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

because she frowned and went back to texting.
    Perhaps I need dental work, or new shoes. A made a few more tries with similar results. I figured maybe it’s just this cursed place, a purely logistical issue. I’ve heard that in other countries people are very warm and exceptionally social. Maybe I should move to Thailand , or Greece . I’ll buy a boat and fish off Cuba , like Hemingway.
    I spotted Eric across the room and worked my way through the crowd to meet him. He was in a gaggle of hipsters, talking to a tall, neon hat wearing, skinny jeans bearded boy. Neither of them appeared happy.
    “Look dude,” Eric said, pushing his finger into Neon’s chest, “I don’t get along well with homophobes.”
    Neon stood with mouth agape, dropped his chin, looked up again, reached out with a right jab and popped Eric in the jaw, putting him to floor with a thump. The crowd gasped. Eric looked up and hollered, “What the fuck dude!? Why did you hit me?”
    “You called me a homophobe.”
    “Well, aren’t you?”
    “No! Are you?”
    “Hell no.”
    “Prove it.”
    “Ok!”
    And then Eric jumped up, grabbed Neon’s face, pulled it in and they were making out. The crowd gasped again, and instantly dispersed. Just like that. Eric had a game plan. He’s purely Machiavellian in his quest; sniffing pills, engaging in random combat, and pulling emotional strings like a debauched puppet-master-guru. To become like him, I would have to dedicate my life to drug fueled dandyism. I’m far too conservative; I need to consult the forum archives for posts on extremist party culture.
    I left them to it and did a few more laps of Tokyo —nothing. They wanted nothing of me. Not my smile, my thoughts, my wiener—nothing. The lights came on and I found Eric being escorted out of the bar by security. “Fuck you, fuck you, fucking Neo Conservs !”
    He boasted of his accomplishments from the street, blocking traffic. I pulled him away.
    “I’m an artist. I’ll destroy you! I’m one of your best customers you homophobic assholes!”
    I dragged him away a few blocks: “Man, do you want to get your ass kicked again?” I said. “Those bouncers won’t kiss you.”
    Garbage day in Montreal has people piling their junk onto the front street. Eric noticed a mound and dashed over to it, pulled out his lighter, and like a pro arsonist ignited a box of newspapers. Within seconds there was a column of sparks and smoke four feet high. I didn’t have time to stop him. He’s too fast. This was his art, his destructive joy.
    “Holy shit dude. Are you mental?” I yelled.
    He fanned the flames, and they grew quickly until we were standing at a street-side bonfire with tongues licking well over six feet high.
    “Dude. We need to run now,” I snapped.
    Eric was jumping around the pile, Indian whooping and kicking at the flames. I pulled his arm but he resisted. He had a crazed, drunken, pill-popped sex frenzy in his eyes. All of his frustration had transmuted to a lust, you might say, an appetite for destruction. This is what happens to a wild beast when it can’t find food, or feels threatened, or can’t attract a mate. I understood. I finally pulled him away from the inferno, when a car slid up beside us. A black man in his fifties yelled out the window, “Hey man. What in God’s name is wrong with you? Are you crazy?”
    The flames were still over six feet high.
    “Nigger! Fuck you…nigger! Hah!” Eric screamed at him.
    Oh my lord.
    “Nigger?” The black man said, leaning out of his window. “Hah hah ! Kid are you for real? Nigger? What? Did you really say Nigger? Come here you little shit!”
    The black man gunned his car towards the curb, intending to run Eric down, but in his drug fueled fervor he was too agile and leapt nimbly out of the way, giggling like a school girl. Then Eric pitched forward and ran, still war whooping, into a nearby alleyway. I followed him down there. It was like I was watching a great piece of history,