Diary of a Starving Pick-Up Artist

By Ben Orlin and David Klumpp

It’s true what they say: not every artist is appreciated in his own time. We’re living today in the golden age of Pick-Up art, and yet most people have never heard of the greats: Stanley the Studly, Mackin’ Mac, the Boston Wrangler, Inspector Pecs. That’s sad. It’s even sadder when you consider that all those names are actually me.

I remember the day I told my parents I was dropping out of med school to become a Pick-Up artist.

“You don’t go to med school,” said my father.

“Can’t you see?” I cried, “I need to do what makes me happy. And that’s not medicine. It’s not I-banking, or chemical engineering, or corporate law. It’s having casual sex with attractive women. Crowds of them.”

“But that’s not a profession,” my mother said. “That’s a demented male fantasy.” She turned to my father. “Tell him, Richard.”

My father looked at my mother. My mother looked at me. I looked at my father, trying to work up a good sexual fantasy while I waited for his answer.

My father took off his hat and scratched his bald head. “Go get your dream, son,” he said.

And get it I did.  A lot of it.  From the slaughterhouses of Cleveland (“Hey baby—what do you say you and me paint the town red?”) to the oil fields of Ohio (“How about you and me set the night on fire?”) to the factories of Michigan (“Ford built means top value”) I pursued my elusive but sensual quarry.  I left no wine un-tasted, no keg un-tapped, no liqueur un-sexed.  My skills were hot and my delivery was ice cold.

But all good things must end. While some lose their nerve and others go bankrupt of luck, I had run out of an entirely difference kind of currency: money.

“Maybe this isn’t such a good idea,” said a girl with whom I had traveled to Mt. Rushmore to take in the scenery.

“What’s wrong, baby?” I asked. “You know Honest Abe can keep a secret.”

“I’m not sure that follows,” she said, “And you still haven’t explained how a condom made of oak leaves actually works.”

“Sperm are less agile than you might think. I promise it’s safe.”

“Like you promised your van had a back seat?”

She had a point.  Without the means to buy fancy dinners or continue my regular rotation of underwear, my style had begun to suffer, and for once wooing women was the only thing getting hard.  I saw the writing on the inside of my wallet: time for me to pack it in and head home.

These days, you’ll find me at Ed’s Used Carwash, scrubbing away like any old Joe.  You’d never know I was once the genuine article, that once I slew women with a smile, that I was invited to the Pickup Artist Rodeo three years running.  You’d never know from a distance, that is.

But come visit me some day.  “Hey baby,” I’ll say, “Looks like your upholstery could use a more thorough inspection.”

‘That’ll be $23.50, plus tip.”