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Failed Celebrity Pickup : Danielle Fishel

Ever since I can remember, I have been a huge fan of Boy Meets World. With no concept of TV guide or schedules, it was a gift from the heavens above when I would turn on the TV and see the familiar cast. For roughly as long as I was a fan of the show, I had a crush on Topanga - known as Danielle Fishel in real life.

I'm hesitant to post detailed "reports" on meeting women here. Maybe because it's too personal, maybe because it's so easy to misinterpet as mechanical, but for whatever reason I don't love the idea. However, this is a funny story that probably won't offend anyone (except one guy who I don't mind offending.)

The 2004 Pickup Artist Convention, which I had organized, was held in Los Angeles, CA. Normally I'm rather lazy about going out and meeting people. I find it very frustrating to find women I'm genuinely interested in, and the allure of talking to women for practice is much less than it was when I first got into the Pickup Artist thing.


On The Melodic Baboon

It was dark and late and the foreigner had no idea what time it was. The day’s dust had settled and calm was unsettled only by the random Toyota Corolla or an ornery police officer with a bullhorn, secretly miffed about the hierarchy of his station, life and otherwise and his apparent doom to the nightshift in the back of a pickup truck.

It would be a shame to look out the window- literally. Here, so much depends on how you appear while doing the things you do. And doing most anything is okay, as long as in doing it, you don’t appear to be doing so- at least not in a way that could be interpreted in an adverse way. So much depends on knowing, not communicating mind you, but knowing how you could save face, if indeed someone was around to see you needing to, and really even if they weren’t, in any situation wherein your actions, necessary or not could be construed as a shame. When you know you can save face, there must exude an aura, discernable by nature to the natives, and utterly allusive to the unwashed. And this aura will warn the doubter: 'don’t ask! I already know you’ve thought it, and since I know you have, and in knowing you would, I have my simple answer ready, on the tip of my stomach, to turn that shame back on you and the people squatting wherever you came from. So watch it!'

But the watcher is not only watching. He’s being watched. And of course there is a very good reason that he’s a ‘he’.

What is shame? It’s certainly not the feeling that the fourteen year old girl feels, remembering the sticky drip down her leg while she explains to her fanatical Christian alcoholic father and her scared-shitless-all-the-time mother that she doesn’t know how it happened, hoping beyond hope that they, and especially dad, would somehow assume that there had been at least one more immaculate conception. That’s not shame.

And it’s not that feeling the handsome, all-American soon-to-be sophomore, back home from his first year wrapped in the warm ivy of his father’s alma mater feels, when his mother, who is so impressed with her confident young man, finds him one morning in the frenzied clutches of John, his new bossism buddy who was going to spend a few weeks of vacation here at the house expunging some of the Senior Week alcohol out of his system before going home to his equally impressive starter castle and plastic parents.

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