Monday, May 9, 2005

It occurs to me we’ve had communicative problems in the past few weeks, problems which mainly settle on my shoulders. Our charter firmly establishes parameters for when we should talk–Mondays through Fridays in the evening, frank and unbroken–and it appears we’ve screwed the covenant repeatedly. Four days out of five is, by fancy mathematical reckoning, an 80% success rate, but here in our digs anything less than 100% tastes Pyrrhic, doesn’t it? We’re going to give 150% this week. Motivated? I know I am. But not really.

We’ve got major plans in store, a rich list of trifles–it’s a syllabus you won’t soon misplace. To get things rolling, let’s examine seduction and how it summers in the frigid wasteland known as Evanston. So, those stories I mentioned last Thursday. The first tale unfolds on the morning my co-worker came for her interview. She was standing outside the building when a man 15 years her senior breezed by on a bike, screeched to an abrupt halt, and returned to strike up conversation. Idle chitchat blossomed into declarations of her beauty, a query about whether she was busy, and an invitation to see a movie. Knowing you, you’d probably deny him without a second thought, but I’d instantly jump in the strange man’s bike basket and pedal to romance.

The other tale is far more singular. Now, while the 35-year-old illustrated above arguably commanded all his mental faculties, there was another fellow, see, and this guy was a few Lego blocks shy of a spaceship. My co-worker first met him at a Border’s, where he introduced himself, shook her hand, and refused to let go. She had to shake herself free to escape the man’s eager grasp. This scene happened at the local Y with the same guy, except this time he strategically maneuvered himself to a nearby Elliptical before grabbing her hand again.

There was an epoch when such tactics worked, a bygone era when contraceptives were made of bark and mushrooms. Since we’re in the 21st century, however, it’s high time we injected some verve into this tired arsenal.

From Dusk Till Yawn
You’re sitting across from your soulmate, alright, and you didn’t know what “sublime” meant until now. Conversation just clicks. Attraction? There aren’t enough notches on the meter. You’ve had a drink or two. The vibe is light, relaxed.

It’s time to open your mouth and yawn. Not a small yawn, mind you, nor one stifled by a cupped hand and 150 years of etiquette. We’re talking a Class-3 threat. Body language is essential to the hunt, as it were, and nothing intimates “I care” like a gaping mouth. A yawn also offers advanced notice of halitosis, so make sure to lean into the yawner.

Loud and proud, my friends, that’s the key. And rememb– Is that broccoli stuck between your lower incisor and cuspid? Hot.

Thigh Contact
Pay no attention to the kooks who preach eye contact and the importance of hugs. These same people would advocate the merit of trust falls with one hand, even as they warn against the dire flatness of the earth with the other.

Look into a person’s eyes for too long and you breach the tender boundaries of staring. Too short and you’re weak, a bona fide paragon of indecisiveness. A pansy. It’s lose-lose no matter how you cut it, and do you know why? Eyes aren’t really windows to the soul, understand. They’re actually black holes into which humanity rushes, vacuums that will seize your spirit and quench it.

Direct your gaze to anything and everything else. Asses. Legs. Arms. Boobs. Fire extinguishers. There are things far more important than eyes. Besides, you can’t French a cornea, can you? Precisely.

Perverse Psychology
“Are you an angel? Because I must’ve died and gone to heaven.”

“Do you believe in love at first sight, or should I walk by again?”

“Could I borrow some glue? You just broke my heart.”

“Baby, you do curves better than Rand McNally.”

With the exception of the last line, which would possibly work at a cartographers’ convention, these are all outmoded pick-up lines. Cumbersome. Boring. Decrepit. See me yawning? Oh, behave!

What if you employ misogyny–or misanthropy, depending on your tastes–and insult the focus of your affections? You’d stand out from the crowd, that’s for sure, and you’d also soften him or her for the coup de grace. Some samples for you:

“I take one look at you, and it’s like I died and gone straight to hell.”

“Upon second glance, I’d still like to tear out my eyes.”

“Never mind, I’d rather hit on a lamppost.”

“Did someone lace your drink with a whole lotta ugly?”

“You aren’t a day younger than 63. Actually, make it an even 85.”

“You smell like someone died and went to heaven.”

This is when you swoop in with the fat jokes.