You know, that Sidd Finch had some game.
I was coasting along this past winter, things were going fine, and then a little pebble of bad news hit the tracks and derailed the whole train. I’m still trying to understand why I hyper-magnified the pressure and let it shut me down. In the effort to analyze my dysfunction I read a few old books that had in the past helped me get re-centered. This was of minimal help. I found I had evolved away from much of what had once been foundational ideas for me, I did not relate to the materials that my person, my identity, was constructed from. So I emptied everything out of my brain again (did this a few years back for different reasons) and I’m reprogramming and installing new software. Naturally the Internet was a convenient place to look for a new personality. What could possibly go wrong out here in the pixelated ether? My consciousness is an empty bucket so I ‘ve been dragging it behind my keyboard while I web surf, letting it fill with the frothy wake of the cyber-consciousness.
I browsed into the Seduction Community. (I think that’s a trademarked name.)
**[Not by accident btw, an enabler intrigued me and has been designated proper scapegoat status and blame will assessed if something goes horribly wrong with the health of my psyche.]
I discovered Game, PUA, someone called Roosh I think. I like games, always have. I enjoy just about all sports, I like to compete. But I had never thought about applying game theory and strategery to getting laid. It’s a perfectly sensible and rational idea. And very simple. And I am pissed I did not think of it first, when there were bucket loads of money to be made. I am such the EPIC FAIL capitalist. Years late, many dollars short. The Invisible Hand of the Free Market doesn’t even give me a reach around.
So I guess I’m working on my game. Anyway, all this game talk I was reading made me think of my first sporting love. Paraphrasing Al Capone, — A preeminent man is expected to have entoosiasms. . . entoosiasms. . . entoosiasms. THWHAAACKKK!! And a primary one for me was baseball. It’s early history was documented and romanticized by many a great writer and poet, too. Robert Frost, Grantland Rice, etc. talented writers that chose to write about baseball. I remember being fond of Casey at the Bat, here’s a link to what I thought was the poem the way I remember it. In retrospect, and I’m not lit critic, it’s not a very good compostion. It’s an awkward read, much like the Star Spangled Banner is not very good song. I googled around to read some actual literary criticism that validates my opinion of Casey and discovered something quite extraordinary. The version I grew up knowing, the version above, was actually a bastardized retrofitting of an earlier poetic attempt to describe, get this, the Seduction Game in upstate New York circa 1884. Amazing! Mighty Casey was a PUA, who also was paid to play baseball at the time, using game to shag socialites near Saratoga Springs. It’s true! I swear. Why would I lie to you?
Here, submitted for your entertainment and further edification, is the original poem written by Ernest Lawrence Thayer’s cousin, who was most likely a player himself, in 1884.
Casey and his Bat by Philo Y. Farlappos
The blossoms weren’t that brilliant at Ye Olde Mudville Pub that day,
The last two 8’s had just been plucked; a shaky 6 became the play.
But then when Clooney’s DHV failed to spark a flame, (?!?!)
A sickly silence fell upon the players of the game.
The outclassed Betas got the hint and headed for the door,
Leaving the curious and mortified to watch Alphas pace the floor.
They thought, she’s very comely, (in this dim light) but not all that,
She’s a cinch to drop her knickers for Mighty Casey and his bat. (heh)
But Swoosh jumped line to take his stab; he saw some IOI.
The maiden did not take the bait, nearly causing Swoosh to cry. (‘roid issues)
Then aptly tagged Tumescence caught her glance and swaggered in,
But the tale of the three-legged butcher didn’t even stir a grin.
The crowd murmured, where’s Casey? A real man to save some face.
This haughty wench is winning; he needs to put her in her place.
She must be dropped a peg or two; God made her to submit,
So Man, seduce this whorish slag and make her beg for it.
(Drunken mobs of the late 19th century were hardly ever wrong, so the story continues . . .)
Casey pondered all his options and conferred with wingman Mo’, (short for Momentum of course)
“An IUD? Some TLC? An EIEIO?”
More whispers. A nod. Mo’ signed a cross in the air,
“Back at her place, just wrap that rascal before you go in there.”
Remember, Casey was a batsman so he stepped up to the box,
“I am Casey, pro baller, but I won’t charge you for . . . the first one.”
(The lame 19th century opener does not transcribe to verse very well.)
The gentle chirp of crickets could be heard when he was done,
The target blinked and shrugged it off; some rummy cried “Strike one!”
Nonplussed The Case sarged on, with a glimmer in his eyes,
“You’re really quite attractive . . . even with those thighs.”
The slap was heard in the alley, some frightened pigeons flew,
The rummy pointed overhead while croaking out “Strike two!”
Desperation loomed over Casey, (Des was backup winger for the night)
And spoke in solemn baritone, “Hey listen! Get it right,
No pressure bud, she’s just a chick, some tail to pass the time,
So take one last swing and make it count, it doesn’t have to rhyme.”
This was it, mused Casey, the final play to save the lay.
Or who fuckin’ cares? She’s not that hot. I’ll wank the night away.
Casey drew a breath and chose his words and covered up his boys,
He leaned in close and sniffed her hair and no one made a noise.
“Are you sitting on dead penguin or are you just so squishy to see me?”
Oh, somewhere in this gaslight burg, harlots are moaning loud,
The sheets are sweaty somewhere and somewhere peacocks are proud,
And somewhere the mystery’s solved and somewhere the studs just shout,
But there is no joy in Mudville Pub, mighty Casey just neg’d out.
Game: Another Historical Great American Pastime.
Well, that’s my story today. And I’m sticking to it. Time will tell if I develop into a passable Alpha male. I kind of doubt it. Too late for me. Morpheus doesn’t usually liberate the mind after a certain age, it doesn’t handle the new reality very well. And I’ve always been a natural Delta Chi myself; I’ll have to grow up three greek letters, that’s a lot of work. We’ll see. I’m off to find the Bodhisattva now.
Some fitting music to play you out of here. Certainly a pertinent game objective — Bare Naked Ladies!!! Listen closely, I think the first line of the lyric goes “I neg’d you before the Fall of Rome,” I’ve been wrong before though.