Tony D - A Thousand Tiny Failures: Memoirs of a Pickup Artist

Copyright 2013

All Rights Reserved

www.absoluteability.com

Acknowledgements

True love to my team of consultants: Damon Morris, Ed Kennedy, Justin Gaskin, Josh Byer, My mom, my sisters and brothers. Props to my blog followers, the community, all the beta readers (you're not beta anymore) and my ex girlfriendsthe beautiful muses. Stay amazing. You can all do it, whatever it is.

Chapter 1

Child Soldiers.
(Mommy, Where's Daddy?)

I tried to shove the kid off my chest, but I'd already given up. His pink fists pummelled my pimpled face but I was too timid too mentally weak to even try and defend myself. I'd seen fights in movies. I knew how to swing a punch; you just wind up and tossbut nobody ever told me how to think like a fighter. Not yet anyway. Besides, every man should have his ass kicked at least once just for the experience.

"Hahah! You have tits, you pussy!" His spittle landed on my face.

And I did. I was a skinny boy with perky little man boobs; my genetic curse. I blame milk and power lines and bad luck. I sort of hated myself.

"Hit him back Sebastian!" the other kids screamed. The little bastards wanted blood.

"Yeah hit me you bitch!" he complained.

But I wouldn't. I just lay there, eleven years old and as compliant as Rodney King on opium. Fight back? That would hurt. I stared up at my former friend's face and saw disgust, pity, and disappointment. He would be my friend again tomorrow.

This wasn't a protest against violenceI just didn't know what to do. Nobody had ever hit me before. He slapped me once on the cheek and got off. The other kids shook their heads and rode off on their bikes; the warm summer air blowing across their cherubic faces, past their safe, middle class neighborhoods, spitting and laughing and throwing rocks at dogs and cats and each other.

Life is beautiful. Children are great.

I dusted off and went back inside to play with my little sisters.

"What were you doing Sebastian?"

"We were play-fighting."

"Did you win?"

" Yes."

I went into my mom's room and called my own phone number, waited for my sisters to answer and pretended I was Santa Claus. "Make sure you scratch your brothers back whenever he asks! Ho Ho Ho!"

"Ok Santa."

My childhood was mostly nice and safe. I was raised by a single mom; a beautiful, resourceful, sweet and creative woman who, although loved me deeply, was unable to impart one of a boy's most important lessons how to be a man.

I don't remember when I discovered my boy-tits, but one day there they were, the bastards. This horrid conundrum is usually called, Gynecomastia, and affects tens of thousands of broken men worldwide. I was baffled. I mean, whose god did I enrage to be cursed? Fuck my life.

My generation is the divorce generation: Alimony for moms and freedom for dads. When my mother met my father she was deciding on whether to go for food, or play pool. She chose pool and my dad picked her up at the pool hall. If she'd gone left instead of right, I never would have been born, or I'd be a squirrel, or a jade Buddha, or Michael Jackson's left testicle.

My father was a semi-deadbeat. Not that he didn't pay child support and spoil me at Christmas. He had us for summer vacations, but generally wasn't around. I don't blame him. I like cities too, and I didn't care at the time. Kids are too interested in swimming and lighting fires and make-believing to wonder where their dad is. Anyway, I had my mom's boyfriends to learn from, but they were always careful with their wisdom lest they give the wrong advice and piss off Mom.

There would be about one boyfriend every two or four years. That was the cycle. My mom would keep them around until they screwed up, acted possessive, or drank too much. I liked all of them. They taught me cool things like how to shoot guns, ride motorcycles, play guitar, chop wood, slay furry animals that sort of stuff. She always liked the bad boys. They were long haul truck drivers, Harley Davidson enthusiasts, rodeo cowboys, street fighting champs, big game hunters, and Vietnam war vets. So it's surprising I ended up so nice. Remember this when talking to a kid: they watch, they learn, and then they forget. So your words and actions become their minds their twisted little identities.

When she dumped them, she worried whether we'd be traumatized. I never really cared though. I'd moved around so much at a young age that I'd learned independence. I was somewhat of an introvert already; I didn't need anyoneexcept when it came to girls. They were fascinating and terrifying, and I had no cluewhich is ironic because I teach men how to pick up girls for a living.

I watched the local kids go swimming, date, play shirts vs. skins soccer games and enjoy the summertime sun on their bare skin. I never took my shirt offthat would be the greatest of horrors. I was a shy, depressed, freak. This made elementary school somewhat horrible, which was nothing compared to high school. Post primary education ensures that the illusion of social equality is rightly crushed. Society has a place for you, whether you like it or not. Luckily, if you're reading this book you're one of the smart onesyou read. You can improve things. Well, maybe not if you're from Cambodia.

I identified with the anger and disillusionment of punk music. I broke from what I considered, "the herd of conformist jocks, sellouts, and hippies." After hearing Smells like Teen Spirit, by Nirvana, I decided I wanted to be a rock star. One of Mom's boyfriends bought me an electric guitar for seventy-five dollars, and I practiced obsessively because guys in bands are cool; guys in bands get ass.

I also loved anything escapist and lost myself in books, movies, and video games. This digestion shaped my distaste for group-think. Movies like A Clockwork Orange, Natural Born Killers, and The Matrix. Bands like Minor Threat, The Misfits, Nirvana, The Dead Kennedys, and Operation Ivy. Books like 1984, Catcher in The Rye, The Chrysalids, On the Road, Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, and Lord of the Rings. Art that cheered for the underdog and thrived on the fringes. Nineties kids were pissed off. Most kids are. But it wasn't just teen age angstI had tits. I had teen-age man-titty angst, and I wanted to hide inside my imagination where everything was awesome.

Girls tried to flirt with me but I always screwed it up. They thought I was cute; this shy, long-haired teenager with dimples and middle finger fuck you's, hand painted onto his jeans. I wondered if they noticed under my incredibly baggy t-shirts that I had boobs. I thought about this obsessivelylike a dog that chews one spot until it's bald. I told myself I didn't deserve attention; I was a loser and it's cool to be a loser. I mean, at the time the biggest song on the radio was Loser, by Beck. Negativity was encouraged in the nineties.

I talked to a few girls in my classes but I would get nervous and say dumb shit, like how the world is fucked and everyone's a stupid sheep, or that we're all living an Orwellian prophecy come true. Rest assured this strategy failed. I couldn't hold eye-contact, I slouched, spoke in submissive whispers, and dressed like a grunge hippie. I was waiting for a girl to see me for who I wason the inside. They did! It's true what they say that nobody will love you if you don't love yourself. Not like your grandma loves you, I mean more like I want your penis in my vagina love you.

The first girlfriend was in eighth grade. She was a busty, dirty blond: a volleyball star. After stalking her from the bleachers for a year, I schemed to make friends with her friends, break into her social circle and get at her boobies. And I did. It was very Machiavellian. I ditched my elementary school crew and started wearing dress shirts and loafers like the rich kids. The rich kids accepted me and introduced me to my volleyball star. Through extreme palpitations I asked, "Do you want to go out with me?"