-support at age forty-seven is anything but an
accident.

Most AFC endorse LTRs because they don't know how to get laid by hotter women as a
#pua, so they supplicate, professing undying love, promising the moon, and, in cases of
marriage, half their wealth, just to get some sex in the short run, often with horrible long-term
consequences that still do not deter them from insulting me as a loser who can't get laid and
lives with his mother, while they are secretly browbeaten, denied sex, and financially exploited
by a wife very likely to make a move on me, if she meets me, and ultimately having to pay a
fortune to get her out of his life. Even at twenty-four, men my age with higher incomes were
already worse off than me, thanks to divorce settlements, alimony, and child support, in
addition to having to pay for dates and sex in the first place. To women, for whom
relationships are a meal-ticket, not having one indeed makes them a loser, but for a man,
resisting the urge to "commit" preserves his dignity, his sanity, and, most importantly, his
wealth.

My relationship with SHBSeventeen was exactly what I expected: even a simple goodbye
kiss on the lips was a chore, and my options were either to "respect" her by not ever making a
move on her, or acting like a boyfriend is supposed to act, by showing affection to a barely-
receptive woman who was only slightly attracted, but so broke (and, of course, not well
educated, or motivated) that she had to rely on men to upgrade her lifestyle, a much-weaker
version of the OTL, who would eventually land a looks-based job, and find richer men willing to
tolerate being treated as a chore. She was pleasant and polite, and we'd have made good
friends, but that would have cut her off from my very limited money, which she likely continued
to accept, because I was decent enough not to pressure her for sex.

SBHSeventeen did inspire me to "correct" my mistake with SHBDancer, by subletting a

massage studio, so I had a place to bring her, and to run the hypnomassage gimmick, something
that would have easily resulted in a lay back in 1988, and which served me well for the few
years I kept the sublet, even after we broke up. Though women do this all the time, I could not
be on the receiving end of insincere physical displays of affection, and resolved never again to
rely on money to "attract" a woman, instead considering only those who were actually turned
on by me, rather than meeting a financial need. This type of relationship encompasses a large
percentage of #takedownjulienblanc supporters, many of whom honestly believe they have
something superior to the #pua lifestyle; they are delusional. Any man who thinks having a
girlfriend or being married makes him more of a man is...#whipped.

One of those notable exceptions to the above, Le Club, almost became my girlfriend a few
weeks before I met SHBSeventeen. We had continued "talking" after the New Hope fiasco, and
decided that a second date, without the "presence" of her family, was in order. The date --
dinner, followed by Father Of The Bride, at a mall -- went well enough, leading to a goodbye
kiss on the lips after she said "you decide" to my question "cheek or lips?" She declined to
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become my girlfriend, however, perhaps because it would have raised consummation issues
(logistical, not wanting to f**k at some hotel), but this prompted me to return to my job, and
stop talking to her for several months, during which time I was hooked up with SHBSeventeen;
my target-roster was otherwise bare. Compounding the loss of the chess persona, lack of free
time (I had no vacation or sick days), and my LTR, was my beginning to gain weight,
approaching two-hundred ten pounds for the first time in my life, almost thirty pounds over my
ideal weight, but hardly fatal to someone six-foot-two.

Once out of the LTR, and with basketball season having ended, I continued to develop the
dating-expert persona, working on CUPID, continuing to read Cosmo (but not Playboy), and
devouring any books on love or related topics during my lunch hour, at Borders, for the fifty or
so free minutes after I ate. This helped shape my #pua philosophy, though I was still technically
that AFC in search of his soulmate, with only Le Club having come close to passing the Kate test,
which she barely failed, mostly due to her family, and that I was just slightly -- very slightly --
more attracted to Kate. Intellectually, I knew I should have "chosen" Le Club, but my brain
refused to let go of Kate's perfection. A more subtle problem was that, while the Fourth Ace
was not a chess groupie, she was still more attracted to me as a creative artist who didn't
punch a time clock, than a low-income secretary who had to report back to work Monday
morning. A 4:00 a.m. pow-wow in her living room would have been a logistical nightmare.

I did have one major accomplishment in early 1992: a commercial I had contributed to the
Democratic National Committee, which began with "the 1980s were a party, but only the rich
were invited," and ended with a wine glass crashing to the floor, to symbolize the recession,
appeared on Good Morning America as a news item, a sign of the new, aggressive Democrats,
making a screenwriter out of me, with one very successful commercial to my credit, definitely a
#pua boost with super-elite actresses. My writing began to sharpen, as I attempted to raise my
CUPID rating (SMV) by converting what I had learned from Trust's bootcamp into a focus on my
finances, though I'd wind up losing looks points that more than offset any gains in the less-
important status (money) category.

The AFC Zombie Apocalypse

Run for your lives!!! In late 1993 -- the reader should note the total absence of #pua
relevance in my life for eighteen comatose months as a corporate grunt -- my "inner AFC" rose
from the dead, almost trapping me in a marriage with HBLatvia, a Slavic future Ph.D. (so much
for smart women avoiding #pua), who offered an evening chess lesson as our first date, before
cancelling it due to an "international intrigue" story to rival any Seagal film, making it
supposedly impossible, and unsafe, for us to be together. Oh, the tragedy! I cried for a week,
then realized how complacent I had been, and went back into alpha isolation, as I had after the
OTL and Kate, for deep study, planning, and emergence with a significantly higher SMV, in this
case in the spring.
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Through bodybuilding, and my meal management diet (now on Kindle), I lost forty-two
pounds in eighteen weeks (the title of said Kindle entry), slimming down to 11.7 percent
bodyfat, one-hundred eighty-three pounds, and the build of a tennis player who could have
competed for sexiest calves in America, due to my skating. Though I did once outrun the #21
bus from Broad Street home, I had long retired the skating gimmick, due to mainstreaming of
rollerblading, eliminating the novelty of skates, shifting the battle instead towards becoming
the coolest guy on skates, rather than being the coolest guy because I was a skater; I simply no
longer stood out, especially against extreme skaters willing to risk serious injury or even death
when deploying their DHV.

Eight weeks into a temporary assignment at Arthur Anderson and Company's consulting
division, now Accenture, the zombie exploded, realizing that all who wear the white collar are
poisoned by a nation's corporate culture of corruption so pervasive that it is impossible to
remain ethical, thus making it possible for anyone stuck in this cesspool to attract ethical
partners for ethical relationships. This was as obvious to me as the sunrise: as a whistleblower,
casual conversation with the apathetic 99 percent inevitably, and quickly, led to arguments,
insults, and hinted at physical confrontation (from others, not me). I was now compatible only
with female whistleblowers, or women like nurses (Le Club), performing artists (SHBDancer), or
those who work in industries dominated by women, like fashion (Kate), but never women like
the high-level office-workers in Manhattan (The OTL). My parting shot to Anderson was simple:
"I don't take money from Satan." I was told by various agencies that I had no standing to
complain on behalf of others, so I gave up, figuring no one would believe me.

On another note, an article by Kara Swisher in either The Washington Post or The Wall
Street Journal, confirmed the beauty premium, citing Harvard researchers, neuroscientists who
had confirmed, with both statistics and neurological examinations, that attractive people earn
more money than their less attractive counterparts, to the tune of around a fifteen percent
premium, but this presumes unbiased hiring; if one accounts for the increased likelihood of an
attractive person being hired in the first place, the premium approaches 100 percent. Despite
my having the holy grail of academic citation, individual internet users would attack me, and
this study, as if they knew more than the world's top Ph.D. researchers.

The Winner Who Lives With His Mother

When the Ewings, the Kennedys, and the British Royals do it, women are not repelled, but
for the most part, men who lack money are stereotyped as unattractive to women, who want
financially secure partners, yet any woman who puts money above looks and brains, which I
had, would be a prostitute. Moreover, any looksdigger or minddigger (or combination thereto)
would quickly realize that I lacked money, because I placed a greater premium on the #pua's
greatest asset: time. Not only did I have time, but my CUPID rating was through the roof, with
near-perfect ratings for looks and brains, and perceived financial perfection.
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As I learned very quickly while playing chess -- i.e., when SHBDancer knocked on my door
at 7:00 a.m., I didn't have to go to work, and was engaged in an activity which caused her to
want to have sex with me -- living at home is an advantage for the #pua, as long as he exploits
his most valuable asset: time!! Simply put, a man can change his living situation in an hour,
especially if he's appealing enough to smooth-talk his way into the life of a target. He can go
the easy route and just lower his standards to snag some six-figure NHB or below, but he need
not live alone, or hide that he lives at home, if he can attract a super-elite with looks, brains, or
an alpha gimmick like chess, for which saving money so that the artist can devote fulltime to his
craft makes him even sexier. SHBDancer and Mom got along great. If she had no problems
with my living at home, and if Le Club (and her Mom) were fine with it, I certainly wasn't going
to worry about the opinions of some toxic NHB who already flunked my ethical screens.

Time is such a deadly #pua weapon because men of high income and status are usually
slaves to their careers, though their wealth still keeps them in the game during their time off.
During regular business hours, however, many hotties unburdened by schedule, or financial
concern, go prowling for attention and male companionship, which explains, for example, why
the typical stripper boyfriend is an underemployed loser, when he's just someone who values
time over money, and sex with strippers over settling for some corporate power-chick NHB with
a superiority complex. When looks and brains are maximized, very little else matters. In a
neighborhood where most women live alone, or in large houses with many rooms, and where I
could always get a sublet at a fraction of its normal rent, what seemed like a dealbreaker, just
wasn't.

A #pua shortcut around living at home is to visit hotel bars, well-dressed, as if traveling
from another city, and hook up with travel sl*ts, where the lack of reputational concerns make
women much more sexually adventurous. After impressing my target with looks, brains, and
grooming, sharing a wonderful afternoon checking out the sights in my hometown, where we
"just happen" to find everything cool and interesting, and going back to her room for sex, I
don't even have to worry about being caught in a lie (the most effective #pua techniques of all
involve them), because she will have returned to her hometown. This was obviously much
stronger in the pre-internet era, but just be sure to use a name like John Smith to make yourself
search-proof. This very simple tactic refutes the barrage of verbal and psychological abuse
hurled by AFC with steady jobs, their own, average-sized homes, and their barely-cute wives (if
they're lucky), to whom they surrender half their wealth and all of their time for the occasional
lay (if they're lucky).

Had I never known privilege, attacks on my housing situation might have achieved their
desired result, but all I could imagine was seeing their other face had I never had to leave The
Exclusionist. They'd have been on their best behavior, spinning their lives as richly as possible,
while I'd have been gracious, not caring one bit about their status or wealth (since I had my
own), and would never have known their true colors, giving their social-climbing a pass.
Manhattan if full of transients who both behave like that, and try to win over people like what
my family used to be, and what large chunks of it still are. At nineteen, I made no effort to
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remain in Manhattan, instead preferring a more modestly-priced alternative in Philadelphia, on

the center of a college campus with over thirty-thousand mostly single, attractive, smart
women in my age group, with my chess persona causing many to mistake me for a graduate
student. Best of all, my rival males were so petty that they wasted their lives working for
corrupt people, hanging out with those whose ethics match theirs, and judging people based on
superficial materialism, as if I am supposed to celebrate the day I finally win their approval.

My Second #pua Bootcamp

"When the student is ready, and it's pouring rain, the teacher will duck in for shelter."
That's how I met PonytailDude ("Pony"), on my way home from work, in a downpour so brutal
that I didn't even want to stand in the bust-stop shelter fifty feet away, at Twentieth and
Walnut. I had taken a job at a lawfirm, which I would soon quit, secondary to being subjugated
into subservience to a female my age who had been hired directly out of high school, and
against whom I could never prevail, even when right. It was that valuable law office
experience, but in name only. I had actually mentioned gender bias in the job interview, as the
reason I was not heading a third-shift word-processing department in Manhattan, the job for
which I was clearly best suited, at $75,000.00+ a year, which would have made for an incredible
#pua lifestyle, though complacency would have set in.

Pony was engrossed in chess study, a practice common to tournament players, which
intrigued me. I liken the meeting to the fateful day in 1971 when Beyer and Davidowitz met on
a bench at Saratoga, leading to a collaboration that would change horseplaying theory forever.
I asked Pony if he was a tournament player, and he replied that he just played in coffeehouses
like The Last Drop, the only coffeehouse in the city where I was not clearly the strongest player,
rendering my chess gimmick far less effective, except that Kate's gift was now about to give me
a free #pua bootcamp with the strongest #pua I have ever known, a man whose skillz blew
away even those of Trust, or my cousin. Watching Pony operate with women was like watching
Michael Jordan play basketball, Tiger Woods play golf, or watching Earl Anthony bowl. Pony
needed the chess lesson because an AMOG at one of his haunts was beating him regularly, and
taunting him. He was studying the Ruy Lopez, when I offered him my standard first chess
lesson: a three-hour torture session designed to drive him to quit. Pony accepted, and I
replaced his Ruy with a King's Gambit, showing him the Muzio Gambit, where White sacrifices a
piece for an incredible attack that even computers have yet to figure out. It was game on.

Halfway into our three-hour lesson, the rain subsided, and a pair of HBs from a nearby
table opened our set, perhaps having overheard the exchange of #pua theory. Pony knew the
women would approach him, and ignored them with a scary confidence, unlike any I had ever
seen before, as if he were Deep Blue, with all the winning moves already programmed, to the
point where he never even had to think to get laid. Unlike TrustFundDude, I could not find
holes in this man's game, although because this was my second bootcamp rather than my first,
I was a much more capable, aggressive wing, which led to more failure, but also more new
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theory. Pony was by far the more generous half of this exchange, with a world more
information to offer me. What he wanted to learn from me could be found in any chess book,
or even a computer, by 1994, but what he had to teach me wouldn't appear in print
until...Outfoxing The Foxes, in 1998. For three years, I was one of two men who knew what he
knew. Pony did credit me with helping him defeat the AMOG, who quickly slithered away.

Pony exemplifies my recent epiphany that #pua is not a single approach or method, but a
title awarded to whichever men are currently f**king super-elites. In 1995, that was Pony, or it
was until he got engaged to an NHB, his retirement from championship play, though he
maintained ambiguous friendships with two or three dozen super-elites, generally better-
educated, smarter versions of what would fill Trust's answering machine, with topics like
cooking, needlepoint, soap operas, hair, laundry, pop culture, and, of course, their relationship
angst, for which he always lent a sympathetic ear. His big secret for becoming flypaper for
super-elites? He would approach them on the street, or in retail establishments, introduce
himself, invite them to spend time with him, knowing they would reject him, then making it
clear he wanted friendship, leading them to think they had won. Within a week of just being
himself, with a "self" that made the chess persona seem the work of an amateur, the world's
sexiest women would wind up on the wrong side of the #friendzone. Just his leftovers were a
sexual feast like none I had ever seen. The mystery of who was tying up all the super-elites had
finally been resolved.

It has been said, by someone not me, that talent hits a target others cannot hit, while
genius hits a target others cannot see." Some of Pony's insights were, like Fischer's in chess, as
stunningly obvious after their revelation as they were invisible before. Three examples stand
out. The first was when we were playing chess in a coffeehouse, and an HB walked past our
table with her date, briefly glancing back before processing upstairs. When Pony said she liked
me, I noted that she was with a date, probably her boyfriend. He dismissed this, citing their
body language, and was right on the money. The second was when he said the most successful
pickup line he had seen as a bartender was for a #pua to walk up to a strange woman, and
simply ask "Are you ready to go?" He said this worked because it was pure #alpha, in a way
that allowed the target to preserve her reputation. The third insight had to do with his
penchant for moving to a new town with no money, nowhere to live, no job, and knowing no
one, to force himself to socialize, secure his survival, and keep his ability to build a life sharp.
He said he would just meet people in the new city, find someone to crash with, get a job, and
within weeks, be more entrenched than the natives.

This bootcamp would last a full year, well into 1995, and ran the gamut from his
conducting lessons over coffeehouse chess which would invariably attract live targets, to
socializing with his friends, and his parties, which attracted women of a quality not found even
in places like the Playboy Mansion. Using access to Pony as training wheels for playing the only
game that really matters at its highest possible level kickstarted a two-year period of such total
dominance over women that, like him, I just up and quit, retreating for a few years. I'm also
convinced it was no accident that this, my lifetime #pua peak, was my career and financial
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valley, for I had absolutely no reason to care about financial stability, as I was already netting
the trophies that money was supposed to bring. When Pony got married, in 1996, we lost
touch, ending the bootcamp, and leaving me to sort out what Moses had left for me on the
mountaintop. The result of this post-mortem, and the three years of #pua success I couldn't
begin to describe, resulted in Outfoxing The Foxes.

In my post-mortem, I noticed several things which had previously escaped me. What
made Pony such a #pua destroyer was no single aspect of his game, but rather that he just
never f**ked up, almost always calibrated female behavior with incredible accuracy and
precision, and always knew what to do in response to that behavior. He carried himself with
the confidence of a perfect boyfriend, making it clear with his actions and body language that
any woman who landed on his radar offered nothing he had not seen before, leading them to
open him, something Trust could manage only while walking his dog. This rubbed off on me as
well, like on the late Saturday afternoon I was walking on South Street, when a seventeen year-
old SHBWindow called down to me from her third-floor bedroom, with her mom watching
silently as I #close her daughter, after which I ask her by what time I should have her home, and
to let me know if they were trying to marry her off. A few phone battles later, the daughter
moved on to the next shiny object.

Dating My Boss

In late 1994, I worked for NHBLawyer, who was building her solo practice in exile from the
big firm which had not promoted her to partner. She could have stayed, but, like me, would
have stagnated because of discrimination, on a much larger salary scale, though her basic
expenses would never have been in danger of not being covered, as mine were, nor did she
have to cut corners, or live with Mom. NHBLawyer had responded to a situations-wanted ad I
had placed in the local legal newspaper, and hired me as her administrator after a ninety-
minute interview. At one firm, after my first week, I asked if something was wrong, because
they were continuing to interview for the position. I learned instead that they just liked having
women alone in their offices, though they also said they kept some in mind for future
reference, just in case. I imagined the wives of these men bragging about their financial
stability, and dismissing me as unworthy, all secondary to their husbands' conduct.

Though I was making only $9.00 an hour (it was a startup), my complete control over the
administrative functions, and opportunity to build the practice support system in my own
image, was irresistible. Working with a smart, sophisticated, attractive, thirtysomething
attorney (almost all of my secretarial bosses were middle-aged women, of course) was just a
bonus. Technically, I was a freelancer, so she was actually a client, but whatever it was led to
many friendly conversations as we wound up work (my hours were 4:00-9:00 pm., which I
loved). On one night, we dated over drinks, which ended in a goodnight kiss and pondering
what might become of us, but it quickly led nowhere, though we squeezed out a second date.
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She told me point-blank that she was too old for a longterm relationship with me, because I
would inevitably dump her for someone younger, and she was brutally correct.

NHBLawyer and I did work well together, developing a real office through many shopping
trips and hours spent in the office, but I did have to endure a "traditional" personal-injury
attorney, from whom she sublet space. One afternoon, he announced he had hired a "sexy,
new, Italian paralegal," at $30,000.00 a year to start, though that area of law was never of
interest to me. He did offer me $10.00 an hour to type some romance thriller he was writing,
but I was never much for working on Saturdays. Just before Christmas, and leaving my bonus
on the table, I walked, realizing that it would take years to grow the job into something worth
the effort, whereas the burgeoning internet, where I had begun signing on to Prodigy through
Banned4Life's account (he got censored everywhere), which I used to promote PowerBase, by
publishing my NCAA rating list to the sports message board on the Prodigy system. They were
extremely well-received, to say the least.

Navigating The Internet

In 1994, while writing How I Lost 42 Lbs. In 18 Weeks, I asked a reading clerk at Borders to
tell me how many copies of books in various genres had sold in the previous year, at that store.
The results were eye-opening: Sein Language had sold 508 copies, easily topping the list. Next
came Stop The Insanity!, with 308, followed by a couple with only one or two fewer. The
Winning Horseplayer had sold fourteen copies, likely way off its 1980s peak, while software
tutorials came in with similar numbers, of a dozen or so, except for this little book
called...Navigating The Internet, which had sold a flat three hundred copies. Aside from noting
the popularity of weight-loss books and celebrity biographies, it was clear that the internet was
the future, which led me to hop onto Prodigy, where I would market PowerBase, and connect
to the outside world via the various online communities, where life is beautiful all the time, and
I'll be happy to see those...or something like that.

Social-Justice Catfish

For a social-justice warrior (SJW) like myself, the internet's potential as a low-cost, free-
speech, global political-activism tool was easily recognize, and, like many, I would often turn it
into a soapbox for my ideas, one of which was that those who took their paychecks from
corporate America, particularly the business-to-business (b2b) sector, were either participating
in, willfully ignoring corruption, while they were profiting from it, making them unfit partners
for loving relationships except when things are going well with a superficially attractive, equally
unethical partner. I could now post my views on reverse-discrimination and office wh*res to
the romance and career message boards, to raise awareness, believing that once people,
especially #feminists, knew what was going on, they would lend their voices and actions to my
cause, and work to stop something that was harming not just me, but also fat, ugly, and older
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women, and which also hurt the pretty women who were hired, as they were obvious targets
for sexual harassment, with the boss often scheming during the interview with regard to how
he will harass the woman he hires once she is on the job, a job for which he would never hire
me, of any fat, old, or ugly women. Needless to say, I quickly realized that people did know.

Once I landed on AOL, in the late summer of 1994, I performed a catfishing experiment, in
which I signed online as Sexxretary, an attractive, young, female secretary for whom I had
pictures to match the description. I then parked in my own chat by the same title, and let the
"job offers" follow. Most were bogus, asking things like "Do you take d**ktation!?" These
crude propositions were more reflective of stereotypes than actual bosses behaving that way,
yet I also attracted verifiably legitimate positions, particularly when I used less inflammatory
usernames. That I could type 100 wpm without error, and with perfect grammar and syntax,
made it easy to prove my qualifications in a simple IM. Once proven, I received one offer from
an attorney for $34,000.00 a year in Manhattan, as long as I slept with him (he wasn't my type),
while another was an executive at a cable network in need of an executive assistant at
$75,000.0+ annually. The latter jobs were causing women suddenly plugged into AOL to
relocate across the country for jobs like this; I spoke with at least three who did.

Seeing just how bad the discrimination really was, and how much it was costing me, was
extremely depressing, yet it never harmed my #pua results, because all I had to do was just not
mention my politics if I wanted to keep a target around, while I would begin complaining about
looks discrimination if I wanted them to end things. By now, I was systematically ruling out
office wh*res as girlfriends, and my #pua skillz were continuing to shoot through the roof, with
the global target menu coming just off the heels of Pony's bootcamp, rendering picking up
women online into a simple arcade game. The sheer volume of the corrupt men and women
who engaged in "office whoring" only confirmed my belief that most of us are too toxic to have
good relationship outcomes. I also noticed one curious statistical spike: two-thirds of the
profiles for receptionists, who often report to secretaries, claimed bisexuality. I did receive a
number of inappropriate offers from women.

A much more serious social-justice issue arose when two teenage elite athletes related
stories of abuse, both by one coach, and one also by her parents. The accounts were detailed,
consistent, and wholly believable, so I did what many in #takedownjulienblanc are doing with a
#pua, except I was trying to #takedownchildabuse, perhaps not as great a social ill as #pua, but
important enough to inspire me to take action. Unlike today's SJW, I did not have twitter to
take my allegations viral (the athlete could have just done it herself were that the case), but I
did post about what I'd been told, since I know that abusers hate publicity more than anything
else. This led to a lot of namecalling, but the stakes were not yet high enough, and the internet
not yet mature enough, for it to go further. The less attention my claims received, the better. I
actually got more blowback whenever my office politics worked their way into a post.
Invariably, someone claiming financial success, a happy marriage and family, and a six-figure
income could have it all unravel just because I posted something to the internet with which
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they did not agree, they did not like, they did wish to read, and that they did not wish for
others to read, much like now with #takedownjulienblanc.

For both politics and business, the internet lived up to its wild west reputation, as a place
where anything was possible, where anyone could do anything, and many did just that. When I
first searched Yahoo! in 1994, many of my favorite keywords had a dozen or fewer results;
today, that number is in the millions, if not higher. People rarely revealed their real identities,
and even if they did, you couldn't be sure the picture they were sending was real. One dividend
my looks-discrimination awareness paid was in aiding me to more accurately determine
whether or not I was talking to a genuine hottie; I met, seduced, and hypnotized SHBSurfer
(9.95), just to prove that I could identify a super-elite without ever asking for her picture, which
I did not. I met her by setting up a chatroom called Romance Survey, on Sunday morning at
7:00 a.m., when AOL awoke from its nightly maintenance slumber, thus ensuring the top spot
on the room list, and a packed room, with my name listed first, a huge logistical #pua edge
which paid off with a sexual "jackpot."

One highly disturbing incident (to me, at least) occurred on Prodigy's career board, where I
posted about my problems with looks-discrimination. I was polite, but firm in getting my
message across. In response, a woman, posting under her real name, unleashed a torrent of
verbal and psychological abuse, of the kind men allow women, but which women never allow
men, concluding that it was my attitude that caused others not to hire me, not discrimination.
The same gender which identified the nuts and sl*ts defense used by men charged with
harassment or sexism. Other arguments, such as my being overqualified, that I should set my
sights higher, or that I should just find a man's job, were equally common, from people I could
no longer endorse as viable relationship partners for the ethically inclined.

Leftovers And Damaged Goods

#singlemothers -- #divorcedmothers, actually -- were christened with this lovely title by an

internet user initialed JRC, who posted extensively about league, and how his female relatives
once threw a fit upon learning his girlfriend was hotter than they believed he deserved, as if
looks and sex were the ingredients of a global, social-engineering doggie-biscuit that controlled
all male behavior. While I could not prove or disprove that thesis, it did not require an
advanced degree to notice the overwhelming numbers of single mothers who wanted me to
pick up the dinner check for their exes' all-you-can-eat, five-star buffet now converted into a
greasy spoon whose restrooms you'd just as soon not chance. The women had many issues,
and often presented risks of violence to the desperate AFC they would sucker into raising
another man's children. Despite their baggage, their standards remained high, and they
expected to dominate their relationships, making them about ass undatable as a woman can
be. #feminists and soap operas like to talk about how real men will act as a father to someone
else's DNA; #pua skillz allow men not to have to settle for this.
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#takedownfreespeech

On Prodigy's romance message board, #pua could speak freely about what women were
"really like," but would be verbally and psychologically abused by female posters, and their
#whiteknight, #heforshe allies, leading to noise that would kill most discussions. Prodigy was
steadily losing market share to AOL, whose Netgirl boards had caught fire, to the point where
AOL moderators populated the boards, defending AOL's TOS policies, many unwritten, in order
to protect women from the deadly combination of #pua and free speech which now has
governments denying visas to men with no criminal record in order to fight the scourge. AOL
did not need governmental authority to unplug from the internet's only fully functional ISP, a
power they exercised freely, especially when a female, or #captainsaveaho type, snitched out
one of those evil #pua to TOS, often adding a paragraph calling the #pua a stalker and harasser,
as one inadvertently forwarded mail revealed to me. Since I needed AOL to market PowerBase,
I had to watch my tongue on Netgirl, which quickly degenerated into a singles hangout where
men would hit on women by agreeing with their posts and ideas.

Internet dating advice influences many men and women, and when the discussions are
censored, the advice warps in favor of the censors, in this case #feminists, their agenda
enforced by the overwhelmingly male administrators, who were attempting to increase female
participation in an online environment in which social-media had yet to emerge. Mainstream
publishers and media had more or less ignored the male point of view, and the #pua, with the
few exceptions noted earlier (Weber et al.) The result is the perpetuation of the liberal,
#feminist, AFC narrative, advice which had already failed the men of Generation X, who had
nowhere to turn for guidance, save for Tom Leykis's Leykis 101, an over-the-top radio show
which promises more tail for less bread, premised on the notion that women are golddiggers
who have no respect for the men who lavish them with money, instead using the money,
keeping their benefactors in the #friendzone, while seeking out #alphamales who see through
their materialistic lies. Men with equally radical #pua theory had nowhere to go.

For all the problems with censorship, the root which drives people to want to silence the
#pua is a basic denial of the truth about mating, a truth which, if not addressed, renders any
and all discussions a meaningless waste of time which, if adhered to, will severely damage one's
love life. When I began noting on Netgirl the link between lack of ethics at work and inability to
sustain a relationship, or find an ethical partner, I would inevitably be attacked for being
"bitter" over having been discriminated against, with my "attitude" or even "mental illness"
blamed for driving me to post my "disruptive rants," as if they had been anointed moderators
of all online debate. Once again, just because everyone ignores the clear link I established, to
the point of attacking me for merely reminding anyone of it, that doesn't make its influence on
relationships and their outcomes vanish. The larger problem of censorship caused me to
depart Netgirl in early 1997.
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The Shrunken Alpha Male

The late Kenneth "Shrink" Weitzner certainly made a mark on internet history, none of it
good. Found dead in a double-suicide with his wife, $700,000.00+ in debt at the time, Shrink's
epic rise and fall from grace could easily greenlight a feature film. I met Shrink in early 1996, on
the AOL basketball message boards, which were populated by handicappers, and on which I
posted my PowerBase ratings, which had already landed me one client, VegasDude, a man with
a line service in Vegas, who also knew the "sharp" plays from the world's professional players,
courtesy of their bookies. A wise man would have just followed VegasDude's games and gotten
rich, but I was too busy doing "research" for PowerBase, no slouch in its own right, having won
me thousands of dollars most seasons. To market PowerBase, I ran a contest on the AOL board,
after Banned4Life had built my rep with a 34-17 record using my games. I finished second in
the contest, winning 65 percent of my games for January and February, attracting the attention
of Shrink, who posted a competent 24-17, a professional winning percentage, but for a very
small sample. With lots of time to kill, we began speaking by phone each afternoon.

Much like #takedownjulienblanc supporters paint "all #pua" as a scam, the same ahs been
said about sports touting, or selling high-priced selections to high rollers, as in the film Two For
The Money, where Al Pacino perfectly captured the essence of the scamdicapper. With
PowerBase spitting out hundreds of picks a season, and hitting enough to make money for its
followers, I saw a chance to become the honest tout, blowing away my competition, who could
no longer hide on the scorephone lines, who would parrot their press releases, and feed
desperate gamblers looking for an edge directly into their clutches, where they would learn too
late that the insane winning percentages were not genuine. By then, the service was on to the
next sucker, or sometimes two suckers, one each of whom would win and lose on the lock of
the year, for which they have given out both sides. Four-, eight-, and even sixteen-sucker
versions of this scam are even more lucrative, with the losing picks dismissed as an aberration.

I saw nothing wrong with conversing with Shrink, as I was new to an internet which itself
was new, offering promise of a futuristic society where individuals could interact from their
homes, with a global audience of any size. Shrink could be charming and engaging, and we had
a lot in common, often trading insight on specific games, or the best future course for the AOL
forum. Thanks to Mom's passive-aggressive habit of not calling out to me while I was on the
phone, my living situation, which I did not attempt to hide much as it was, slipped out, the first
of many mistakes I would make. Not realizing I was talking to a syndicate minion, who made a
living betting the games of professionals, in exchange for sending a large percentage of the
winnings to the mothership, I explained how I used movements in the betting lines to sharpen
my selections. Those were the syndicate's movements, and they were able to change how they
wagered to throw PowerBase off their trail. Shrink's late wife, Jackie (nee O'Donohue), was a
toxic, miserable, physically attractive, golddigging shrew who egged her man on at every turn to
become more successful, no matter who he had to destroy to do it.
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In February, 1996, Shrink debuted the newsletter which would become The Prescription,
in which he offered daily selections, initially for free, consistent with his anti-commercial stance
on the board against those evil scamdicappers. Using the stock reluctant hero character, who
manipulates his rise to power as if forced upon himself, for the greater good, Shrink built a
large enough following, who won enough money on his baseball selections, for him to begin
charging a monthly fee that would reach $400.00. He was up well over a hundred units in
baseball, making up to six figures and more for his highest-rolling clients. Like the men who
experienced #pua miracles in 1998, getting laid with theory the women could not detect, men
who had never won at sports betting in their lives were using Shrink's canned material to crush
their bookies. My presumption that all other touts were scamdicappers had just been proven
wrong, though I knew that the Shrink's gravy train would inevitably crash under its own weight.

Sensing a competitive threat, Shrink began trashing me mercilessly on the AOL message
boards, calling me a loser who lived with his mother, and a scam artist who could not be
trusted to give winning games, even as I had just hit almost two-thirds of my selections,
absolutely free. Though he was collecting disability, despite making six figures a year through
his syndicate betting, Shrink, who never passed the medical boards, yet claimed that he had,
and that this gave him psychological insight into motivation that yielded his picks, was claiming
that I was mentally ill, using my "rants" about discrimination as further "evidence." Only a
threat to report him to the medical boards got him to back off; once, when I joked about
sleeping with hi8s wife, he became completely psychotic, threatening my life. He would then
act as if nothing had happened. I have never regretted my decision to decline his offer to
merge our companies, even though his defamation of me would plant the seeds that would
grow into the present-day toxic forest.

The Audience As Villain

Damon Killion, the megalomaniacal host of The Running Man, appears to be the villain of
the film, but it is the audience to whom he caters who is the real villain. The drama which
would play out with Shrink and his business rivals, including me, serves both as a textbook
example of the audience-as-villain, while offering a blueprint for a cancer which has spread to
almost every online community, particularly those which cater to well-off big-spenders, or
those so desperate for a solution that they will send large amounts of money to people they do
not know on the basis of nothing more than an internet promise.

Unbeknownst to anyone at the time, Shrink was a confidential FBI informant, feeding
them data on both his subscriber base and the bookies with whom they deal, in exchange for a
street pass, which allowed him to break all kinds of laws against me and others, to ensure his
dominant market position that helped him acquire the information desired by the feds. It was a
great arrangement for him, but one which destroyed my business venture with PowerBase, one
which would have perished a few years later regardless, thanks to the Bush Administration's
decision to ban accepting payment for internet advertising. IN 1996, however, people operated
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freely, as if they laws had changed, when in fact they had simply not been resolved. Both
Shrink and I attempted to step into the market vacuum, and he won the battle for the fumble,
courtesy of his syndicate backers, and a winning percentage that even PowerBase could not
match.

In yet another example of how "good" men and women aren't what they're cracked up to
be, a six-figure, white-collar type contacted me prior to the Giants-Eagles game to ask about my
best bet of the week. I had suggested that my readers risk "the house, the car, and the kids'
college money" on the Eagles, who crushed the Giants 24-0 as three-point favorites; I had
predicted a final score of 20-0. The day after the game, the man contacted me again to thank
me, talked about paying me $5,000 for the rest of the season's selections, and came back a day
later, saying he had talked to Shrink after seeing his postings about me, called me a loser who
lived with his mom, pocketed the $20,00.00 he won on my tip, and threw his money and his
faith behind Weitzner. I imagined his wife proudly bragging about her successful husband,
perhaps while goofing off online during working hours at her legal-secretarial job, before Kenny
liberated her from the "slavery" of making $50,000.00+ a year for a job a sixth-grader could
master in a month.

The final blow to PowerBase, and my finances, came Christmas weekend, just as I was
about to market the retail version of the program, which came with daily downloads that could
only be sent reliably via AOL, since AOL-to-AOL mail did not traverse the internet, which could
take days, for information which perished within hours. I had invested $10,000.00 in magazine
advertising, listing my AOL e-mail as the contact, only to have that account terminated by AOL,
for an alleged TOS violation, a fake-forwarded letter that Shrink bragged about reporting when
he called me to inform me that he had people inside AOL who would terminate any account I
had (he had all five of my screennames), unless I stopped posting to the boards. Once again,
censorship had accomplished for my rivals what a fair fight could not, with the villain -- the
audience -- cheering Shrink on every step of the way, with blind faith in their self-anointed
leader.

Due to time constraints, I'll skip to the Where Are They Now? Once Shrink referred all his
winning players, and all the money he had won for them, to the sportsbooks, on his sheet,
where he would receive half of their losses, Shrink sent his old and many more new followers
into the gutter, bankrupting them with a hall-of-fame losing streak of a hundred-fifty units,
enough to bankrupt even the most disciplined bettor. The men who had derided me as
unqualified, and thrown their money and mouths behind Weitzner, were now left holding a
bag, one with a hole through which most of their net worth had passed, without them even
realizing that they had been had. If this story sounds similar to the #pua community, it should,
for this is exactly what happened there, and in many other financially-exploited internet
subcultures.

Weitzner would go on to become an industry watchdog, recommending financially

unsound bookies who paid his exorbitant advertising rates, then feigning indignation and
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surprise when the bookie went under, before moving on to promote the next scam. In 2002,
when Shrink-endorsed Aces Gold went bankrupt on the Super Bowl, his reputation never
recovered, though he sold The Prescription for $2.3 million. At the time of his death, his
welcome had obviously finally worn thin, on about the same timetable as the #feminists who
are finally getting around to #takedownpua.

For all the problems I was having with defamation, discrimination, and with going
bankrupt due to the failed PowerBase venture, my love life suffered not at all. If I avoided
mentioning the negatives in my life, my targets never cared enough to pry, instead focusing
completely on their new man, one now capable of attracting, of dominating women so
completely that he was able to have one submissive loan him her AOL account, paying his
$2.95-an-hour bill as he used the access to pick up other women. She was eighteen, gorgeous,
from a well-off family, and lasted two months until one day she just did not report in. She was
one of dozens of live targets in my online and offline rotation. My peak had so many successes
strung together so quickly that much of it became a blur, except for one.

Le Pivot

Many men deride NAWALT, when women note that not all women are like that, as a
universal defense against any criticism of their gender, based on any bad experience. I knew
from women like Le Club that there are great ones on this planet, for who else would drive a
hundred miles to tell a man to his face that she did not want to go out with him anymore?
That's class. I was too far gone with PowerBase, with #pua, and my date seemed to concur, not
particularly thrilled by what I had become. She made a great pivot for the date, with my
venue-changing three times, to maximize the reputation bump. I had taught the pivot to a
man I met online through Netgirl, taking him from the verge of making a fool of himself in the
#friendzone, to standing her up, telling her he got laid on the way to meeting her, and that
she'd understand because she was such a good friend. She threw herself at him, he rejected
her, and wound up f**king six of her close friends, including two area professional
cheerleaders. He invited me out to wing with him, but I was doing fine on my own.

The Millionaires' Lounge

AOL's controversial room of this title grew to legendary proportions, as it attracted actual
men of great wealth, and the many golddiggers and other assorted parasites who can always be
found in close proximity. As an internet entrepreneur, I was theoretically capable of becoming
a paper millionaire overnight, so one evening I popped into the chat. Over time, I would learn
that many personal and professional (and mixed) relationships began in this chat, including one
between a self-made multimillionaire (who turned $1,000.00 into tens of millions trading
futures), and a typical corporate power-c**t, an extremely polished, thirtysomething corporate
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communications specialist who not only fit, but embraced, every sexualized corporate
stereotype. Her pretext for stealth-whoring to the multimillionaire was some celebrity golf
tournament for which she'd be paid a hefty "organizing" fee, for whatever it was she was
organizing in addition to the golf. When I spoke the obvious about the source of her privilege,
she attempted to refute me.

The anti-#streetharassment movement has promoted the hashtag #dudesgreetingdudes,

to explain their #notjusthello tag, about how men greeting women on the street is not just
random, innocent behavior, but that with the #pua agenda of seduction. In my case, it was
#dudesfundingdudes, my claim that the woman in question attracted investors solely because
she attracted investors. To counter this, she directed the millionaire to invest in my idea of a
"stock market website," devoted to investing, an internet niche not yet mature, but quickly
filling up, with sites like Motley Fool. This patronage lasted a few weeks, until my politics
offended the lady, who told her patron to withdraw funding for me. When I noted that the
millionaire was using his d**k as his financial advisor, and that the woman he viewed as so
classy was merely bought, my life was threatened (over the phone) with his words "You'll
never know what hit you," spoken with the coldness of a man wealthy and powerful enough to
make something like that happen with a single phone call, a power women find attractive, even
as they claim to avoid violent men; the loophole here was that I deserved to be threatened.

Exacerbating my finances severely was a teenage hacker and groupie of the elite female
athlete who was being abused, being given backstage access to major events in exchange for
harassing, defaming, threatening, and hacking my computer, with a virus that cost me a
$2,500.00 word-processing job, for the final nail in my financial coffin. While #feminists had
people in their corner fighting for their equal opportunity, I had literally been left to starve, with
an indelible stain on my credit. The damage was now permanent. One Sunday evening in AOL's
investment chat, my mission to "let the czar know" how unfair things were, led to a
psychological gangrape, a barrage of attacks on my character, mental health, and work
qualifications, by an assortment of office wh*res, their bosses, co-workers, and friends, the 99
percent of people who were normal, held regular jobs, and didn't blame others for the
"attitude problem" that didn't get them hired, as if a company like Texaco, whose executives
were caught on tape using racial slurs, would ever have tolerated a whistleblower.

Cyberstalkers And Section 230

In late 1997, as the psychotic, pedophilic gymnastics groupie was threatening to kill Mom
and I, impersonating her in a sex-newsgroup ad which listed our address and phone number,
and signing my name to an essay in which he claimed to want to rape and murder famous elite
athletes, including the one I had claimed was abused. Without my knowledge, they would then
e-mail or IM links to anyone seen chatting with me, or interacting on the message boards
where I was exposing the abuse. Had I been female, this type of retaliation would not have
been possible, and is a cautionary tale for men, who need to realize that their good deeds will
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vanish into the ether the moment even one female spreads lies. As I now point out to the
#heforshe males, "if a woman were to falsely accuse you of rape or abuse, she would
automatically be believed...by men just like you."

With Google not yet in existence, online defamation rarely spilled over into the real world.
I had no difficulty with strangers, employers, or anyone who might internet-snoop me, though
the lack of privacy definitely unnerved me. I had even been doxxed (had my personal
information placed in a single document) on a message board, in retaliation for exposing yet
another case of abuse (involving hypnosis). As a loser who lived with his mother, my haters
could construct most any negative backstory and be believed, just by playing to negative
stereotypes. I was completely defenseless, especially with 47 USC §230 ("Section 230
immunity") leaving ISPs, search engines, and even third-party internet users immune from
being sued as a distributor of defamation, for content for which they were not the author.
Once any libel was published, the rest of the world was free to quote it, without fear of legal
consequences, while search engines (eventually including Google) could archive statements
from the most obscure corners of the internet, serving them up by name search by anyone with
a critical role in my life. For the time being, I was fine, but that would soon change.

Those who claimed not to want to get involved in "internet disputes" fail to realize that
any corruption of the free flow of information and ideas will impact them, as they make
decisions based on incomplete, manipulated information, designed specifically to mislead them
into anything from acting against their self-interest, to purchasing a product or service by
eliminating its main rival, as Weitzner had done to me, for people he would later betray by
deliberately giving them losing games so he could collect half of the losses back from the
bookies. For this, we can thank the AFC's aversion to cynicism, his insistence to trust others,
even those who play by the law of the jungle while pretending to be sitting next to us in
Romper Room. Whether it was child abuse, or how to pick winners, message-board discussions
were so corrupted that anyone who took them at face value was just a fool waiting to be
fleeced. Is this beginning to sound familiar? It should.

After 1996, my #pua prime had officially come and gone, with my long, slow descent into
darkness occurring ever since, even as my #pua skillz continue to improve. Women like the
Four Aces don't need to stray from their league, especially not towards fat, middle-aged men,
no matter how wealthy. Even a man my age in perfect shape, with all the money in the world,
will generally be shut out from the super-elites I took so much for granted in my prime that I
routinely left easy lays on the table, arrogantly dismissing notions of aging, or the opportunity
one day drying up, as it now has. I can still get laid, but not with any groundbreaking method
other than finally lowering my standards. This was not apparent in 1997, nor would it really hit
home until around 2005, when my looks started going, and age just creeped up on me. In 1997,
when the #pua community was falling into place, I was at the perfect age to drop theory bombs
on the audience, since I was thirty, just past my prime, and had just spent the previous six years
completing two world-class bootcamps, and creating my #pua highlight film, which was about
to be sold to the masses for a hefty profit. My dream of becoming a guru was coming true.
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Bankruptcy Improves Credit

As NHBLawyer pointed out to me, someone who has just gone bankrupt has no debt,
cannot refile Chapter 7 for six years, and has sent a very positive credit signal by exercising their
right to a fresh start, something which would be pointless had they not first gotten their house
in order, expecting to have money to shield from creditors. Thanks to my work as a bankruptcy
paralegal, I was spared the cost of an attorney, but not the $195.00 filing fee, which I paid,
giving employment discrimination as the official reason for the bankruptcy, which was
triggered when a PowerBase creditor sued; the petition stopped all lawsuits instantly. After the
Meeting of Creditors, attended only by me, I was officially debt-free, determined to make the
most of my new start, and this meant fighting to get a high-level, high-paying secretarial job,
hopefully at around $15.00 an hour, but I was willing to go as low as $10.00 again, just to
remain solvent with good credit. I also formed my publishing company, from which I also
offered publishing-support services, in lieu of a day job.

To my utter shock, in August, 1998, I received my first offer of an unsecured credit-card,

with a revolving limit of $1,000.00, a nice chunk of TURD-money (temporary, unsustainable,
ridiculous deployment of cash, in furtherance of #pua game) for someone who had gone
bankrupt, though I still had my recreationist gig, freelance work was picking up, and I was finally
beginning to win again t the track, after five years of attempting to rebuild my horseplaying
skillz. PowerBase had even begun to generate some advertising income, as the administration
wavered on making such arrangements illegal. By mid-1998, things were looking up on many
fronts, with much of the drama behind me, but I was still financially devastated by the double-
whammy of discrimination offline, and defamation online, combined with cyberterrorist tactics
aimed at destroying the perpetrators' business rivals, including me. Most people and the
media, completely ignorant about the underpinnings of the internet, turned a deaf ear, since
they were not being harmed directly. Until they were impacted, public opinion would not
change sufficiently to bring justice to those targeted for financial and reputation destruction.

In 1998, I settled an employment-discrimination case, but am allowed to only reveal that I

filed a case and settled it. I was still able to find work, using the third-shift receptionist gig to
spend four months writing and editing Outfoxing The Foxes, my first #pua book. As part of my
promotion of Foxes. This led me to USENET's alt.seduction.fast ("ASF") newsgroup, about to
become Ground Zero for the #pua community later introduced to the world through The Game
and VH-1's The Pickup Artist, a reflection of ASF's incredible influence on men since its 1998
explosion , four years after the group was created to divert traffic of followers of Ross Jeffries's
Speed Seduction, a method of applying NLP, a form of covert hypnosis, to seduction, a concept
debuted by Dr. Tracy Cabot in the 1980s, both in Penthouse and in her book How To Make Any
Man Fall In Love With You, which spawned no movements to #takedowntracycabot.
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Ferality

Most men, even #pua, rarely remain feral for their entire adult lives, but with the
exception of the four-month relationship in the Winter Of Twenty-Five, I had, not only with
women, but also at work, perpetually seeking new challenges to solve, new industries to figure
out, with the ultimate goal of piecing together the corporate matrix, which I believe I have, in
1993. The average male might seduce a dozen or two women in his life, few NHBs, even fewer
SHBs, and maybe a super-elite or two if he's very lucky, and well above-average. For any level
of SMV, however, the feral #pua, or employee, will blow away his rivals, by simple virtue of his
infinitely more vast experience, never becoming complacent, relying on inertia, or living on the
braindead autopilot which renders us terminally boring to the women we claim to be willing to
do anything to attract. Aside from my high SMV giving me lots of opportunities for practice, as
a feral #pua, I had much more experience and practice to draw upon in both my development,
and in writing about it in Foxes.

The Class Of 1998

The Streisand Effect, named after the famous singer, is the phenomenon by which
attempts at censorship draw increased publicity to what one is attempting to censor, in this
case pictures of her home, which appeared online. One would think a woman smart enough to
have her high-school lunch every day with Robert James "Bobby" Fischer would have seen this
coming, but she did not, resulting in her preservation for all eternity as an internet meme.
Internet censorship, technically impossible due to the internet's architecture, becomes possible
when internet users voluntarily gather at a website, message board, or other internet platform,
whose owner winds up with the power to play god within the confines of his fiefdom, no
different than the censorship power given this way to popular social-media sites, were
censorship can distort major discussions by silencing certain views from their audiences, often
not to keep order, but to silence dissent, or to promote a hidden financial influence on the site.
Our desire to participate on these popular platforms causes us to accept the censorship as the
right of the platform's owner. USENET is unique in that it has no owner, and therefore no
censorship.

USENET is a decentralized, message-distribution system which is divided into newsgroups,

which are named in a *.*.* hierarchy, e.g., alt.seduction.fast for ASF. Like the internet itself,
USENET was designed to survive a nuclear war, since it has no central repository for messages.
Instead, users subscribe to each newsgroup which interests them, after which they upload
messages to a news server, a specially configured computer for USENET messages, which are
then sent to all other subscribers, whose own messages are sent back to the user, who can read
them with a newsreader software that uses NNTP, or "network news transfer protocol," which
is for USENET messages what HTML is for websites. Some servers, like Google's, also publish
their copies of each group's messages, while Google also archives them as Google Groups,
though neither the groups, nor their messages, are owned by Google. Many internet users do
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not realize this, and instead assume that either Google, or someone else, owns USENET, when
in fact no one owns, or even controls, its content. USENET does adhere to certain protocols
which are set by a committee, the same one which approved the creation of ASF.

With #pua theory, and the #pua themselves, banned from ISP-run boards like Prodigy's, or
Netgirl, ASF became a free-speech exile for men who found themselves, and their ideas,
censored on these other fora. Thanks to ASF, these men, including me, suddenly had an outlet
for their clearly superior advice (compared to the AFC fairytale narrative), a voice which could
not be silenced by the off-with-his-head cries of #feminists and their whipped white-knights,
one of whom once told AOL, while reporting a post about looks-discrimination, that I had
stalked and harassed women on the message boards, merely by dissenting, with the report
actually resulting in a TOS sanction that I'm sure Captain Save-A-Ho expected would lead to
him being rewarded sexually, or maybe with brief attention and a pat on the head by the
women. On ASF, #feminists (and their white-knights) had to use logic instead of censorship,
and once their logic failed, they would hurl insults, declare victory, and vacate the group. Very
quickly, ASF caught on with men in search of these truths, allowing the flood of new theory to
catch fire.

ASF was created in 1994 as a response to complaints from regulars on alt.romance, and
soc.singles, about the increase in traffic devoted to Speed Seduction, Ross Jeffries's creation.
Somehow, Ross managed to convince a USENET god to propose creation of ASF as a means of
clearing the other two established groups of this traffic. For three years, Ross had what he
considered his newsgroup all to himself, even though USENET has no owner. All Ross could do
was assert his authority through the ASF FAQ. Newsgroup FAQs are usually benign,
noncommercial documents governing groups which even the participants don't really care
enough about to argue over the contents of a FAQ, but on ASF, it was the equivalent of
commercial zoning laws, which set forth which activity was acceptable. While the ASF FAQ
could not be enforced, its influence on public opinion within the group made it just as strong as
if it could.

When the #pua began invading ASF in mid-1998, a major conflict erupted, between Ross
Jeffries and his supporters, and the new #pua and theirs, with control of the future of ASF, and
the #pua community, hanging in the balance, which meant hundreds of millions of dollars hung
in the balance as well, given how much money was made by the winners. it was revealed in
litigation that one of Mystery's companies took in $3.2 million in 2006 alone, while Neil Strauss
and his publisher made millions off The Game. Strauss made money selling his Annihilation
Method (no #takedownneilstrauss movement, despite the name of his method and his mention
of #rsd in The Game), while countless other gurus mentioned in the media, or who became
popular online, made tens of millions more, including one company that mass-produced advice
products, and held seminars, claiming to have grossed almost $100 million over the years.
Given that men pay up to $25,000 a night for escorts, a few grand to a dating guru for a
bootcamp, or a few hundred for a DVD set, let alone just a few bucks for an e-book, is pocket
change.
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To the public, it was just a silly little newsgroup devoted to stupid ideas about how to get
women, and nothing any smart person would fight over, which made it impossible to seek
justice in an equally clueless judiciary, one already inclined to trivialize cyberspace, since their
paychecks were not dependent upon it. Those seeking to hang their shingle online were
therefore not afforded the traditional protections from trade libel, false advertising, unfair
competition, and blatant antitrust violations, including openly discussed price fixing. The term
#pua community suggests just that: a cartel. American antitrust law prohibits businesses from
colluding, yet this self-help niche made violation of these laws its signature. Cartels are thought
to increase prices and decrease quality by decreasing competition; now you know why #pua
bootcamps still cost thousands.

Over Ross's protestations, the #pua invasion continued, with Mystery posting #pua advice
freely, to market himself as a magician, and to sell magic tricks as gimmicks for ASF readers to
use while running "bar game." I posted free information to demonstrate my knowledge, which
I added to by following up by e-mail with anyone who needed specific advice, which I had been
done on Netgirl, to avoid TOS problems. The advice requests were so duplicative that it was
just more efficient and profitable to cobble the advice together into a regularly-priced book.
This proved a winning approach, as my audience grew steadily, a product of one simple
dynamic: my advice actually worked, as did Mystery's, Ross's, and that posted by the dozen or
so #pua, whose collected wisdom, honed from a combined century or more of study and
practice, was unleashed on ASF in a very short period of time, resulted in a theoretical
earthquake on par with card-counting or the Beyer-Kovitz figures. This meant two things: that
any man who used ASF theory was going to get laid by hotter women than he'd ever gotten
before, and that one day, the theory would no longer work due to overexposure. Game over
was inevitable; it was just a question of when.

Aside from benefitting from a sixty-year research dump, ASF benefitted from the very
censorship which led to its rise to prominence, ASF's marginalization by all women, and almost
all men, allowed its theory to remain effective far longer than had it been taken seriously from
the get-go, instead of sixteen years later, with crusades like #takedownjulienblanc. This too
speaks to why the #pua community evolved: arrogant women posting on dating-advice boards
as if they were two moves ahead, when the #pua were in fact six moves ahead of them. Many
men, myself included, just wanted to demonstrate to women that were not these clueless
idiots who "just didn't get it," but that we understood relationships as well or better than they
did. AFC who had been told for years to wait patiently for the right women would lose that
patience once confronted with ASF's postings, which is why they were censored in the first
place. Like card-counting, many men adopted ASF techniques, while few abandoned them, as
is to be expected with something that actually works.
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The ASF Wars

When I released Foxes, in late October, 1998, it was too much fanfare, attracting a great
deal of attention within the group, and among followers of PowerBase and United Free
Handicappers, my drama-free horseplaying newsletter, soon to be sponsored by How To Break
Even At The Track (Snodgrass, 1999, $39.95), my book for rebate players who could make
money breaking even by churning a large handle. Even "Shrink" respected my horseplaying,
and never attempted to compete, due to the track's complexity, and labor-intensive
handicapping requirements. Foxes sold its first copy an hour after I announced its release, and
soon another...then another, and another, and another. Suddenly, I was pulling in a few
hundred dollars a week for a book I had written while collecting a paycheck at the third-shift
receptionist gig, for excellent lifestyle integration. This success attracted more attention, more
haters, more fans, and more of everything good or bad the internet has to offer, mostly bad.
The ASF Wars were about to commence.

Those who wonder how #rsd and #julienblanc rose to prominence can find their answer in
late 1998, when a battle for control over ASF erupted, ultimately resolved by changes to the
ASF FAQ. Several factions were involved in this conflict: SSers, me, Mystery and his supporters,
those who thought the group should not be used at all to promote commercial products and
services, and a new entry, Formhandle, a corporate techie who began archiving ASF postings on
his website, www.fastseduction.com, a name to which Ross Jeffries took exception, but which
did not prompt him to litigate, as he had when Steele allegedly republished his private
newsletter contents, causing Steele to vacate the group, perhaps as part of a settlement
agreement. Mystery and I, along with the other dozen in the Class of 1998, weren't going
anywhere, and this led Ross to claim that the group was created for SS, which may have been
true, but that did not make his assertion that SS was the only proper topic for discussion
necessity true. The conflict would not be resolved until early 1999, when a new FAQ was
created.

The new ASF FAQ defined the group in accordance with Ross and Formhandle's wishes, in
a group whose mostly apathetic regulars -- men who just wanted #pua advice, and not a flame
war -- not protesting. This FAQ split the asserted authority of Ross, and now Formhandle, each
of whose sites were mentioned in the FAQ as "ASF resources." The FAQ also took the time to
disparage me, urge users to disregard my postings and not interact with me, due to my
"disruptive trolling," and even advised readers on how to bock my posts, so they wouldn't have
to read them, their friendly leaders having already done so and forming the correct conclusions
on their behalf. In print media, this would have triggered immediate lawsuits, but the internet
was new, interactive, and not taken seriously by the courts. With so much money to be made,
and with my books continuing to sell, I just endured my haters, as a consequence of the free
speech which was allowing me to market.

By successfully publishing my own book at $29.95, I attracted attention both from Ross,
who was losing potential customers whenever one of my readers was satisfied with his
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investment, sine the need to spend $350.00 on his Advanced Home Study Course, or $895.00
on his weekend seminar, was no longer so pressing. I also attracted attention from other ASF
regulars, who realized that they could do exactly what I was doing, even using my material for
"inspiration." Indeed, Foxes and 29 Reasons became as much of a business blueprint as an
advice blueprint for future #pua gurus, up to and including the present. I had expected
knockoffs, but the dating-advice market is so lucrative, with new customers created every year
as men come of age, break up, and divorce, that I was unconcerned, though I should have been.
One reason the Class of 1998 shared its potent techniques so freely was the belief that we
would profit from the audience we built, that good writing would lead to good revenue. To call
me naive in this regard is a serious understatement.

With the ASF Wars resulting in an uneasy detente, I upped the ante with 29 Reasons,
which targeted the ASF audience specifically, a single-reference time-capsule of ASF theory as it
existed in 1999. The narrative voice in 29r is that of an rAFC (recovering AFC, as if it were a
horrible disease) drinking the #pua Kool-Aid, as he gratefully peruses the fictitious, instructional
field and lay reports, each designed to highlight one of the "reasons" not to be an AFC (nice
guy). The author's voice is mine, telling the newbie reader, who still might be AFC, that he will
be lied to, verbally and psychologically abused, mocked, ridiculed, and sentenced to life in the
#friendzone if he doesn't wise up and become a #pua. The book was markedly different from
Foxes, but did debut the pivot technique, after its name-change from friendly fox. To my
dismay, the one tactic I thought AFC would embrace, they rejected as manipulative, while the
#pua embraced it so enthusiastically that the USENET group could have been renamed
alt.seduction.pivot, given that Boards's brainchild factored into half or more of the lay reports.

A high-road attempt to get me to vacate ASF was the creation of alt.seduction.outfoxing,

a USENET group inspired by (but not restricted to) my own work, which I considered a fair
solution, except that AOL and other ISPs did not propagate the group, and several regulars from
ASF broke their word by crossing over into my group to defame me, without the excuse that I
was intruding on Ross's perceived territory. ASO was therefore not an acceptable solution to
me, so I went back to posting on ASF, and the infighting continued, without much resolution
beyond the new ASF FAQ, and the general agreement among the other commercial interests to
exclude me from their peace talks.

The Golden Age Of ASF

No one is sure exactly when it ended, but the Golden Age of the #pua community began in
mid-1998, when the fruit of decades of intense #pua research, by numerous elite #pua, found
its way onto the electronic pages of ASF, and later AltaVista and Google, where they literally
chang4ed the world. Like the extreme skateboarders from the Zephyr skate shop in California
-- the Z-Boys, from Dogtown And Z-Boys, and the fictionalized Lords Of Dogtown, the Class of
1998 #pua were just fed up with the status quo, and, with bold new ideas that challenged
existing beliefs, they made the world come to them rather than the other way around. It was
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inevitable that, as also happened with the Z-Boys, that money and commercial interests would
ultimately dismantle the lucky accident which created them in the first place. Despite an entire
world of men attempting to recreate its glory, it will never again be 1998 for the #pua, 1986 for
the Beyer disciple, or 1966 for the card-counter. Time marches on, and it stampedes anyone it
notices beating the system.

During this golden age, #pua from all over the world used ASF as USENET was originally
intended to be used: for instantaneous, global peer-review and collaboration. Each idea was
field-tested by other ASFers, who would report back with their experiences. Unlike academia,
which has been publishing its findings regularly since the beginning of recorded history, the
pent-up theory on ASF triggered a quantum leap in men's understanding of women, and of
various advanced methods of seducing them. Contrary to the inaccurate stereotype of the
monolithic, robotic, socially-retarded "loser" with behavior which suggests Asperger's
Syndrome (as if that makes anyone a loser), the Class of 1998 #pua had been succeeding with
women for years, and just decided to share their playbook with every other man in the world.
The information gold rush was on.

During the golden age, several schools of thought emerged: there was SS, Foxhunting, and
Mystery's FMAC (find-meet-attract-close) matrix for running game in bars and clubs, the
easiest place for the rank-and-file to put his newfound knowledge into practice. There was the
opening line of asking a woman if she knew Elvis Presley dyed his hair, and the ritualistic crash-
and-burn mission, where the rAFC conquers his fear of approaching women by making two
hundred approaches of random women in four days or less (in BOS I called my AFC days the
virginal crash-and-burn mission, but also the valuable coaching and bootcamp method, for
what I had learned from the super-elites). This helps to explain why women think #pua are so
inept: they catch the beginners making mistakes, while the ones who slip past their radar are
not accounted for, except as "great guys" they wish more men were like. This, in turn, leads the
#pua to lose respect for any woman who would fall for his methods, one reason I designed
Foxhunting to appeal to intelligent women who value honesty.

As a bestseller, The Game's version of the #pua community has become the "official"
public record, despite his not addressing ASF, instead talking about Mystery's Lounge, begun in
1999, when Mystery became concerned about mainstreaming, targets finding ASF (as
happened once with his ex), and of the community #jumpingtheshark by watering down its
message, a bit ironic in light of subsequent events. His lounge was invitation-only, open only to
active #pua, who were willing to wing with each other in the field, and who demonstrated
enough skill to have something to offer, such as a club makeout or some other valuable skill.
Mystery continued to post to ASF, but mostly to promote his lounge. Ross had his website, and
his impressively large newsletter group, while I had my website, but preferred to remain in the
trenches of ASF, answering requests for advice (RFA), and not worrying about how many copies
my books were selling, which was actually very decent in 1999, netting me a few hundred a
week in profits. The true #alpha of the commercial side was Ross, if only for the value of his
seduction.com domain, a traffic-magnet unto itself.
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#takedownraygordon

The #pua call it wrongfooting, or starting someone off on the wrong foot, because of
some past indiscretion, with nothing that can be done to restore the target to good standing.
Direct wrongfooting involves a past harm directly inflicted, such as cheating on a lover, while
indirect wrongfooting occurs when the cheated-on partner breaks up the relationship, and
punishes the next partner with say 24/7/365 surveillance. #takedownjulienblanc is classic
wrongfooting, with nothing more than a few ambiguous video clips being used to shame him,
with no chance of redemption in the eyes of the movement. Wrongfooting has few defenses,
wince the attacker is not seeking resolution or peace, but annihilation. One tactic used by
women and #pua alike is to wait patiently for someone to make a mistake, then freeze time by
#wrongfooting them after that, treating them like s**t from then until the end of time.

Julien Blanc is not the first #pua guru to face a #takedown attempt: that would be me,
dating back almost to the day I released Foxes, the day I became a threat to anyone making
money with #pua, or who was about to attempt to do so. Rather than wait until I had achieved
too much mainstream recognition to be able to stop, they would attempt to clip my wings
before I ever made it into the air; for the most part, they succeeded. In doing so, they made a
superficial loser out of me, as if the public somehow "won" by being led down the wrong path
(according to millions of women trying to #takedownjulienblanc or #takedownpua). The battle
for ASF was anything but a simple internet flamewar. With my $29.95 books offering the first
reasonably-priced alternative to expensive seminars and DVD courses, I immediately became a
target. Many of the tactics used, and many of the "anonymous" people who use them, have
resurfaced in #takedownjulienblanc. Then, like now, they used feminists and women as pawns
to cloak their true agenda of taking down a rival business under pretext of protecting women.

Thanks to Section 230, defamation on the internet lives forever. My history of having
been targeted by Shrink (who had already betrayed his tout clients, while I kept winning),
hypnorapists (stage hypnotists who rape their subjects, including students at the high schools
where they perform), and athletic child abusers left a bounty of litigation-proof character-
assassination at their disposal, with the primary dagger -- the loser who lives with his mother --
mostly true (I did get cheap sublets a great deal of the time, but remained domiciled with Mom,
to get my mail, etc.). This grain of truth was all that was needed for the heinous lies to be
believed: that I was a pedophile who not only couldn't get adult women, but who didn't even
try for them. Links to the hate-website published by the child-abuse enablers began appearing
in response to every one of my posts, successfully derailing any direct communication with my
audience. The leader of this crusade was Derek "Odious" Trunk, a proud, unapologetic speed-
seducer clearly in Ross's camp, not just against me, but also Formhandle, Mystery, and anyone
he believed in opposition to Ross. His vitriol towards me, however, was taken to irrational
extremes, with no sanction from the true villain (the audience).
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Other #takedownraygordon attempts, such as from alt.hypnosis, involved daily

harassment, defamation, and numerous death threats, as well as the impersonation mentioned
earlier, made it impossible for me to simply post my ideas, as others did freely, because no
matter where I went, the haters would follow, claiming a need to "warn" others about me, to
the point of risking lawsuits, or even prison, by telling lies and making threats. Most disturbing
by far, however, was the audience, who could have put a stop to this simply by refusing to
reward anyone with their business until the hate-marketing stopped. Once it became clear that
this conduct had no penalty, and perhaps even boosted revenue, it became open season on
me, with Trunk playing a major role, to the point of republishing the hate-website after the
athletic child abusers took it down, secondary to the athlete they claimed I was lying about
being abused, to get close to her, ran away from home, claiming a lifetime of horrific abuse.
Despite this, the lies from the abuse-enablers were cited as gospel, an even more disturbing
trend.

Legal and wild-west arguments aside, the sheer stupidity of the rank-and-file, for allowing
both the ASF Wars, and #takedownraygordon, made me understand why so many men had
problems with women. In BOS, I would coin the term gamma male to describe him: poorly
educated (even if a college graduate), simple-minded, selfish, entitled, media-brainwashed,
severely underestimating his competition (which causes him to smugly dispense terrible
advice), believing he deserves the magic hottie because he's a special, unique snowflake. This
man, who ignored ASF in 1998, began showing up only when he saw others doing so first,
particularly after publication of The Game, and broadcast of VH-1's The Pickup Artist. Instead
of demanding a fair, civilized, on-topic discussion of #pua, he treated the verbal bloodbath as
entertainment, and the aggressors as "alpha." The gamma male cannot be taught #pua, even if
he claims to want to learn, because he will select his teacher based on how much the teacher
agrees with what he thinks he already knows. This is why ASF focused so much on bar/club
game, rather than how to lure a super-elite into stalking you at the chess tables in the park.

In response to #takedownraygordon, I chose preserving my audience over revenue, by

making The Seduction Library (Foxes and 29r, on sale for a combined $51.50) absolutely free,
and using it to promote other #pua products through Clickbank, a very influential affiliate-
marketing site which automatically pays sales commissions for revenue generated by third-
party internet affiliate marketers, some of whom quietly earn six figures a year or more through
the site. Anyone who might have let the defamation and harassment deter them from
spending $29.95 or $51.95 on my work, would certainly not pass up free advice. This would
maximize my audience, while crashing the market, sending prices down to what I was charging
for my books; once things had stabilized, I could then write newer books, or just promote my
other work, like How To Break Even At The Track, which was selling excellently at $39.95 a
copy, without anyone taking exception to its, or my, existence.

When #takedownraygordon 1.0 did not work, the other side escalated to an unbelievable
extreme, literally hijacking ASF's traffic, by using the ASF FAQ to divert it to Formhandle's
website, which now contained "newsgroups" that operated just like USENET, utilizing NNTP (a
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very difficult feat for a web-board), and similar group names, which gave it an identical look and
feel to USENET, except the board and the site were privately owned, controlled by a single
individual, and not archived by news servers or Google. Formhandle would christen this board
moderated ASF (mASF), and updating the ASF FAQ (for USENET) to direct the "newbies" to visit
his "replacement" site, all made necessary because of my "disruptive trolling." Not only was I
censored from mASF, but this extended to mere mentions of my work, which would trigger
post deletion and a user ban).

To encourage migration of the rank-and-file, those with an interest in a moderated board

(not Formhandle himself), would anonymously harass and defame me, interrupting any thread
to which I would post, completely on topic. Despite this, I was blamed for "ruining ASF,"
thrusting Formhandle into the role of reluctant hero, a known persuasion technique.
Formhandle's technical prowess allowed him to (otherwise) remain above the fray, as he gained
the foothold that allowed his site to, for a few years, live up to its billing as The Center Of The
Seduction Universe, giving him full censorship power over the #pua community, as well as the
power to play kingmaker, by deciding which affiliate programs would be featured on his site, or
who would be allowed to purchase advertising. While anticompetitive, this did not necessarily
run afoul of antitrust law, since the internet offered many alternative channels, as the judge
who dismissed my Delaware antitrust case against LTSC (Learn The Skills Corp.) noted.

Unlike USENET, mASF was archived in the search engines, drawing traffic from outside
USENET. This made it the electronic face of the #pua community, even if ASF were its heart and
soul, its birthplace, and a place not lacking in critical ingredients which had been stripped from
the commercial alternative: neutrality and free speech. The gamma males in both audiences
would often first post an advisory not to listen to my "stupid advice," followed by a question
asking someone to explain the pivot. Ultimately, millions of men would wind up using or
teaching my tactics, without realizing they were mine. In The Game, Neil Strauss failed to
credit me with the pivot, instead saying the term had been "floating around the community for
a few years." He did credit many others, who then parlayed their mentions into million-dollar
businesses which further eroded my market share. By late 2001, I was being harassed and
defamed almost hourly, with numerous death threats, including two that resulted in police
involvement to stop it. The gammas were so giddy that they finally got to call someone a loser
that they didn't notice that it was the information they needed that was being corrupted.

In addition to other #pua, like Trunk, who attempted to #takedownraygordon, ASF

became home to several of my haters who never posted on topic, never engaged other users,
never replied to questions about why they were so obsessed with me, and who did nothing but
plaster every thread in which I was mentioned or involved with one link to the hate-websites
about me, followed by another to the "new official ASF website," i.e., mASF). The postings
would come from anonymous remailers which could not be traced; any one of numerous rival
commercial interests, or my previous haters, could have been behind this. As their numbers
grew, group contagion set in, causing otherwise rational people to join the #cyberbullying, or
to just ignore it, as if making purchasing decisions based on false accusations of child abuse and
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pedophilia against a rival were normal. My anti-#pua writing (I was a Foxhunter more than a
typical #pua) was ignored by feminists who were pointed to my political writing about office
wh*res. Their need to silence me on civil rights issues, and the child abusers' need to cover up
their crimes, resulted in an unholy alliance of feminists, secretaries, coaches of underaged
female athletes, and #pua, all unified against me, with the audience still acting as if this were
normal. I felt like I was in an episode of The Twilight Zone.

In the end, I was not taken down, so much as Formhandle was built up by the marketing
boost given to him by those who wanted me silenced, and who found his website the perfect
means of accomplishing this, without ever having to do the dirtywork himself. The biggest loser
in all of this was Ross, who wound up losing the ASF audience to Formhandle, who quickly
became the community's spiritual leader and kingmaker, with Ross getting enough respect to
maintain the truce, but not so much that it would place him above the many new gurus setting
up shop. The golden age, where free speech, peer review, and collaboration reigned for a brief,
shining moment, had given way to politics, a cult of personality, and commercialism, which had
come knocking, along with the mainstream media and publishing industry. The community had
officially #jumpedtheshark.

In 2001, I did not throw in the towel, but instead adopted the strategy used by the
racehorse Calidoscopio, electing to sit way in the back, thirty lengths off the leaders, until the
insanity up front burned itself out. The best way to accomplish this was to stop feeding potent
new theory to my rivals, who would trash me while selling it to the public as its own. As what I
foolishly had placed on USENET in 1998 became outdated, the men would again want answers,
like the hottie who finally realized she chose the wrong man, only to come crawling back to the
AFC she had rejected. I was the "AFC guru" that had been overlooked for the "badboy" #pua
gurus, who equated bullying with dominance, and cheating with winning. Rather than
att4empt to win over the gammas who couldn't pick a winner to save their lives, I would shift
my focus to my freelance work, my horseplaying (PAP), which was turning profitable, and to
caring for Mom, who neither of us knew was dying of cancer, only that she had lost a step or
two and needed assistance. I would also attempt to litigate both the discrimination I had
endured, and the actionable conduct on ASF, which kept piling up.

Mystery's First Bootcamp

If #takedownjulienblanc wants to know how #pua bootcamps became so expensive, and

why the gurus seem so contemptuous of the community rank-and-file, look no further than
why Mystery went from freely sharing his #pua secrets, to charging thousands of dollars for live
instruction at his weekend-long #pua bootcamps. Remember the guy who won $20,000 on my
Eagles pick in 1996, only to give his money and faith to Shrink? Mystery felt a similar sense of
betrayal, after helping the richest men in Hollywood and around the world seduce the women
of their dreams, only to hear "Thanks, man!" in return, with no reciprocity, like say a magician's
contract. In need of money, Mystery turned to his bread-and-butter source of popularity,
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inviting three lucky students, including Neil "Style" Strauss, to pay $600.00 for four days and
three nights of daily instruction in a hotel conference room, followed by nightly in-field
practice, exploiting his natural advantage, and Ross's restricting his teaching to seminars. A
new industry was born, one which would shape the future of the community, and which #rsd
would ruthlessly shape into their personal path to fame and riches.

After the first bootcamp broke even, Mystery raised the price to $1,500.00, and increased
the number of students, while reducing the in-field portion to two nights instead of three. He
began making money hand over fist, from nothing more than his internet audience. The
bootcamps received favorable reviews, leading to the rapid growth of the teaching model, one
ideal for making money, since $1,500.00 per student is a lot more than the $29.95 most had
been paying me, and even more than the few hundred a month in advertising revenue my work
was still generating when it was free. By no means had I not made money, netting well into the
five figures over the years, but Mystery had found the key to making a six-figure income on
teaching alone, money he would parlay, along with his internet status, into global name
recognition to the point of being parodied on SNL, and millions of dollars in TURD Money for
himself, all by running and teaching #pua tactics now claimed by women to never have worked
in the first place. Obviously, someone is lying, and the AFC still wants to know if it is the #pua,
who say the women secretly want badboys like #julienblanc, or is it the women who tell them
they'd never go for a #pua, while keeping them firmly in the #friendzone.

The Midnight Train To Georgia

After I published Foxes, my finances continued to stabilize, and I was offered numerous
credit-cards with relatively high limits, especially for someone who had declared bankruptcy.
Book sales were steady, and significant, while I also landed some lucrative book-editing gigs.
My most memorable day occurred shortly after Foxes went on sale, when I received four pieces
of mail: a rejection letter from the only agent to whom I had queried, and three checks
ordering the book, a sign that the world had changed, and an homage to my family's history of
mail-order pioneering (that landed a few of them in prison for mail fraud). Things were
bouncing along just fine until September, 2000, when I found myself short of cash, and my
latest marketing effort -- The Revolution Guide To Sports Betting -- a huge bust, thanks to my
4-17 tart to the NFL season (1-4 the first week), making the year's worth of selections that came
with this $55.00 book less appealing, though I had sold three of them on opening day. In
desperation, I began looking for work, not even caring if it was in an office or not, which led to a
public confrontation.

On my way home from having exercised the futility of applying for retail shops, I passed by
a restaurant and bar in center city which had a sign in the window that said Waitress wanted,
the gender specification clearly illegal under anti-discrimination law. Rather than ignore such
signs, as I usually would, I noted the sign to the owner, in a way that let him know I was
protesting it. He responded with a stinkeye, and very threatening body language that implied
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he was ready to fight right then and there, to defend his right to sexualize a s**t job for some
hottie with more looks than brains. To those who ask why I'd want to work for a sexiest like
that, my answer is simple: I needed the money to survive, just like the office wh*res, and the
men who had to look the other way in their jobs, except I was not looking to do anything illegal,
just find an honest day's pay for an honest day's work.

Upon returning home from that awful experience, I wound up in an IM with a female
bankruptcy attorney in Georgia, who I had contacted with a question about serving a subpoena
on one of my haters, who had been defaming me from Georgia. We wound up trading my story
of discrimination, for hers about how her only two support staff in the six-year history of her
practice were leaving on the same day. The next thing I knew, I had not just a job, but a
$3,000.00 signing bonus, relocation expenses, and four weeks to prepare to move, which I
requested specifically so I could enjoy my TURD Money, running the "stripper game" I had been
toying with since writing Foxes, if only because I believed anyone calling himself a #pua guru
should be able to pluck a stripper from her work environment, for a lay, without spending
money, something I would ultimately accomplish after a year or two of figuring how the
environment and how it work, with a lot of the credit going to Mystery, who would often pick
up strippers just to stay sharp, and, of course, to get laid.

My finances may have been unstable, but my #pua skillz were sharper than ever, if not
sharper, because I was no longer actively seeking conquests, instead choosing to let the game
come to me, which it did in the form of HBChina (8.9), a neighbor who had sent a few IOI before
I enlisted her to drive me to Garden State Park on a cold Friday evening when SEPTA had let me
down, so I could place my Kentucky Derby futures wager on Menifee, who I loved at 19-1 (I bet
$75 to win and $10 each on five backup horses). As a thank-you, I gave this Chinese MTV
award-winner and doctor $10.00 to win on Menifee, and $2.00 on my other horses. Menifee
lost by a head, but one of the backups (Charismatic) won at $31.80, enough to cover the gas for
her return trip to pick me up, the second isolation achieved by simply asking for a favor, rather
than supplicating. We hung out that night, and then, a year later, she invited me over at
midnight to help translate a letter, which we never got done, but did talk all night, followed by
a lunch date, and then nothing until one morning I invited her to the roof to watch the sunrise,
only to find a homeless couple parked where I intended to lay her; the roof was soon closed.

In Georgia, I encountered my fair share of anti-Yankee bias, but just as many people
disliked the people from the area, and preferred our company instead. My year of college
made me much more educated than the men in a town where the help-wanted ads ask for
some high school. The numerous barely-legal hotties who couldn't wait to move to the big city
somewhere found me one of the town's better catches, as a well-paid paralegal who worked
for a well-known lawfirm consisting of father and daughter former DAs, who no one knew were
very sick; half my job involved holding down the fort when they were unable to work. Still, it
was the type of job I should have had in Philadelphia, rather than having to travel a thousand
miles south to work for an old-fashioned, southern racist with a temper from hell. The job itself
was great, and my books offered a second income that kept me flush with cash for the duration
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of the gig. After my slow start in the NFL, I finished 42-28 for the year, hit 65 percent of my
hoop picks, made a fortune on the Ravens in the playoffs, and then, suddenly, it all ended, as I
was sent back home because they could no longer afford me. While it was nice to live the type
of normal life which had eluded me back home, I was not looking forward to an Albany, GA
summer.

When I returned to Philadelphia, I quickly landed a temporary assignment as an editorial

assistant at a trade publication, at a whopping $10.00 an hour, while women my age with half
my skills were pulling down $50,000.00+ in the executive-support ranks. While $20,000.00 is
not $50,000.00, it's not zero, either, and it kept me solvent as I tried to rebuild my business, and
neutralize the impact of #takedownraygordon. My most promising venture at this point was
Price And Probability (PAP), my method of making power ratings for horses, something which
had never been explained in any books, though some of the computer handicapping services
offered them. My experience with PowerBase gave me a lot of new theory to apply at the
track, and I returned to profitability as a horseplayer in 2000, a trend likely to result in
profitability, since a Break Even horseplayer gets unlimited practice with which to further
improve his ROI. After eight years of experimentation, I finally found a way to make my own
morning line, which allowed me to evaluate every horse as overvalued or undervalued. My
profits would steadily increase through 2009, and the Magic Twenty streak.

DYD And The Internet Marketing Era

Even now, Eben "David DeAngelo" Pagan manages to keep his name out of any #pua
controversy, despite his having influenced the business side of the community more than
almost anyone else. DeAngelo is the red-queen personified: the inevitable force of capitalism,
who in this case would ensure that no #pua would be left out of the movement which saw men
going from incels to having sex with hotter women than they ever thought they could get.
DeAngelo staked his claim to fame and fortune not by declaring himself a #pua, but by
declaring that he was not one, until he began reading about it on the internet, tried everything
he could, and reported to his audience on what he thought worked, taking time to credit his
sources, who in turn used his props in their own marketing. By synthesizing existing theory,
and adding his own spin, DeAngelo had information products to market, and killed everyone
with distribution, becoming Formhandle's first serious sponsor, which certainly didn't hurt his
reputation on the moderated forums on a site originally billed as noncommercial, much like
Shrink had done to build his audience.

DeAngelo has long since branched out into other information products, including how to
make money as an internet marketer. He is part of a group of hardcore internet marketers who
rely as much on distribution, and serial product-generation to boost their sales, though many
have praised DYD as being useful. I have no doubt that it is, since it is similar to the Class of
1998's theory (David was also a student of Ross's before starting his own company, which is
how he learned of the community), but without the pioneers, the decades of pent-up research
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from multiple elite sources dropping simultaneously, and a male-dominated audience of #pua
dismissed by women as losers not worth their time, the mountain would have proven a more
difficult climb, instead of the all-you-can-eat buffet of low-hanging fruit onto which DeAngelo
stumbled when he found mASF. The early-mover advantage enjoyed by Shrink, DeAngelo, and
others is behind the saying first in wins. Even in 2014, businesses whose only claim to fame is
having been in their space the longest often persist among market leaders, when they
otherwise would not. Whatever first-mover advantage I had in 1998 was long gone by 2001.

After DeAngelo, who was a legitimate #pua student before applying his marketing mastery
to building his empire, numerous copycats among the internet-marketing community, who saw
his success, further flooded the market with knockoff products, something Mom had warned
was inevitable in mail-order, and that she and my SHBAunt (who took over the mail-order
business at twenty-one when her boss died of a heart attack one Friday at work) accounted for
their presence. I'm not sure if the things are better or worse on the internet, but the #pua
community was a haven for these men who, unlike DeAngelo, never disclaimed being #pua
themselves, even though they were selling ideas created by others, with their own "experience"
limited to reading others' war stories, rather than actually fighting the war, as I had with The
Battle of Kate. DeAngelo was too smart to lie to the public, since it wasn't necessary for him to
get rich. His $19.95 a month interview series featured many top community #pua, who
themselves used the publicity in their own marketing, while cementing DeAngelo's foothold in
the niche. His most original theory was that men should be cocky and funny as the basis of
their game.

mASF's popularity increased its bandwidth requirements, placing tremendous financial

pressure on Formhandle, who had to bear the cost of matching USENET, a service funded by
internet users through their e-mail and news-server accounts. This fueled the process by which
reluctant heroes justify monetizing their audience: they being by soliciting the group, not as a
spammer, but just to offer something helpful, like an archive of user-generated postings. From
there, he offers a free message board, to solve the "problem" of my continued existence on
ASF. Once he has his audience on his site, he notes how much time this is taking him (to do
something no one had originally asked for him to do), and how much the bandwidth costs, so
he seeks donations, not because he can't sell ads, but to keep his credibility as one of them, just
another rank-and-filer. Once the advertisers show up, the discussions, however productive,
bear little resemblance to the USENET environment which supplied the censored forum with its
seed audience.

Project Hollywood And The Birth Of RSD

In his own version of alpha isolation, Mystery came up with a plan for reemerging in West
Hollywood as a trendy #pua guru, a man celebrities needed to get to know, rather than the
other way around. Celebrities often worship their "special advisors," particularly when they
think the advisor has some secret weapon to which they feel entitled to have first, due to their
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celebrity status. Mystery's social dynamics game, based on the DHV, made it easy for him to
play to the ego of his new audience of celebrities, movers, and shakers. Central to this new
branding was the Project Hollywood Mansion, from which he would offer his bootcamps,
making the world fly to him rather than him having to travel from city to city, as he had been
doing for the previous two years. Joining him in what Mom called the Project Hollywood
Bungalow were Neil Strauss, Owen "Tyler Durden" Cook, Nick "Papa" Cho, and a few lesser-
known #pua, who completed the tenant roster of a place once home to the Rat Pack. The
name of their company would be Real Social Dynamics, the first of Mystery's three corporate
ventures.

Owen Cook spent the greater part of a year traveling the country, meeting up with every
#pua he could from mASF, and Mystery's lounge. He took a bootcamp with Mystery, after
which they continued to associate with each other, until forming RSD, the company in the eye
of the #takedownjulienblanc hurricane. Project Hollywood put him in the right place, at the
right time, with access to A-listers who saw them as the Next Big Thing, perhaps even bigger
than themselves, and to Hollywood's nightlife, not just as #pua, but also as individuals who
brought lots of business to the clubs via their #pua instruction and "in-field" practice. One of
their quieter ventures was mansionparty.com, where they threw "industry parties" that
attracted many attractive, young wannabes of both genders, a definite boost to their "lifestyle
game." The story of Project Hollywood, and its demise, would be told in The Game, but anyone
who followed mASF got most of the story.

When Project Hollywood fell apart, Mystery formed the Mystery Method Corporation,
with Nicholas "Savoy" Benedict, a longtime community #pua and friend/associate, with a more
strictly-business approach than mad-scientist Tyler, who had built his reputation on mASF with
posts like his Twenty-Five Points masterpiece, which ignited his rise to fame, and his dissecting
of invisible female conduct, like "eyerolling" and "girlcoding," to which most men, but not he,
were oblivious. I found Tyler's observations to be correct with regard to many women, mostly
the type of women I had spent my life trying to avoid. For men just looking to get laid, without
regard to target-quality, the method helped them to thrive. By contrast, the Mystery Method
was predicated on the DHV, and what Mystery called preselection, the underlying DHV of the
pivot, which he called a wingwoman or a pawn, instead of the name I gave it. By 2003, mASF
was snowballing into the public consciousness, and the saturation of #pua material in
Hollywood, thanks to the bootcamps, sent the first signal that game over was on the horizon.

Cook and Kho's true marketing genius became apparent after Mystery left RSD, as they
began tapping the city-based #pua LAIRs, groups of several dozen #pua in each city who would
meet each week, discuss theory, and then go out into the field for practice. RSD used the LAIRs
as the perfect feeder system for their bootcamps, enabling them to sell out a city (or bypass it)
just by pitching their wares to each LAIR, which they did whenever they were in tow, often for
an already sold-out bootcamp. With Mystery having blazed the trail, they followed what had
already proven successful, and became quite rich, as did Mystery, DeAngelo, and a few new
advertisers on mASF, like Allen "Gunwitch" Reyes, who built his reputation on ASF, before
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releasing The Gunwitch Method. In late 2011, he shot a woman in the face at a party, landing
him in prison for a few months, before he was released. Gun kept out of the #pua politics for
the most part, never changed his message, and had a loyal following until he went into exile.
His most popular catchphrases were make the ho say no, and I'd rather be laid then liked.

While all this was going on, I was loping along, still disconnected from the pack, knowing
nothing would change until game over, something I had originally expected to occur in 2003,
but which was keeping its own, much slower, timetable. Because women were not changing
their behavior, and because relatively few men were using the techniques, new arrivals to the
community were still experiencing the ultimate in beginner's luck, the luck of happening to
exist at a time when publicly available information allowed them to beat the system, just like
card-counters and speed-handicappers before them. This was completely unsustainable, which
meant that numerous #pua, and the gurus who were making livings teaching the Class of 1998's
theory, would one day be left holding the bag. Since it is impossible to destroy a business
twice, most of the damage to my #pua business had already been done; my income had
dropped to about $150.00+ a month at this point, still nice, but a far cry from the six-figure
incomes my pioneering work had helped to make possible. All I could do was bide my time
while waiting for the truth to come out, and the #pua political power structure to shift.

Litigation

A big key to #cyberstalking campaigns, like #takedownjulienblanc, is to reassure your

online minions that they won't be sued for grinding your axe, after they've overlooked that you
are #anonymous, and cannot be traced. Just make sure your target is portrayed as a mentally
ill loser, preferably one who lives with his mother, and your declaration of open season shall be
heeded by those who mistake this for their "big chance" to impress the cool kids. Thanks to
group contagion, otherwise educated, rational individuals will risk imprisonment, or being sued
into perpetual bankruptcy, just to repeat someone else's lie, to carry out someone else's
agenda. If forced to atone for their sins, they'll claim they were not themselves, caught up in
some nonexistent frenzy, as if whoever they harmed meant absolutely nothing. The term
kooksuit sums up this line of reasoning; what it does not do is grant legal immunity, so let the
hater beware.

The term salami slicing refers to dividing a criminal act into several parts, each of which,
by itself, is not illegal, but which, taken together, adds up to a crime. This practice is raised to
an art form on the internet, where multiple users perform tasks aimed at a specific goal, in this
case to #takedownraygordon. This involved the use of #anonymous #SJW who claimed to be
"protecting underaged girls," by linking to the lies about me originally from child abusers, while
others would use an anonymous remailer to both link to the hate sites, and to encourage the
rank-and-file to post at mASF, often calling it the "official ASF website." My relatively small
audience of highly intelligent men saw through this, but the masses, the gammas who would
ultimately give #pua such a bad name that it is being banned by governments, bought this "hate
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marketing" hook, line, and sinker. My refusal to vacate ASF even after years of this abuse
prompted continued death threats, including one idiot who "counted down my remaining days"
until he was interrupted at T-19 days by a knock on his door from the sheriff. Suffice it to say
that multiple lawsuits, backed by loads of evidence, left the courts unmoved.

In addition to my futile lawsuits against the Seduction Mafia, and Seduction Cartel (which
led to increased ridicule), I sued the University of Pennsylvania for retaliation, and for
discrimination based on perceived mental disability. Because I cited damages for emotional
distress, UPenn asserted the right to compel me to take a psychiatric exam (that's medical as
well as psychological), which I refused, as any sane person would. UPenn had argued that being
diagnosed as bipolar made me unemployable. When I countered that I was employed, doing
freelance medical transcription, they said I was unemployable at their university, yet offered no
supporting evidence for their claim. Judge Anita Brody, a former law professor at UPenn who
once blamed an election loss on her gender, granted the psych exam, fining me $1,000.00,
which I paid, but at the expense of missing a credit-card payment, triggering financial dominoes
that would catapult me towards a second Chapter 7 filing. My civil-rights crusade was officially
over, until I later learned that a star medical researcher at UPenn had drugged and raped a job
applicant, without being fired, yet another example of sexual corruption in the workplace.

The Game

In January, 2004, Neil Strauss published his breakthrough #pua article in the Style section
of the Sunday New York Times, resulting in an earthquake among both the masses, and the
many celebrities in Hollywood who had already seen the #pua in action, and who already knew
about the community. The article sparked speculation that a book was forthcoming, with The
Game announced later in the year, originally for a March, 2005 release, which would ultimately
be pushed back to August. With my future marketing strategy predicated on game over, and
mainstreaming, I welcomed the development my rival #pua, and their student-clones, had been
fearing for years, at first remaining in denial, believing that no one important was paying
attention to ASF, that the #pua community was just a bunch of internet losers one would never
see on their tee-vee. What I predicted would happen as far back as 1998, was going to occur in
2005. IT did occur, but Hurricane Katrina washed away Strauss's television publicity tour, with
the appearances that did make it on the air competing with Katrina stories, for the attention of
a nation gripped by the tragedy. This allowed the community to remain underground in a way
it otherwise would not have.

The public reacted to The Game much the same way horseplayers reacted to the Beyer
figures being published in the Form. Men who had dismissed "the numbers" as mathematical
auto-gratification were suddenly explaining to me what a top figure horse was, and how to use
a method I had been using for years. I've had women explain to me what a pivot is, and how
other women now earn livings in a job my work helped to create. Average people -- i.e., most
humans -- live average lives, and assume everyone else is average, until proven otherwise.
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Even the women in my past had no real knowledge of my #pua lifestyle, beyond sensing I was
experienced, and to the geeks in the chess world I came off as a huge dweeb. No one is going
to see your highlight film, or listen in on your seven-hour Valentine's conversations, or spy on
you when you're isolating HBChina for a rooftop hookup for a lazy summer sunrise.

The Game was ASF for the masses, a snapshot of #pua theory that worked best from
1998-2001, and continued to work through 2005. Once published, much of the theory was
ridiculed, particularly the easy targets like peacocking, but this theory was not designed with
mainstreaming in mind, any more than card-counting was designed for a world where Beat The
Dealer had been published. With the masses responding more to superficial marketing
campaigns, and mindlessly consume Big Media content as gospel, without thinking for oneself,
one likely never heard of #pua until 2005, rather than 1998. Like Beat The Dealer, many #pua
took Strauss's work as a how-to manual, applying the knowledge just as the "casinos" (women)
were switching to their version of the eight-deck shoe. The sheer force of the large number of
new customers that Strauss brought to the community ensured that revenue would continue to
explode, even as the tactics became known. As central figures in The Game, RSD/Cook would
benefit the most, building an empire that is rumored to generate $5 million a year or more,
while I was reduced to around $50.00+ a month, in my good months.

During his publicity tour for The Game, Strauss paraded around Lisa Leveridge, Courtney
Love's drummer, with whom he was in a longterm relationship, on whom "game" didn't work,
and who inspired him to tear up the phone numbers of the vapid, social-climbing Hollywood
women who would do anything for their fifteen minutes of fame. This allowed Strauss to
smooth things over with audiences on shows like The View, by promoting the idea that #pua
were just lovable losers who used these manipulative tactics to get noticed, after which they
reverted to perfect boyfriends who no longer needed to run game. This was wrong on so many
levels: a woman who needs to be gamed into bed, will leave once the game is over, and the
#pua is not a good boyfriend, or he would have acted like one from the get-go, ruling out
women who made him act like a #pua.

In Strauss's place, I would have confronted the hypocrisy of feminists who claim not to be
shallow, but who have absolute contempt for short men, who claim to hate objectification, yet
who flirt in job interviews, and use sexuality to get hired, up to and including f**ing the boss. A
discussion of Philadelphia lawyers and their creepy hiring practices with regard to all-girl
Catholic schools would have led to a riot, but would have properly challenged the hypocrisy of
these women. Most of all, the media confrontation for which Strauss was privileged to have
been chosen became a nonstarter when he presented himself as an AFC. The female
anchorbabes and audience who derided the methods as the ineffective tactics of losers -- even
though the theory was the product of the scientific method -- were never asked to give better
advice to the men, beyond telling them to try what has already failed them, and which is why
they turned to #pua in the first place. The absence of this confrontation in 2005 is why it is still
playing out in 2014, this time on social-media.
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To date, the bevy of social-climbers seeking the limelight have so far mostly declined their
fifteen minutes of fame by revealing their end of the Strauss highlight film, while on Valentine's
Day 2006, Leveridge was spotted having a romantic dinner with Robbie Williams, a man who
knows a thing or two about the #pua slogan of getting laid like a rockstar. Taking Strauss's
claims at face value, we have a man who, until his thirties, could barely get laid to save his life,
meets Mystery, learns the magic #pua methods, and, in his words, becomes the "second-best
#pua he knew," just two short years after terminating his lifelong losing streak. HIs trophy, his
Kate, is a thirty-six year-old drummer, rather than a barely-legal OTL or Kate. There is no
SHBDancer in his exploits, and certainly no Le Club, no drama like on the rooftop with
SHBDancer and ActorDude, and no mention of his own writer-groupies, of which there are
many. To treat The Game as the definitive #pua community work it has become is like treating
Touch Of Grey as the definitive Grateful Dead song. While true to its subject, it is greatly
oversimplified.

#takedownrsd (2006)

The 2014 incarnation of #takedownrsd, an offshoot of #takedownjulienblanc, is not the

first time someone has tried to exterminate RSD. In 2006, shortly after The Game had caused
an influx of the general public to the community, a man I'll call Slick began posting comments to
Thundercat's site (the one mentioned in The Game), about how RSD had refused to give him a
refund, after what he claimed was a bad experience at his bootcamp. Somehow, the negative
review went a bit viral, attracting a surprising amount of commentary and controversy,
regarding whether or not he was owed the refund, and about RSD bootcamps and their
customer service in general. Intrigued, I contacted Slick, to offer free #pua coaching, since he
obviously wanted to improve with women, and had just invested a few thousand towards that
aim. The response surprised me, to say the least.

From the moment I IMed him, Slick never wavered from his anti-RSD message, even when
I asked what he thought was holding him back with women, and where he believed he needed
to improve. I also asked for his backstory, so I could understand what made him want to be a
#pua, and all I got in response were his talking points, about how he was displeased with his
bootcamp, and not given a refund. I found it incredibly odd that a man who would pay three
dimes for a #pua bootcamp would reject an offer of free advice from someone as familiar with
the theory as anyone else, as he had a hand in pioneering it, but Slick just wasn't interested.
Finally, I called bulls**t, at which point he turned on me, telling me another guru, one who was
going to make him a bootcamp instructor (despite his being anything but a #pua), so I needed
to back off before he would make me pay for "interfering with his new career." Now it made
sense: in return for a promised lucrative #pua instructor gig, Slick was asked to trash RSD, with
his story in the role of linked-to content posted by others into any discussion involving RSD.

In my lawsuit against LTSC, I outlined what had happened with Slick, who then blamed me
for costing him the instructor gig, and continued to harass me for years, but in an eerily
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detached manner, which would have him acting mean one minute, and then engaging me the
next, finally asking for some feedback on why he hadn't gotten laid after a few years of #pua
instruction, but I was no longer willing to assist, instead just logging his threats and statements.
I still have his e-mails, and screenshots of his more vicious IMs, as the entire incident has been
discussed in my other writing.

If what I had learned was true, and it was proven to be true in subsequent years, #pua
companies who wanted to sustain their revenue after the hype from The Game died down
were turning to coach training programs, where men with absolutely no #pua skillz would first
pay for a bootcamp, and then pay up to $22,500.00 (15,000 GBP) to become certified as a #pua
instructor, even though they had never "fought the war." The status-obsessed public, who saw
the celebrity #pua guru on their tee-vee, treats these new instructors as if they are credible, as
if it were still 1998, even in 2014. A few years ago, a member of one such coach training
program spilled the beans, including internal documents, after he was denied a refund of his
tuition, by a man who was hounding him for not having paid his dues in full. It is bad enough
that software companies founded by high-school dropouts no longer hire those without a
degree, but to inject credentialing into #pua was pure lunacy. It was clear the #pua community
was falling apart; all I had to do was continue in my holding pattern.

Harassing My Dying Mother

With my mother clearly deteriorating, and possibly dying, I shifted my financial emphasis
clearly into the short term, by working on my medical-transcription gig (~$200.00 a week, on
average, for one long day of labor, or about $25.00 an hour), and augmenting my income with
writing (my #pua books have never stopped making money), PAP (which had turned seriously
profitable, with me winning thousands in 2006 and more in the years immediately prior), and a
new profitable niche: timecoded video transcription, whereby timecodes are added to a film
(or corporate video) transcript, to facilitate editing, and reduce their prohibitive cost by
pointing them by tying the dialogue to the timecode, eliminating the need for someone making
ten times what I make to hunt it down; I more than paid for myself. In 2007, I won $800.00+
from a $3.00 start at the end of Philadelphia Park, kicking tail at Mountaineer and Penn
National, before failing to pull the trigger on a $44.00 longshot bet caused me not to win
around $23,000.00. Things were still looking up, though my #pua career was all but over, until
Mom died of cancer in July. Four months prior to her death, I received two very disturbing
letters, sent not online, but by regular mail.

In the first letter, Mom was warned that "continuing to allow your son's internet activities
could result in legal consequences for you." The letter also advised Mom to "consider what's
best for your son when you are no longer around to enable him," as if she were my caregiver,
rather than the other way around. The letter went on to recite my lawsuit history, and note
that Google had moved for $11,000.00 in attorney fees when my lawsuit against them failed
(the judge denied that motion). It then quoted the hate website devoted to me, reprinting
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verbatim the rape/murder essay written by the imposter/groupie, whose search-results remain
clean to this day.

`I saved the letter as evidence, along with a second letter, sent a few days later. As a test,
I posted to ASF that someone had made a "death threat" against Mom, just to see who would
say what. As I expected, seemingly out of nowhere, Trunk resurfaced, to "refute" my claim that
Mom had been threatened. I had last heard from Trunk when he posted to me in response to a
phone call made to me by Slick's mother, who wondered why she had just received my lawsuit.
The only way Trunk could have known about that call was from Slick himself. Now, Trunk was
responding to the offline threat against Mom. He claimed that he had seen the letter, and
there was no such threat. Since I had never published the actual letter, I asked him where he
had found it, and Trunk replied that "someone" had posted it "somewhere" online, a claim he
could not substantiate.

When VH-1's The Pickup Artist premiered, Trunk posted links to the hate-websites about
me, one of which he had published himself at one time, while Viacom, who included the pivot
in its #pua glossary, without crediting me, stood down, and while the three million true villains
in the audience feigned ignorance incredibly well. Seeing this garbage on USENET was bad
enough, but seeing it on respected, mainstream sites told me that Big Media was no different
than the internet users they attempt to marginalize by acting as if they are somehow superior
because they are a television network, a legacy which is the calling card of companies unable to
truly adapt to the online space.

VH-1's The Pickup Artist

For years, Mystery had declined offers to bring #pua to cable television, preferring to keep
the movement he helped start underground. While he has made millions of dollars, the money
has always been incidental to his work, and nothing he went out of his way to acquire. He got
laid just as easily, if not moreso, when he was dead broke and running game with his magic
gimmick in bars, as he figured out that matrix. What made him "sell out" to the mainstream
media was his belief that he was betrayed by various business partners, after which he would
just walk away and start over, itself a very smart move. Also like me, he found his former
students becoming his competition, and to prevent his copycats from rising above his status, he
accepted TPUA, and the rest is history.

Like many "reality" shows, TPUA "worked within a framework," to put it gently. "The
club" from the opening episode had no name, and of course there had to be signed releases
from any model whose face was shown. The lovable loser #pua students were discovered to be
mostly aspiring actors and models, some with a bit of success, but that wasn't much of an issue,
since they were still men in search of better ways to get laid. The stripclub scene, however,
was impossible in the real world, since strippers who ask customers to leave the club with
them, at least in Texas, get busted for prostitution. Making out with customers is also an
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obvious no-no. When outside the club (OTC) happens, it is discreet, usually with the exchange
of social-media handles or cell numbers first. With that said, I credit Mystery's method with
most of my initial stripper success, though I generally find that any #pua capable of seducing a
stripper is also capable of doing better without the drama of #sexwork.

The winners of TPUA, and several runners-up, capitalized on their fame by becoming
gurus themselves. Taking this at face value, self-confessed losers with women, are trained by
an mPUA (master pickup artist), get laid a few times by random hot chicks, and suddenly they
are #pua gurus. I would argue that any man who failed so long with women needs to figure out
why, and fix the problem, then become a #pua, then wait years to see how his target women
turned out (I "gamed" Le Club for nine years, four times longer than TPUA remained on the air),
before they can advise other men, especially young ones, on what to do.

Being over the hill may have made my in-field demonstrations look like crap, but it did
give me the benefit of seeing how middle-age treated the OTL, Kate, SHBDancer, SHBJoffrey (a
dancer who aged horribly once she stopped exercising; beware of chicks who work out). Just as
an investor would put more faith in a money manager with a thirty-year track record versus one
with only five, a retired #pua like myself has time to reflect on his glory days, and put them in a
perspective that can only come with age. Another argument can be made for favoring the #pua
who had done well as an #afc.

With Mom gone, and my no longer having to function as her caregiver, I had more time to
devote to work, and to my writing. I de-litigated, letting all my lawsuits wind down, even the
Fake Ray Gordon case, part of the larger Fake Sam Sloan, where I was impersonated by a chess
official attempting to win an election by impersonating Sloan; I was used to divert suspicion,
and because I had filed a gender-discrimination suit over a $40,000.00, at-home editor's job
that was given to a female, with no males having been interviewed, something I felt women
would have sued over had the genders been reversed; I lost. During a second lawsuit against
UPenn, over a position they had given to a woman without interviewing men, with the woman
later claiming sexual harassment, I lost as well, and as UPenn's attorneys were attempting to
call me unemployable once again, the President's office sent me a rush transcription job for
which I made $125.00 in less than three hours.

With my CUPID rating dropping like a boulder, I focused completely on PAP, having given
up on the #pua audience, which was now copying the Mystery Method en masse. My work was
still available, but it took some searching to find it, and my name no longer stood out online, as
it had in 1998. To a world whose women never knew why I used the opening line your man got
his game from my website, and whose men were running said game without knowing its true
source, I was just another #pua copycat, just another bitter loser who was jealous of Neil
Strauss, Mystery, and these new, world-famous #pua. Like Calidoscopio, I remained far off the
pace, letting the frontrunners burn themselves out, as they inevitably would. The raw truth
from which ASF exploded was long gone, with mASF becoming more like the male answer to
Netgirl, than the spitting image of it "parent" newsgroup.
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In 2009, a rumored third season for TPUA was aborted, the series was cancelled, the
media was more or less done with the community, and...now what? The excitement from The
Game and TPUA was predicated on the villainous audience being able to duplicate the results
of its heroes. The explosion in revenue for media-blessed #pua companies, particularly
Venusian Arts Corporation (Mystery's gig after he split with Benedict over how to divide the
$3.2 million they made in 2006, after The Game), but also the Stylelife Academy, with its
monthly subscription model, and, of course, RSD, DeAngelo, and the newly-minted #pua
celebrities from The Game, and especially the recently transformed lovable losers from TPUA,
some of whom were charging $2,000.00+ for a weekend bootcamp, despite having barely
stopped their own losing streaks, and then only because they were on television. Suffice it to
say I wouldn't have traded my bootcamps with Trust and Pony for one with any commercial
#pua. Had I come of age today, I'd have done the work myself and consumed the free material.

The Magic Twenty

In late 2008, I began writing Understanding And Seducing The Social-Climbing Sl*t, based
on my experiences with the OTL, and what I had learned about golddiggers, or how to run what
had become known as lifestyle game, the name used to sugarcoat that this style of "seduction"
had been frowned upon by the Class of 1998, who saw using "lifestyle" (money) to get laid, was
the stuff of "AFC provider chumps," whose women would f**k #pua on the side while using
their money to buy gifts for the men they really wanted. As the community grew, and the
gurus needed to teach something that actually resulted in sex, this minor shark-jumping fit the
bill, allowing the gurus to give #pua the credit anytime a man ran game and got laid, with the
$300.00+ he dropped on their first date conveniently ignored. I had finally thrown in the towel
with regard to my politics, as they had left me not wealthy in middle-age, and without the looks
I had so underestimated, my body having betrayed me sometime around 2005. In this new
title, I was going to advise men to ignore #pua "game" and complete something like my seven-
year plan to become wealthy enough to buy the OTL. Then came the Magic Twenty.

On January 20, 2009, three weeks into an experiment with PAP whose results I was going
to publish in Price And Probability: Volume II (PAP II), my betting bankroll had dwindled to
$20.00, just as I had lost my medical-transcription gig, my primary income. With the financial
crisis in full steam, things were not looking good, and I decided to take my mind off my troubles
by making one "last" attempt to make the Parx venture profitable. I also decided I would
"frontload" my betting, risking the entire $20.00 on the first three races, continuing only if I
won.

At 11:45 a.m., I shut off my television, because Obama's inauguration was an incredible
distraction, and zoned in on my Form, since I was fighting for both my survival, and the three-
month PAP experiment, which I would truncate to one month in the event I ran out of betting
money (I hate doing research on which I cannot wager since picking winners becomes painful).
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Thanks to a 21-1 winner in the third, who keyed three pick-three (p3) "signers" (IRS forms
required), and left me with $2,583.60 at the end of the day, my best ever. Two weeks later I
would have $13,000.00 in TURD money, just as a world which had stolen my money, and
taunted me as a loser, was going broke, getting fired, and up to its eyeballs in overhead and
debt. The freezing of the global credit market created a cash crunch which amplified the value
of my money by a factor of five or ten, especially since my very low living expenses were
covered. I was literally standing on the financial graves of those who had long ago declared me
dead, and it felt great. I had enough Spitzers (see BOS) to hire ten SHBProstitutes, had I
wanted, or fifty of the NHB variety. Overnight, I had officially become a winner.

In March, 2009, America died, of a stab wound to the back, inflicted by its elected leaders,
who created the ultimate moral hazard by printing trillions of dollars to rescue the one percent,
who should have lost everything, under the capitalism they embraced until they became the
losers they used to ridicule. Their golddigging wives should have suffered the consequences of
backing the wrong horse, and joined their trader trash on the food lines. Instead, the wealthy
were given a Mulligan, and a failing grade for life on the money question on the Gamblers
Anonymous entrance exam: Have you ever had a bailout? Just as I had risen above my haters
financially, Washington steps in and demotes my cash from King For Life to court jester. From
that moment on, women who chose men based on wealth they no longer deserved were not
just ignoring ethical flaws, but hooking up with flat-out welfare bums who needed a handout to
survive. Unless we plan on bailing them out again, they will wind up broke yet again.

After the winning streak, with the United Socialists Of America now firmly in power, I
decided that the $8,000.00+ I had won in two weeks was nice, but that I wanted the next streak
to yield $80,000.00, or even ten times that amount, enough to reward a sustained winning
streak with retirement. I became a jackpot hunter, always risking any minor profits in an
attempt to break the bank. I am still Between Jackpots (the title of another of my horseplaying
books), and have since published PAP II, but I devote only limited energy to the labor-intensive
racetrack, choosing instead to focus on Wall Street these days, as it's more respectable, traders
and analysts can get high-paying jobs, and trading is much more respectable than horseplaying,
even if a trader can easily take risks which would make even the most hardened racetrack
degenerate blush.

Bettor Off Single

After my big winning streak, my two hobbies -- the sl*t book, and PAP -- had suddenly
become jobs, with PAP threatening to earn me a living, and the #pua book, which I could now
afford to write, my attempted comeback. I toyed with using TURD-money game by completely
frontloading, moving to Manhattan for five or six months -- sublets were so cheap I could live
on literally any block in the city for less than $1,000.00 a month -- not work (unless I could find
a high-paying law-office or Wall Street job), and just spend my days as a writer finishing his
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latest work, with total congruence in my attire, demeanor, and supreme confidence that can
only come with wealth.

For six months, I could play $13,000.00 millionaire, perhaps parlaying it into sex with
super-elites. What stopped me from doing this also inspired me to expand the book to include
more than just the OTL, with a title change to Bettor Off Single, a play on Better Off Dead, John
Cusack's breakthrough film, with Kate my "Beth," and with the spelling reflecting that had I
been in a relationship or marriage, my partner would likely have made it impossible to become
a winning bettor, as they'd have lost confidence during the lean times. Rather than spend
down all the money in Manhattan, I chose instead to use it as an advance, treating myself as if I
were a "real" author, and covering my living expenses for the remainder of the year, or my self-
imposed deadline of whenever Mystery's new #pua book, The Pickup Artist, would drop. I
decided to publish BOS on the same day as Mystery's book, so that no one could accuse either
of us of having been influenced by the other's work. I elected to write a biographical narrative,
rather than a dry recital of theory, for the simple reason that biographies are much more
difficult to pirate.

My Calidoscopio strategy of starving the community of any new theory since 2001 had
finally begun to pay off, as the newly minted #pua gurus who were entering the market were
teaching the same old theory, even further exacerbating its saturation. With TPUA winding up
its final season, public awareness of #pua was at its peak, as were the expectations of the men
who had been told this was the way to get laid by hot women. Against this juggernaut, I would
be up against it, so I decided to focus exclusively on writing the best #pua book I could, without
caring if it ever made me a single dime, or attracted even a single reader. I blocked out all the
commercialism, the drama, the haters, and the bullsh*t, delved deeper into my memories than
ever before, and used my middle-aged perspective, and a peace and quiet not available to a top
#pua in his prime, to review my life, in its entirety, to figure out, once and for all, what the f**k
had happened that caused me to go from a mild-mannered, "too nice" AFC, to the Battle of
Kate, and then to twenty-nine years of unrivaled commitment-phobia that gave me more
experience than men who had been "happily married" all this time. I would write for me, with
anyone else invited to tag along.

Since BOS is free at http://www.toosmarttofail.com/bos.html, where a testimonial from

my top #pua student can also be found, the reader doesn't need me to explain its contents in
detail. I'll say only that the book was rewritten thirty-three times prior to its publication, with
my starting over fresher, and sharper, with each Groundhog Day, until my writing finally self-
actualized, allowing me to find the perfect tone to communicate with the reader. In my first
message to Kate since a brief phone call in 1998, I told her I had just written "the book I needed
to read exactly three days before I met you." This post-mortem reflected some drastic
challenges to my previously held beliefs, and reflected knowledge unavailable to me when I
wrote Foxes, particularly with regard to how my former "targets," including the four aces,
turned out. I replaced CUPID with the card-CAT system which uses rank to measure SMV, and
suit to account for relationship preferences, correcting the flaw that had Kate and I perfectly
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compatible under CUPID, except that I wanted marriage and she did not. Under card-CAT, Kate
would have been ruled out for anything more than the hookup she apparently had sought.

As my money wore down, I managed to replace my lost income with timecoded-video-

transcription gigs, including a few feature films, which were fascinating, but not as lucrative as
the corporate jobs, some for Mom's old Manhattan clients, thanks to my half-priced labor
compared to my hometown. This, combined with revenue from PAP, and some winnings here
and there (but no jackpots), kept me going, as I continued to shape BOS into what I had
envisioned. Looking back, I was shocked at how much had transpired, that I even had the
energy to make it transpire, and the sheer intensity of my efforts to seduce the world's sexiest
women, only few of which succeeded. I certainly had no idea that my rejection by the OTL and
Kate, or my bootcamps with Trust and Pony, would result in #pua methods that would be
adopted by men the world over, and which would "inspire" many in the media to write
"similar" works offering #pua advice.

On January 26, 2010, Mystery and I each released our books, and the public can read both
of them if they wish to compare. I don't know the current pricing of Mystery's book, but BOS is
absolutely free. Since I don't require an e-mail address to Get Instant Access to BOS, I have no
idea how many have downloaded it, but my e-mail inbox suggests it has a small, loyal fan base.
I was glad to have written it, for had I not completed it when I did, I likely never would have
finished it. I would use BOS to offer a superior alternative to the expensive premium content
and bootcamps which were still making the more popular #pua companies wealthy, though I
also knew that many gurus were hurting financially, due to the market having become
overcrowded just as the media exposure was drying up. Simple mathematics is all one needs to
know to calculate that, despite the celebrity #pua claims that any man can duplicate their
exploits had yet to materialize. That was good news for me: the men who had ignored my
advice for years, like a hottie ignoring a #niceguy, were now open to new ideas, after the
"badboy" had failed them, just like I figured. Calidoscopio was finally getting into gear.

George Sodini

In August, 2009, George Sodini, who had attended a Men Of Steele Balls bootcamp, run by
ASF alum R. Don Steele, shot up a Pittsburgh L.A. Fitness Center, killing three women, before
turning his weapon on himself, rather than have to sort through the hundreds of marriage
proposals he would have received in prison. A Good Morning America segment replayed
Sodini's video #pua diary, on YouTube, which included a shot of his coffee table, on which a
copy of How To Date Young Women For Men Under Thirty-Five sat in plain sight. The videos
discussed Steele, his seminars, and how much faith Sodini had that he would finally get the hot
chicks he desired so badly. Despite being the lifestyle opposite of me, with his own home, a
high five4-figure salary at a lawfirm, and a quarter-million dollar retirement nest egg, and
despite being in shape, though balding, but not bad-looking, he had not been laid since 1990.
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Having worked with many men like Sodini, who talk at people, rather than with them, he was
exactly the type of man I went out of my way not to be when I became a #pua.

Those who claim Sodini should have just hired hookers fail to realize that even his finances
would have been ruined by a predatory one inside of a month. At $1,500.00 a lay, three times a
week, he would have run out of Spitzers (an economic unit of measure identical to the present
cost of a high-priced callgirl) long before he ran out of desire. Had he been willing to settle for
NHBs, he could easily have supported one who would have been pleased just not to have to
work, but he wanted the best. Sodini's anger was similar to that of someone unwilling to
practice like a professional, who wonders why he never gets invited to try out for his favorite
team, not realizing that a semi-pro league may be his destiny instead. Sodini had more than
enough to offer a woman, had he not been so narcissistic, or clueless (a sign of Asperger's), his
ridiculous sense of sexual entitlement, fueled by #pua teachings (of which I am a part, I know),
made him a powder keg ready to detonate at the first failed reality test.

On Criminal Minds, the fake FBI profilers often speak of injustice collectors, who never let
go of perceived wrongs, or grudges against those blamed for inflicting them, until they snap,
striking out at their "oppressors," or surrogates for same, killing indiscriminately, and
graphically, until their plan unravels right before the last commercial break. Sodini had been
collecting injustice for two decades, mostly related to his AFC fairytale not coming true, and his
"becoming an alpha male" (as if that were possible) did little more than burn up his money. I'm
sure he was "injusticed" many times, as women are prone to do to everyone, even mPUA, but
was most angry at the failure of the magic hottie to materialize, making it all worthwhile.
Sodini's isolation and righteous anger gave way to a rage which had been on full display on the
internet for two years before his shooting, yet there were no intervention.

Post-mortems noted his failed #pua efforts, but the gun-control and mental-illness lobbies
won that year's World Series Of Blame. Scant attention was paid to Sodini, or the tens of
thousands of ticking time bombs just like him, other failed #pua who were growing impatient
with the promise of The Game and The PUA giving way to the cold, hard reality of life as an
incel, not much different than they were before someone on the internet, in the newspaper,
and on their tee-vee told them that they were about to get sex from beautiful women. For
Sodini, trained to be "alpha," he chose mass murder over "backing down" and admitting he was
just a "beta." His total lack of empathy made him blind to his failure, thus eliminating his
potential for self-improvement via post-mortem, as I had done dating back to the OTL. While I
may have questioned the sanity of the super-elites who rejected me, I placed the burden on
myself to attract them, the opposite of entitlement, and why I worked so hard on my skillz.

Sodini's total failure as a #pua was vindication of my "financially unstable" lifestyle which
had me scoring super-elites as a chessplayer, a low-earning secretary, and a writer and
wannabe internet entrepreneur, and, of course, as a loser who lived with his mother, the
woman who taught him not to suffer the opinions of fools, bullies, and fair-weather friends.
Sodini had everything I lacked in my prime, yet he was completely invisible to the super-elites
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who wanted me badly enough to follow me down Chestnut Street, stalk me at the Washington
Square Park chess tables, or let their cousin deliver them to my living room late one Sunday
night, only to be rebuffed, probably for the first time in her life. He never had a woman jump
six rows on an airplane to sit next to him, or call out to him while he walked past her bedroom
window on the street level two floors below. Sodini had his own place, a nice job, was well-
educated, well-groomed, and...incel.

After Sodini's killing spree, I posted comments to the internet, and wrote in BOS, about
how the #pua community's aggressive marketing tactics, and copycat instructors, were a recipe
for disaster, since these wannabe #alphamales would lash out rather than back down when
reality tested. The response to the comments, posted in mainstream news publications? Links
to the hate websites. One author at an "alt-weekly" (the free papers you see at bus stops and
laundromats), obviously familiar with the community, responded to my complaint about the
#cyberbullying, said, smugly, "We know allllllllll about you." These were otherwise rational,
civilized, mature individuals caught up in that nasty group contagion thing, their absolution
from any accountability or responsibility for the hate they were spreading about me. Thanks to
search engines, defamation had turned into a scarlet letter, one causing these otherwise
rational people to ignore and ostracize me, all pawns of instigators like Derek Trunk, and a
number of others who were spreading the lies, and even making threats. Now it was
happening not on USENET, where such behavior is expected, but on "respectable" websites
where such conduct should not be tolerated, and would not, had the target been female.

Post-Sodini, a brief debate over male sexual entitlement on one side, and whether or not a
woman should take one for the team by giving Sodini a charity f**k on the other, petered out
after a promising beginning, with attention quickly shifting to the impact of the financial crisis,
and concerns over whether the worst was over (turned out it was, at least so far), when we
weren't captivated by media campaigns like #takedownjohnedwards, followed shortly by
#takedowndavidletterman, and #takedowntigerwoods, making it the worst year on record for
the #alphamale, exposed by sexual vulnerability to be little more than a #betawithmoney. No
mind was paid to the toxic nature of the extreme elements within the #pua community, though
R. Don Steele was hardly extreme. RSD was thriving back in 2009, the same #pua factory that it
is today, yet no attempt was made to #takedownrsd, or Julien Blanc, who was just beginning his
career as a professional #pua.

Despite the teachable moment offered by this tragedy, the lessons would have to wait
until the next virgin rampage (in this case, an incel rampage), which, like the next asteroid to
hit Earth, is just a matter of time; five years, to be exact.

What's YOUR Price Of Admission?

As age continued to wreck my #pua game, I found myself with infinite solitude with which
to reflect on my past, in continuous search of the real truth about men, women, and seduction.
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I had figured out a great deal, but no one has more than a fraction of the matrix mapped out.
In 2011, when a younger version of myself began paying my reasonable #pua coaching rates
(comparable to my rates for any labor), for round-the-clock (when I was around) access to my
knowledge, even in the heat of battle. Jeff, the name I gave him in Price of Admission (first
chapter free at http://www.toosmarttofail.com/poa.pdf), had failed with the better-known
#pua methods, turned to BOS, loved what he read, and wanted ongoing advice from the
middle-aged source who, like Pony, had retired from #pua, and who welcomed the opportunity
to live vicariously through a top-flight, high-SMV student, in part to see just how much his
knowledge would help the next generation exceed his own skillz, but also who just had a lot of
free time, and nothing terribly exciting in competition with it. I had found my successor.

In very short order, Jeff had eliminated most of his stupid mistakes, replacing them with
smart mistakes, from which he would learn, and which he would never repeat, and learned
how to maximize the enormous advantage of his SMV. Within weeks, he went from having
difficulty with NHB to having difficulty finding women in his league, necessitating a move to a
large, urban area, with a detour in China, where wealthy men badgered him for his secrets on
attracting the women they thought they could buy. Like me, he quickly developed contempt
for other men, and pity for the women who had to endure being hit on by those other men.

In 2012, when "Jeff" declined my offer to introduce him to the world as the next great
#pua, he declined without thinking, saying he wanted no part of the cesspool that had become
the #pua community, I initially took offense, since here was a shining example of my #pua
coaching prowess; how dare he not want to become a pawn in my business model! A few
seconds later, I realized he was right, and that there was no reason for him to soil his lifestyle in
something so filthy. I also realized that working with a super-elite student was beating the
system, almost like Phil Jackson "coaching" players like Jordan, Pippen, Kobe, and Shaq to his
nine titles; it's easy to work with the best. With that said, most of my competitors got to work
with him first, and couldn't bring out his true strength. This led to the introspection which led
to Price of Admission, with "Jeff" symbolizing my younger self, but with the benefit of the #pua
knowledge I did not come across until I was older. I also believe that fiction (!) is the ideal way
to communicate #pua theory, rather than through some dry, how-to text.

The central thesis of Price Of Admission is simple: all romantic love is superficial.
Unconditional love is reserved for our parents, our pets, and the human spirit, but when the
lack of looks, money, status, height, popularity becomes a dealbreaker, we are talking about
desire, not "love." There is absolutely nothing wrong with this, except when we attempt to
claim a moral high ground by putting a spiritual face on something inherently shallow, the way
AFC do, as if they didn't want the same women as the #pua (hot), for exactly the same reasons
(lust), and for exactly the same things (sex). Saying "there must be more" than looks is like
saying there must be more than white skin for a KKK member to like someone. The dance of
denial is mutual: both men and women have an interest in denying any exchange of power for
beauty, as this makes him seem shallow and horny, and her seem a prostitute. The denial is
exposed like $100.00 oil when SMVs begin changing.
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The price of admission governs not just mating, but all social-interaction, and is the root
of social-climbing, fair-weather friendship, and all two-faced behavior: those who meet our
price see our good side, while those who do not are fair game for abuse, bullying, and active
attempts to make false imputations of being a loser a self-fulfilling prophecy, by treating the
target as such, over something as trivial as their income, wealth, clothing, height, looks, age, or
whether or not they still live with their parents. The presumption that those whose lifestyle do
not meet with one's approval are in the wrong is not rooted in any kind of reality. The
underlying logic that, when we finally meet the price of those who really care nothing about us
has always struck me as absurd. Watching those who found it "fun" to bully me kiss up to those
who met their #price was very revealing.

The price of admission can be anything from actual money, to some fetish or kink, to
political beliefs like #feminism, or its repudiation, to...anything. Everyone has their price.

#takedownPUAHate

In 2009, Nicholaus, an Illinois internet user, founded puahate.com, the now-infamous,

defunct website to which Cal-Santa Barbara virgin rampage killer Elliot Rodger posted his rants,
links to his manifesto, and clear warnings of retribution against the beautiful women he
believed had turned him down for men he deemed morally inferior, the lie I have called out
many times as best-man-wins, which we know rarely happens in the real world, unless one
seriously tinkers with the scoring system. Rodger, whose parents were wealthy, with
Hollywood connections, drove an expensive sports car, and could have gotten laid on lifestyle
alone, but he wanted more: he wanted women to change the way they chose men, and no
amount of money spent on hookers would ever make that happen and solve his issue.
Immediately after the virginal rampage, #takedownpuahate began, led by #sjw with little or no
familiarity with the site, which did not support #pua, but reviled it, or with #pua in general.
Only the AFC narrative would be favored by the #p*ssywhipped news media.

Purportedly, PUAHate existed to #takedownpua, yet many accused the site of being co-
opted, or even secretly owned, by a #pua guru. While the site gave a voice to the increasing
number of men for whom The Game and TPUA not only did not live up to their promise, but
were blamed for lending credibility to the #pua community, resulting in their having been
"scammed" out of thousands of dollars for a bootcamp, or, in the case of Christopher "Chris"
Flack (the name used on PUAHate), $22,000.00+ for "coach training" to become a highly-paid
#pua instructor himself. Flack, a mid-level bank employee, went public with his concerns over
the training, his request for a refund, and attempts by the #pua guru-guru to collect on the
unpaid balance for the expensive coach training.

Flack's campaign put such a serious crimp in the coach-coach's business their website was
"updated." Ross Jeffries, who created puafraud.com to blow the whistle on the commercial
underbelly of the community, devoted several blog posts to the coach-coaches, and how
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students would feel, knowing their elite #pua instructor was some guy who needed a
bootcamp himself not long ago, and paid tuition for his title. When asked why he signed up for
the teacher-teacher program, Flack specifically cited TPUA as the source of the guru-guru's
credibility.

PUAHate was a "red pill" site which took pride in seeing through the dating matrix with
Occam's-razor-lie precision: LMS (looks, money, and status) were what women wanted, and
men who lacked these key attractants had to settle, or would be incel, a term coined on the
site. Stories of being "conned" out of money they freely spent, for gurus they eagerly sought
out, often starstruck by their name-recognition, all years removed from the power struggle
which yielded the "moderated website" that played kingmaker, and the near-total lack of
competition for its privileged advertising class. Rather than contemplate that they were denied
access to information that would have changed their decisions, or their own role in failing to
find that information on their own, they cry all #pua are scammers, and wonder why women
can't see how special they are, even as every word out of their mouth telegraphs their
unworthiness.

By far, the most popular target on #puahate was RSD, who was chided not for what is
mentioned today, but mostly for producing social robots, who follow a strict playbook with
which they disagreed. Cook, Kho, and the many RSD instructors, including Blanc, were regularly
mentioned in postings to #puahate. Debates raged to the end about whether or not the
publicity this gave RSD, and the other targeted gurus, outweighed its negativity, and the
consensus was that it did. Several gurus I had never heard of wound up building names
because of repeated mentions on the site.

A cautionary tale for #takedownjulienblanc is the persistent demand for dating-advice that
actually works. The Sh*tty Advice section, originally designed to mock the community, led to
actual requests for advice, with anyone who responded ridiculed as a know-it-all, by incels
seizing their big chance to feel superior to someone. The post entitled There Is Something That
Works, Isn't There? sums up the quest for #pua knowledge that sparked the creation of the
community in the first place, and why #pua will always be taught, by men like Pony and Trust,
who definitely know what they are doing, and by internet-marketers who "synthesize" the
theory of others, and use their marketing savvy to make more than the creators of the theory.

Although I had decried the concept of a community as an illegal cartel, and even litigated
towards that end, and even though my books were reasonably priced, with much of the same
theory taught by those charging thousands, I was treated as just another #pua scammer,
drowned out by noise, and then defamed by links to the same, tired lies that everyone who
disagrees with me on social media uses as a shaming and wrongfooting ad hominem tactic, to
avoid properly supporting their arguments, just like #takedownjulienblanc does by linking to
the same two videos, as if Blanc were locked inside them for all eternity. The real villain here is
Section 230, which immunizes ISPs and websites for allowing user-generated "hate marketing,"
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and false advertising. This punished honest #pua companies and gurus, who played by the
offline rules, and allowed the defamers and harassers to dominate the market.

When I was defamed no #puahate, Nicholaus claimed Section 230 immunity, but
eventually deleted the postings, when I noted a few things I won't get into here. Six months
later, the site was gone anyway, but I found it telling that he would allow the
#takedownraygordon tactics, when his site's TOS explicitly prohibited this conduct. Not all of it
was defamatory: born twenty years too late for YouTube, my videos show a #pua they never
heard of, pushing fifty, flipping on an old webcam (Logitech c510) with bad audio, in a regular
apartment, and it becomes easy to judge me superficially, even though this has nothing to do
with my ability as a teacher. The gamma male's mind is such that his one chance to bully
someone he believes to be beneath him trumps any idea that I might be able to teach him, and
he acts accordingly, as if attempting to impress some invisible deity. The logic is simple, and
dates back to ASF: the cool kids don't like me, so if he attacks me, the cool kids would like him.
I had hoped that one day the truth, and the strength of my #pua ideas, would win out, but that
seemed hopeless by this point.

#puahate also focused a great deal on how the #pua gurus target Aspies (men with
Asperger's) for the high-priced bootcamps and guru-guru programs. Aspies make the perfect
#pua customer: high-functioning, high-earning (usually in tech), socially awkward loners whose
disability makes them, unable to detect deception (see the film The Invention Of Lying for how
this plays out in real life), enamored with celebrity status, wanting to improve with women, and
equating disparagement of rival companies and bullying of dissenters as being #alpha. Aspies
do not handle betrayal well, and many who would otherwise have remained harmless, wind up
gassed up and juiced up by the #alphamale dream, believing they have to "act alpha" at all
times, which is why they won't back down when reality-tested. Like George Sodini, or Dexter,
they don't feel empathy, instead learning to blend in by emulating those around them.

Another oddity about #puahate was its refusal to cover certain #pua scandals which
normally would have made great fodder for the website, leading some to wonder if certain
#pua gurus had favored status, but for the most part, no one was spared, though even this did
not eliminate accusations of astroturfing, using the logic that an astroturfer would attempt to
deflect suspicion by including himself as a target of his posting attack. Prior to its demise,
#puahate was a valuable internet property, one I likened to the original ASF, ground-zero for
#pua2.0, with the increasingly commercialized, post-Game "seduction industry" in the role of
Prodigy and Netgirl, more concerned with keeping users and sponsors happy, than with simply
speaking the truth. #puahate, more than any other site in recent memory, was a bastion of
#freespeech to rival the original ASF itself, with the top "haters" forming what could also be
called the Class of 2009.
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Hasta Isla Vista, Baby

I come from the school of writing and comedy that not only says all targets are fair game for
humor, but that dark humor is a necessary part of processing national tragedies, such as the
joke about NASA needing another seven astronauts, after the Challenger disaster, which
claimed the life of teacher Christa McAuliffe, whose reported last words to her husband were
"you feed the cats; I'll feed the fish." All joking aside, it was anything but funny when, thirty-
four years minus one day removed from my first kiss, I awoke slightly before midnight, signed
on to Twitter, did a search for #pua, and quickly discovered that I was Public Enemy Number
One, or at least in the top ten, because, this time, #pua was winning the World Series Of Blame,
easily dispatching the gun-control lobby, and the mental-illness lobby, claiming that this babe-
slaughter had one, and only one, cause: misogyny. And entitlement. And #maleprivilege. And
#whiteprivilege, until it was learned that Rodger was half-Asian. #feminists go off on tangents
a lot, which is why this article is now pushing triple-digits in single-spaced pages.

Immediately after the shooting, the same mainstream media which has attempted to
marginalize the internet as home to a bunch of irrelevant losers -- if you don't believe me, read
their social-media feeds -- conducted extensive background research on Rodger -- they typed
his name into Google -- which led them to his secret posting history on #puahate. Soon after,
the usual #feminist suspects got into the act, writing articles about Elliot Rodger's Secret World
O Bitter, Angry, Misogynist, Loser #pua Who Live With Their Mother, or something like that.
The articles played to negative stereotypes about older, single men, particularly those who live
with their mother, using strawman attacks on the weakest #pua methods, often ones which
worked sixteen years ago, until the red-queen came calling. The men of #puahate, who either
were not #pua at all, or the ones with low SMV, and those who got the worst results, were
suddenly the public faces of the #pua community. My tweets about #pua companies and their
marketing as the root of thee virgin-rampage were met with dismissal for being a #pua,
taunting, defamatory linking, and, of course, informing the world that I had been #blocked.
Ouch!

Sixteen years after I warned about game over in Foxes, the confrontation between
#feminists, #niceguys, and #pua is finally here, on the internet, where it belongs, and I am
finally where I claimed to want to be, in the center of its firestorm, defending my craft with
anti-feminist arguments which are not easily dismissed, not because I "hate" feminism, but
because I have always seen women as equals, and do not think they benefit from a biased
system in their favor. My belief in true equality means automatic support for women's rights,
and the rights of everyone, including whites, males, white-males, and even the one percent.
When I note traditional discrimination, I'm a treasured #maleally, but if I note the several cases
where the script is flipped, I am branded part of the evil #patriarchy.
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#yesallwomen

"Not all women are wh*res, but all men get propositioned by them."

NAWALT stands for not all women are like that, has been the standard female rebuttal to
any complaint made by any man, ever, regarding any woman, having done anything to him.
That woman is not the new woman, who refuses to be wrongfooted the way she does to men,
by making them pay for her cheating ex by having to agree to round-the-clock surveillance in
order to get laid. Despite this policy, women often hold all men accountable for the sins of the
worst, under guise of self-preservation, while they also judge men based on their reputation
with other women. If her ex-boyfriend disparages her, he is deemed an obsessed stalker, while
if she posts a warning about him to dontdatehimgirl.com, a site once referred to by a cable
anchorbimbo as a social-networking site, she's just "protecting her sisters from abuse." I was
waiting for the comedy skit where some trailer-trash "warns" women not to date Denzel W.,
Brad P., Justin T., and other #alphamales. With #yesallwomen, #feminists have embraced the
very logic they used to justify imputing mental illness misogyny, bitterness, anger and rage onto
men.

After the virgin rampage, #notallmen was used in much the same way as NAWALT, to
argue that Rodger was an isolated case who was batsh*t crazy, and not even a #pua, given his
postings to an anti-#pua site. Somehow, #puahate became associated with the community, by
those with no knowledge of its history, or its culture. They speak in generalized terms about
sleazy pickup artists, as if the remainder of men weren't also #pua, just using AFC methods
because they believe that will work instead. The divide-and-conquer strategy plays nicely into
#feminist hands, with women using more traditional means of winning arguments, such as
sexual taunting and manipulation, reminding men that if they don't support #feminism, they'll
never again get laid, and if that doesn't shut them up, their big, strong boyfriend will.

Since #yesallwomen went viral, it has become the umbrella battlecry for a number of
#feminist #hashtags, including those designed to raise awareness of #domesticviolence (except
the part where #singlemoms look the other way when their boyfriends beat their kids),
#rapeculture (where nonrapists are blamed for rape, and told to confront random men to tell
them not to rape), #nomra (dismissing the #mensrightsmovement the way #feminism was
dismissed in its infancy), #yesmeansyes (requiring "affirmative consent" for sex), #revengeporn
(where jilted exes post nudes sent during the relationship, without consent), #youoksis, an
offshoot of the #streetharassment crusade, and, finally, #takedownjulienblanc, and
#takedownpua, the latter of which has surprisingly not gone viral, though it should, in due time.
With all they have to endure, the #waronwomen tag makes sense. Even men, once thought to
be as useful as a bicycle for a fish, are now invited to join #allmencan and #heforshe, Emma
Watson's new name for the #friendzone. Traditional women, sensing an opportunity to score
pinots with men, have rebelled as #womenagainstfeminism.
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With #feminists on the social-media warpath, governments have taken note and taken
action. California led the way with one of the nation's first #revengeporn laws, with over a
dozen states, and many countries, following suit. California also passed an #affirmativeconsent
law, making #yesmeansyes the official policy of schools receiving state funding, and was quickly
followed by my alma mater, SUNY. The definition of campus rape has become so slippery that
it effectively bars drunken sex, since a drunk person cannot give consent, it makes rapists out of
women for the first time (since getting a man drunk and f**king him is now rape), and makes
#rapesurvivors out of men who, like me on numerous occasions at Binghamton, a school now
governed by #yesmeansyes, were taken advantage of while drunk. A video of an actress
walking through Harlem and other minority-dominated neighborhoods in Manhattan that
should have been called White Men Don't Catcall, edited out white perpetrators of the new
high crime against women, with strong racial and class overtones, since these women are often
harassed on their way to work at jobs where they have to dress slutty and/or f**k the boss to
get hired.

The gender war sparked by #yesallwomen is very much a replay of the late 1970s, an era
symbolized by the SNL skit Point/Counterpoint, where Dan Ackroyd's counterpoint would
always begin with "Jane, you ignorant sl*t." Many Captain-save-a-chick types have again
bought into the AFC narrative, in much greater numbers, since #takedownjulienblanc and
#takedownpua have emerged. Like their 1970s ancestors, today's AFC are merely #pua who are
convinced that being the "nice guy" is the way to get them laid. Just as #yesallwomen can and
will sabotage a #pua on principle, they have the power, in theory, to have sex with this new
brand of AFC, but I wouldn't hold my breath. That these allegedly #feminist women -- most of
whom nowhere near pretty enough to attract a #pua like Pony, Trust, or me in my prime -- are
spending their days and nights fixated on the very type of man they claim to hate has prompted
me to ask more than one of them: "Don't you have a nice guy to go f**k or something?"
Actions speak louder than words; the ladies doth protest too much.

#takedownjulienblanc

#takedownjulienblanc marks the third or fourth attempt to destroy #rsd, this time by
attacking one of its star instructors. In this crusade, I see the usual suspects, saying the usual
things, and using the usual shaming tactics, like they did with #takedownraygordon. On
Twitter, many have linked to hate-websites about me, with the same disgusting lies, in ways
almost identical to a decade ago, with some even repeating the same old flames verbatim, or
referencing things only a veteran ASFer would remember. The difference this time is that
Twitter, unlike USENET, is traceable, and has a TOS policy that they occasionally enforce. The
public is also wiser to the tactics of groups like #anonymous, some of whose members were
involved in #takedownraygordon, and who are now using similar tactics to support
#takedownjulienblanc. As with #takedownraygordon, only one of a large number of #pua gurus
are being targeted, by a group that seems not to care about engaging in rational discussion or
Buy Ray Charles Gordon Books On Investing, Chess, Horseplaying, And #pua Exclusively At Amazon Kindle:
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debate. Are we to conclude that all the other #pua companies are fine? Why is Blanc being
wrongfooted with a black PR campaign? One can only speculate.

As for me, I leave my #pua work proudly on my site, much of it free, and collect monthly
payments from Amazon's Kindle, where all of my books, including those on chess, weight-loss,
and horse racing, plus some fiction, can be found. My top student and I converse regularly, and
he is enjoying life much like I did at his age, with the head start of not having to learn
everything the hard way, like his coach, who is happy to sit back, dispense advice, and live
vicariously through him. I have become a fulltime options trader, apparently with quite a talent
for it. It is my hunger games, the only fair, level playing field on which I am rewarded properly
for success, a true meritocracy. Readers who spent the last few weeks blocking me on Twitter,
or internet-snooping me to find dirt, have ignored two very profitable stock picks, including a
double-short oil ETF which would have made them a good deal of money, had they not been so
hung up on the negativity they claim to avoid, yet perpetuate.

Like Calidoscopio, I've found my stride, just as my rival #pua gurus have taken it on the
chin. For those who wonder about the racehorse's best effort, here's a link to the video of the
2013 Brooklyn Handicap: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ehYCNtW8vJk

Chickstarter

Femiphobia has become so contagious that even Kickstarter allowed itself to become
Chickstarter, when the site predicated on letting the market decide which projects deserve
funding, to bad funding for any #pua or dating-advice books, based on an #sjw campaign to
#takedown the author, who had written a few things that ticked off a few feminists somewhere
on the internet, a while back, according to searches. Those who use Chickstarter are giving the
same tacit approval to #censorship that ASF gave towards me in 1998, and we can see how that
all worked out.

The Future Of #pua

The fallout from the bridges women are burning with men, on many fronts, will be felt for
many years to come. The #mgtow movement (look it up) is the perfect rebuttal, since the men
just ignore women, keeping their time, attention, and money to themselves, except on the
most favorable terms. I'm sure women will find a way to complain about his too, calling the
men weak and cowardly for not approaching women, after telling them that doing so
constituted harassment. The biggest change is that women no longer placate "loser" men with
someone-for-everyone bullsh*t, since the emphasis now is on total emasculation, to where
men are afraid of hitting on women at all, especially the peons on the street, where women
dictate the pace of the encounter, every step of the way, and on punishing, and legislating out
of existence, the #alphamale, and, presumably, any female desire for him. Men who used to be
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told to be confident are now called entitled for displaying that confidence. We are simply
heading towards a day where women will be the aggressors, perhaps under force of legislation.
In many ways, we already have this.

As for my books, from #takedownraygordon, through the #pua-hating on social media, I

have endured loads of defamation, some threats, and many insults based on my age, looks,
weight, and living in a regular apartment, but few if any ever direct their criticism at my actual
work, as if sweeping it under the rug with other #pua, none of whom I ever associated with, as
part of any "community," in fact being reminded constantly by the community that I was not
one of them, will somehow make the truth go away. Until #feminists can give better seduction
advice to men, and something other than advice that has already failed these men,
#takedownjulienblanc, and #takedownpua will fail. What already has failed are civility,
common sense, and freedom of speech, and the women are just getting started.

Please buy my sh*t. Thank you. Oh yeah, one more thing:

Where Are They Now?

Instead of pinning #rapeculture on #julienblanc, they should have focused on the

commercial #pua guru who, in 2002, posted a "lay report" about threatening to kill an ex's
boyfriend in a bar if his ex didn't immediately leave the bar with him to have sex; he asked if
this was rape. When I began linking to the posting from ASF, the post -- made to a website and
not USENET -- vanished, without a trace, something not possible on USENET, which lost its
historical records once the #pua community migrated to commercial websites.

In 2011, Allan "Gunwitch" Reyes pled no-contest to charges related to his shooting of a
woman at a party, ten days after he uploaded a video of himself firing the weapon in his home.
He claimed self-defense, that the woman had attacked him with a knife. Even taking that at
face value, this still calls into question his (pardon the pun) target-selection skillz. Gun would
be the first to admit that his life is complicated, and that #pua was just a part of it. His podcasts
were very popular, and I'm not sure if he's found his way back online, but I would not be
surprised if he did. He is also well aware of #rsd's history.

Last, but not least, is Derek "Odious" Trunk, the loud, proud leader of
#takedownraygordon, the man who accused me of pedophilia, my late mother of being a
prostitute (though without giving specific proof), and who offered himself up to the parents of
underaged female athletes who needed protection from the likes of me on the big, bad
internet. When he wasn't busy protecting women and children, he was talking up speed
seduction, which he claimed worked amazingly well for him on his targets. In July, 2011, Trunk
was arrested for possession of several hundred images of #childporn, including a video of a
seven year-old girl being raped and tortured. Had anyone taken seriously what Trunk had been
doing to me and my mother, he could have been stopped years earlier, and would not have
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uploaded #childporn to the torrent networks from which he also received them. Because
others had reasons to dislike me, they embraced Trunk and his lies, leaving a trail of sh*t in
search-engines that I can sue anywhere in the world but the United States, thanks to Section
230.

Would things have turned out differently if I had found my level playing field, and the
internet were not a lawless environment? Perhaps one day we'll find out.