Getting into the Game

Nice Dave is dead. Retired. Finished. Costanza Dave is now in the house.

You remember that Seinfeld episode where George is having no luck with anything, so he resolves to do the opposite of what he would normally do in any situation? And presto, things start going his way?

Last night, Costanza Dave got his first phone number from a pretty girl at a bar. I, as the pickup artists say, number-closed. Oh, I cheated a little, because my friend Mel actually approached her first, after I pointed out how pretty (and by herself) she was.* But I'm just starting out, so I'm not above taking advantage of the work of others.

I'd been ingesting liquid courage and kind of acting like King Shit of Fuck Mountain all night, so after a while I went over and uttered that most stunning of all openers, "Hi." She laughingly introduced herself as "Mel 2" and we started talking.

Now, when you've been drinking, it's hard to tell if you're being as witty as you think you're being. But in any case I was feeling it. I was on. She said she was an Ann Arbor native, so I gave her shit about being a treehugger and all of that. Then we talked about owning cats. And other stuff I don't even remember.

Unfortunately, before long the bar was ready to close. I wanted to suggest going somewhere else, but it was 2am, which means there was nowhere else. She shook my hand and told me it was nice meeting me. As she prepared to leave with a male friend who had shown up, my only thought was, "No, that can't be it." What to do? Nice Dave would have just said, "Nice meeting you, too; goodbye." Screw that.

Costanza Dave: Would it be forward of me to ask for your phone number?**

Mel 2: (looking at me and laughing a little): Yes... but I'll give it to you anyway.

Wow, that was easy. And in front of some guy she was with, too. It felt very alpha male. All these years I've been too afraid to approach women in bars and other public places. And why? I now see it makes no sense to be that way. Approaching, talking to, and generating interest in girls is a skill. And like any skill, it can be learned.

The first lesson, so I've heard for years, is to be confident. I've never been confident in my life. Nor had any idea how to even begin. It seems I first had to get to the point where I am now, where I just no longer give a fuck. From there I think perhaps it is something like Pascal's Wager: If you simply begin acting confident, in time you will start to actually become confident.

Of course, it remains to be seen if the number is really hers (though I feel pretty, uh, confident it is) and if so, how I will handle calling a girl I met in a bar.

Ladies and gentlemen, this is the dawning of the Age of Costanza Dave.***

* I told Grr (and, on an earlier evening out, my friends Shelly and Beverly) that there is probably a market niche for girls who will hang around guys for a few hours in bars as a way to help the guys meet other girls. Not quite as escorts, but as a form of what the pickup artists call social proof. Some enterprising young lasses should set that business up.

** This was probably a bad way of going about it, since it gave her an opportunity to say no. But again, I'm just starting out and it's hard to think fast after you've had three martinis and a beer.

*** And, for the future, if Mel 2 ever Googles me and reads this: Quit hugging those trees and let's go grab a beer, eh?