Golden Honeypot Ticket

Published in Bed Sheets Magazine. April 2008.

Somebody fax your aunty koz there's no way she has Internet. She's still ratting off the same script that that a good man is decent, polite and gentlemanly. Why is it then, that the nice guys end up with Mrs. Palmer while the women flock to the jerks? Jerks who aren't ripped, don't own a private jet and don't have a particularly magnificent jade stalk.

Those attributes certainly help but what of the balding potbellied insurance salesman in the corner surrounded by chiquitas? Listen up! He's not flattering them, hanging on their every word or even buying the drinks. Chances are he's completely up himself, telling all the jokes and teasing the hell out of his harem. The girls are spellbound and whispering to each other in telepathic girl-lingo saying he's my man, no he's mine, back off bitch.

Likely our potbellied pal will take his pick and they'll be ready for horizontal tango without him having to preform any lip service to get the girls' juices flowing. Worse still, they won't expect him to call the next day or even remember their names—and they certainly won't hate him when they see him next week in the same corner surrounded by a different set of chiquitas.

What's he got that the average Joe hasn't? He gets it that the male life force is aggressive. For men, spreading their seed is instinctive. Conquest and dominance are part of the male programming and for very good reason: the strongest and smartest among them pass on the best genes to future generations.

Mr. Potbelly has short-circuited the system: he doesn't have the best genes, he's just faking it by acting dominant and clever.

Talk to a woman and she'll tell you how she hates jerks like that, but watch as she melts for them. The female yin qualities are receptive and submissive. Deep down, a woman doesn't want to conquer the world. She may act bitchy but that's just a test. Her bitchiness is a filtration system to eliminate the weak and dumb. In a flirtatious situation, every comeback from a woman is a test to see if the potential mate is man enough to keep her in line. The jerks never let the women dominate the conversation, they keep the girls in line by teasing them and exuding confidence.

These are the men with the golden ticket to the girls' honeypots.

Bong Chika for Junkies

Published in Bed Sheets Magazine. February, 2008.

I’m an International Secret Agent. I tear up the countryside in my fancy cars; infiltrate military satellites with my high-tech gadgets and kung-fu the baddies across the rooftops of rickety shop houses. I tickle my chin as supermodels throw their lingerie at me.

The life of a hero isn’t all bong chika bong bong wiky wiky wiky wiky. There’s a new threat to the world each second. It used to be diabolical weapons in the hands of cunning dictators, then the aliens got to us, then volcanoes, earthquakes and hurricanes. Over and over our precious ways of life were threatened and each time we were brought back from the brink of extinction all in time for the house lights to come up.

Stop. Pulse check.

“Save the cheerleader, save the world” says Hiro Nakamura in Heroes Season 1. Cheerleader saved and now it’s the virus and the villains we need to defend against. The boys and girls who make the stories that feed our brains will never run out of delicious thrills to keep us on edge—and why not? Its great money and great science.

Science? See there’s a part of your brain called the frontal lobe. It’s the part that controls your sexual behavior, self-expression, memory, creativity, motor function, problem solving and motivation among other things. It’s the part that’s evolved and differentiates us from our monkey ancestors.

Stress and shock screw up the frontal lobe. They activate our animal instincts and that’s not such a bad thing. The hunter being chased by a tiger needs that rush of oomph to kill the beast or scramble up a tree. Shocks set off our terror alert systems and give us the temporary boost necessary to fight or flee.

Oh it feels good, hella good. So good we want the rush even when there’s no emergency. The rollercoaster rides, the spanky bong-chika, the speeding down the Bangkok-Pattaya motorway at two-eighty. The TV people know we love it and they give us our fix. Over and over, night after night and we drink it. Addicts.

Problem is, we need more of it each time to outdo the previous high. Problem is, our minds and bodies use up all the backup power going into terror alert. We have little juice left for the body to do what it was designed to do: fix itself up. So we get sick. Weak. Violent. Frustrated.

The frontal lobe doesn’t develop fully until we’re 25, so many of us have spent our entire childhoods feeding our inner bitch and neglecting our spirits. “Mediate” say the mystics, and some of us heed. Get inspired, get creative and listen for the subtleties. Turn your eyes inwards and let your depths find you. Make love to the rivers, dance with the trees, kiss the sky and flirt with the bees. Philosophize, harmonize, romanticize and synchronize. Activate your third eye and let your angel fly as you open an inter-dimensional vortex and get bong chika wiky wiky with the universe.

These things feed the frontal lobe—but dude its so boring. I don’t have the time. I’ll hit the spa, there’s a new package that says it can revive my spirit. I do yoga, yoga! Isn’t that good?

It’s a start.