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Altro post figlio dell'Hype......


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Ok, il subject è ironico. Vispiego subito...

Il post, tratto dalla Cliff List del 04/08/2005, è un estratto dell'ormai arcinoto The Game di Style. Prima di fare gli schizzinosi del cazzo e saltare a pie pari il topic vi consiglio di leggerlo, non tanto perchè il target è Brittany Spears, ma perchè è un eccellente esempio di chick logic. Check this shit out...

AFTER EIGHTEEN MONTHS in the seduction community, not only had my

dating life improved exponentially, so had my professional life.

The skills I had amassed approaching over a thousand women in bars

and clubs made me a much better interviewer. I discovered just how

good when I was assigned an article on Britney Spears.

I didn't plan to sarge her. But she left me no choice.

"Was there a lot of pressure on you while making this album?"

Britney Spears: "What, now?"

"Was there pressure from yourself or the label to have a major hit

this time around?"

"I have no idea."

"You have no idea?"

"I have no idea."

"I heard you did a track with the DFA that wasn't included on your

new CD. Why was that?"

"What's the DFA?"

"They're two producers from New York, James Murphy and Tim

Goldsworthy, who call themselves the DFA. Does that ring a bell?"

"Yeah, maybe they did something."

The interview was going nowhere. She was on autopilot. I looked at

her, crossing her legs and fidgeting on the hotel-room couch next

to me. She didn't give a s-word. I was just an amount of time

blocked off on her calendar, and she was tolerating it poorly.

Her hair was tucked under a white Kangol hat and her thighs pushed

at the seams of her faded blue jeans. She was one of the most

desired women in the world. But in person, she looked like a

corn-fed southern sorority girl. She had a beautiful face, lightly

and perfectly touched with makeup, but there was something

masculine about her. As a sexual icon, she was unintimidating and,

I imagined, lonely.

A gear slammed down in my head.

There was only one way to save this interview: I had to sarge her.

No matter what country I was in or what age or class or race of

woman I was talking to, the game always worked. Besides, I had

nothing to lose.

I folded my list of questions and put them in my back pocket. I had

to treat her like any club girl with attention deficit disorder.

The first move was to hook her attention.

"I'll tell you something about yourself that other people probably

don't know," I began. "People sometimes see you as shy or bitchy

offstage, even though you aren't."

"Totally," she said.

"Do you want to know why?"

"Yeah." I was creating what's called a yes-ladder, capturing her

attention by asking questions that require an obvious affirmative


"I'm watching your eyes when you talk. And every time you think,

they go down and to the left. That means you're a kinesthetic

person. You're someone who lives in her feelings."

"Oh my God," she said. "That's totally true."

Of course it was. It was one of the value-demonstrating routines

I'd developed in the community. The eye goes to one of seven

different positions when someone thinks: Each position means the

person is accessing a different part of their brain.

There is a simple structure most women must be led through. First,

they must be opened; the ice must be broken in a way that doesn't

make them uncomfortable. Next, a pickup artist needs to demonstrate

higher value, to show why he stands out from all the other men a

woman has the option of dating. Once she's convinced, he must build

rapport and create a sense of emotional connection. Only then, at

least if he's playing solid game, is it time to make a physical


As I taught Britney how to read different types of eye movements,

she clung to every word. Her legs uncrossed and she leaned in

toward me.

"I didn't know this," she said. "Who told you this?"

I wanted to tell her, "A secret society of international pickup


"It's something I observed from doing lots of interviews," I

answered. "In fact, by watching the direction people's eyes move

when they speak, you can tell whether they're telling the truth or


"So you're going to know if I'm lying?" She was looking at me

entirely differently now. I wasn't a journalist anymore. I was

someone she could learn from. I had demonstrated authority over her

world, as the father of the seduction industry, Ross Jeffries, once

told me.

"I can tell from your eye movements, from your eye contact, from

the way you speak, and from your body language. There are many

different ways to tell."

"I need to do psychology classes," she said, with endearing

earnestness. "That would be so interesting to me, studying people."

It was working. She was opening up. She kept talking: "And you

could meet somebody or be out on a date and be like, 'Are they

lying to me right now?' Oh my gosh."

It was time for the heavy artillery.

"I'll show you something really cool and then we'll get back to the

interview," I said, throwing in a time constraint for good measure.

"It'll be an experiment. I'm going to try to guess something that's

in your thoughts."

Then I used a simple psychological gambit to guess the initials of

an old friend she had an emotional connection to someone I wouldn't

know and hadn't heard of. The initials were GC. And I got one

letter out of two correct. It was a new routine I was still

learning, but it was good enough for her.

"I can't believe you did that! I probably have so many walls in

front, so that's why you didn't get them both," she said. "Let's

try it one more time."

"This time, why don't you try it?"

"I'm scared." She put her knuckle in her mouth and pinched the skin

between her teeth. She had great teeth. They really were a perfect

C shape. "I can't do that."

She was no longer Britney Spears. She was just a one-set, a lone

target. Or, as Robert Greene would classify her in his breakdown of

seducer's victims in The Art of Seduction , she was the lonely


"We'll make it easier," I said. "I'm going to write down a number.

And it's a number between one and ten. What I want you to do is not

to think at all. There's no special ability required to read minds.

Just quiet your internal chatter and really listen to your


I wrote a number on a piece of paper and handed it to her.

"Now tell me," I said, "the first number that you feel."

"What if it's wrong?" she asked. "It's probably wrong."

This was what we called in the field an LSE girl she had low


"What do you think it is?"

"Seven," she said.

"Now turn over the paper," I told her.

She slowly turned it over, as if she were afraid to look, then

moved it up to eye level and saw a big number seven staring right

back at her.

She screamed, leaped off the couch, and ran to the hotel mirror.

Her mouth hung agape as she looked her reflection in the eye.

"Oh my God," she said to her reflection. "I did that."

She was like a little girl seeing Britney Spears for the first

time. She was her own fan.

"I just knew that it was seven!" she announced as she galloped back

to the couch.

Of course she knew. That was the first magic trick I'd learned from

Mystery, arguably the best pickup artist in the world: If you have

someone choose a number between one and ten randomly, 70 percent of

the time especially if you rush their decision that number will be


So, yeah, I had tricked her. But her self-esteem needed a good


"Cool interview!" she exclaimed. "I like this interview! This has

been the best interview of my life!"

Then she turned her face toward mine, looked me in the eye, and

asked, "Can we stop the tape recorder?"

For the next fifteen minutes, we talked about spirituality and

writing and our lives. She was just a lost little girl going

through a late emotional puberty. She was searching for something

real to hold on to, something deeper than pop fame and the

sycophancy of her handlers. I had demonstrated value, and now we

were moving on to the rapport phase of seduction. Maybe Mystery was

right: All human relationships follow the same formula.

Rapport equals trust plus comfort.

However, I had a job to do. I started the tape recorder and asked

the questions I'd given her at the start of the interview, plus all

the other questions I had. This time she gave me real answers,

answers I could print.

When the hour was up, I stopped the tape recorder.

"You know," Britney said. "Everything happens for a reason."

"I truly believe that," I told her.

"I do, too." She touched my shoulder and a broad smile spread

across her face. "I'd like to exchange numbers."

AFTER OUR HOUR was up, Britney left the room to change for an MTV

interview. She returned ten minutes later with her publicist.

As she sat down in front of the cameras, her publicist looked at me


"You know, she's never done that with a writer before," she said.

"Really?" I asked.

"She said it was like the two of you were destined to meet."

The publicist and I stood next to each other in silence as the MTV

interview began.

"So you had a crazy time out the other night," the interviewer


"Yeah, I did," Britney answered.

"What was the energy level like in the club when you walked in and

surprised everyone?"

"Oh, it was just crazy."

"And how much fun did you have?"

Suddenly, Britney stood up. "This isn't working," she told the


"I'm not feeling this."

She pivoted on her heels and walked toward the door, leaving the

crew and her assistants befuddled. As she passed me, the corners of

her mouth turned upward, forming a conspiratorial smile. I had

gotten to her. There was something deeper to Britney Spears than

what the pop machine required of her.

The game, I realized, works better on celebrities than ordinary

people. Because stars are so sheltered and their interactions

limited, a demonstration of value or any other gambit holds ten

times the power.

In the days that followed, I thought often about what had happened.

I had no illusions: Britney Spears wasn't att racted to me. She

wasn't considering me as a potential mate. But I had interested

her. And that was a step in the right direction. Pickup is a linear

process: Capture the imagination first and the heart next.

Interest plus att raction plus seduction equals sex.

Of course, maybe this was all just self-hypnosis. For all I knew,

she exchanged phone numbers with every journalist to make him feel

special and ensure a good story. Her publicist probably had an

answering service set up at that number specifically for gullible

writers who thought they were pickup artists. Maybe I was the one

being sarged, not her.

I would never know the truth.

I stared at that number every day, but I couldn't bring myself to

dial it. I told myself that it was crossing a journalistic line: If

she didn't like the piece I was writing (which was quite possible),

I didn't want her to go on record saying I had written a bad

article because she hadn't phoned back.

"Just call her," Mystery constantly prodded me. "What do you have

to lose? Tell her, 'Can you not look like Britney Spears? We're

going to do some crazy s-word and we can't get caught. We're going

to wear wigs and climb up to the Hollywood sign and touch it for

good luck.'"

"If I had met her socially, fine. But this is a work assignment."

"You're playing the game at another level now. When the article is

finished, it isn't an assignment anymore. So call her."

But I couldn't do it. If it had been any of the intimidatingly

beautiful women I'd met early in my training and been too scared to

ask out, I would have called back in a second. I had no fear of

women like that anymore. I felt worthy. I'd proven that over and

over since. But Britney Spears?

One's self-esteem can only grow so much in a year and a half.

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ho letto tutto il racconto, ma una cosa non ho capito (il mio inglese non è cosi buono), non ho capito come abbia fatto ad indovinare le lettere del suo vecchio amico.

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ho letto tutto il racconto, ma una cosa non ho capito (il mio inglese non è cosi buono), non ho capito come abbia fatto ad indovinare le lettere del suo vecchio amico.

Ehm.. si è buttato ad indovinare? '^_^

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John Difool
ho letto tutto il racconto, ma una cosa non ho capito (il mio inglese non è cosi buono), non ho capito come abbia fatto ad indovinare le lettere del suo vecchio amico.

Aveva già guadagnato la credibilità di lei, se non ricordo male, e quando hai la fiducia della HB puoi tentare delle letture del pensiero che la HB si autoconvince siano realistiche...

Un trucco buono per questo genere di cose, di cui ho letto ma non ho mai usato, è quello di fare previsioni che comprendano ogni ipotesi: il bianco e... il nero!

"Dai tuoi occhi leggo che sei una persona sincera che a volte per necessità si trova costretta a dire bugie"

"Tu credi nel grande amore ma a volte hai incontrato persone che ti hanno spinta a non crederci"

"Sei una persona che crede nell'amicizia ma nella vita hai incontrato persone false che ti hanno fatto spinto a chiuderti in te stessa"

Per le lettere il concetto è simile IMO. Devi usare lettere molto comuni nei nomi e le possibilità di indovinare diventa altissima:

"Una persona importante della tua vita ha il nome che comincia per AF"

HB: incredibile!!! Mia zia che mi ha voluto tanto bene quando ero piccola si chiama Anna!!! Ma come hai fatto a indovinare??

HB: Pazzesco, il mio vicino di banco delle elementari si chiamava Francesco!! Sei un mago!!!

Sai che ci vuole?! ;)

Però prima lei deve avere fiducia in te e devi avere un rapport solido.

Funziona come il qualifying: se lei è attratta piuttosto che dirti che sei un coglione che spara cazzate troverà il modo di qualificarti lei stessa, in un modo o nell'altro...

HB: Ma come hai fatto?? La mia migliore amica si chiama Barbara Galbiati, AF-BG!!! Una sola lettera di distanza su nome e cognome!!! Sei un mago!!!


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