Advanced Game Theory

‘The game’, right ? Who’s got ‘game’? Seduction sounds nice, but it’s just way too formal and sweet a word for most people. Deal with it: today, it’s called “the game”.

There are all these weird rules that govern “the game”. In America for example if you get a phone number it’s a known social rule that you won’t call that same night, but rather 1 to 3 days later. And after that the first couple rounds of “the game” are essentially a tug-of-war where you demonstrate to the other that you want them, but not that bad. “I like you, but I’m not desperate for you”. I believe the entire philosophy behind “the game” is best encompassed in the French saying “Suis-moi, je te fuis. Fuis moi, je te suis” (Cling to me, I’ll run away; run away from me, I’ll cling to you). And each region, each age group, each culture, each fucking person has different versions of “the game”.

Implementation, however, is a different thing: guys for example can choose amongst a number of strategies: a romantic, albeit weak, one is the strategy of walking up to a girl, telling her she’s cute, and then walking away. The idea behind is that it sort of works like crack: once you taste a bit you’re supposed to want more. It’s daring, but usually the guy who uses it has a combination of two factors: 1) he’s confident enough to tell a girl he likes her without knowing her and 2) he’s gutsy enough to walk away from her. On the whole, it’s a dangerous strategy to use unless you’re certain that the girl is equally confident and will come up to you to know more. Which is not very likely.

Then there’s that whole thing of getting to know someone, asking them questions, inviting them to a bit of socializing, and then making the move. The basic premise is that you’re genuinely interested in the person and are willing to take your time. It happens over days, if not weeks, so its users have to make sure they REALLY like the person because no one-night stands are happening this way, I can assure you. Also very risky in that you might become friends, and then you’re fucked (in an oxymoronic sort of way). Or, you might find out after a couple weeks that she has a boyfriend who's ugly as hell but great in bed (don't reach out for the gun).

Another great strategy if used effectively is commensurate with this early 21^st century: displaying oneself surrounded by girls (one of my favourites). Women love guys who are loved by other women. Partly it’s that whole belief that if other women like him, there must be something about him; but it’s also that crazy intra-feminine rivalry where women simply MUST compete against each other for men. I used not to believe in it, but I’ve heard enough stories of girls whose best girlfriends slept with their boyfriends. Also, be careful not to act too much like another girlfriend or you might be seen as the substitute gay friend.

And I’m sure there are hours and books more “strategies” to write about, though in the long-run it boils down to a couple things: chemistry (both in and out of the bed), laughter, confidence, and sincerity. At least on the guy’s side.

Because then there’s “the game” for women. Now if you want to understand women, here’s all you need to know: it just don’t make sense.

I assure you, women are like Jackson Pollock art: in the beginning you don’t understand, and then just when you think you’re getting the hang of it, she comes slamming down at you with a red, spotted diagonal line that sends you back to the drawing board: you don’t understand, and you won't understand. You’ll never understand. In all honestly I don’t think there is much to understand.

Ah “the game”. Those who excel at it call it a dance between two people who secretly burn for each other but are strong enough to resist. Those who hate it always adopt that very candid, supposedly-reasonable position: “I’m mature. I don’t play games. I told her I liked her, and that’s that. If it’s gonna get complicated, forget about it.” Hahahaha! ‘Forget about it…’ you’ll never forget about it, bud, because that’s just her executing the French maxim (running away from you) and you vainly trying to convince others (as well as yourself) that you’re not desperate. I'm telling you, the game isn’t quite l’amour, but it’s pretty fucking powerful as well.

And then there are those who’ve memorized the theory but suck at the demonstration. In their minds they’re all Casanovas with brilliant responses who dream they can make the other horny with a mere batting of their eyelashes. But when they actually meet that person of their dreams, the script just sounds fake and the ‘strategy’ backfires horribly. The intellectuals of that other game theory, not to confuse with economics.

But I’m a firm believer of one thing, and I can’t say it hasn’t worked in the past: Remember that despite the Chanel glasses, Longchamp bag, uninterested if not downright rude look, and air of superiority, every beautiful woman remains just that: a woman. And a woman will always be a creature who loves to smile, be smiled at, who needs and wants affection, if perhaps in varying degrees, and who might very well be vulnerable and should therefore be treated with care.

Treating a woman like a goddess might be nice in the beginning, but humans and goddesses don’t have the same needs, and women don't want a slave but a partner by them. Yes indeed, in the long-run it's the human relationship that primes over everything. « Parce que malgré tout, même la plus belle des femmes reste une femme, et celui qui peut la traiter comme tel aura effectivement tout compris. »

Ausgang

Lower the flag, your voice, your head,
This morning with dawn a rose became dead.
Yesterday she posed as a lover proposed
Happiness then but today the rose goes.

With what grace, what humility
The petal in my heart
She coloured us lives
Yet in her hour of need
She smiled a tear
With what courage to wait for when it’s near.

Act Three of Shakespeare,
The once-king is Dead. Done. Deposed.
Yet no one feels the tragedy
A rose died today yet not one of us knows how.

Oh how they felt, the other roses
When no one wept for their dear
Those once radiant fields of roses
While each morning they cried tears of dew
Today they sit petrified in fear
That we won’t notice when they too become shadows of no mere.

While young we had lives
Lived smouldering hot
Love and passion our religion
And we never left our church, our heart.

Though we wouldn’t admit
We gratefully accepted a shadow of respite
Yet now we stay in that shadow
Long we stay under it
As its cool became cold, and us with it
A mirage, a mere illusion became our haven
And we were sure that illusion
If we merely wished it, could become true.

Before we knew it the sun had risen and set
The heat gone, as with any chances of us being alive
The blooming petals have recoiled
The well is dry
Empty of tears to cry
Our hearts so thick and coarse
They could coat leather coats
Two eyes yet not one that can see
A mouth but nothing for it to say,


Until it was too late.
We were alive
A million heart beats but not a single heart for them
We had long lost the road, chosen the exit
The Ausgang
The path that forbids us return,
We are naked faced with our weakness,
That we want to go back but are incapable of our own wants.

Then today, in my illusion I woke up to the disillusion
That this morning a rose was dead.

Wanted Ad - Une Femme

“WANTED:

Fiery girl. Untameable. Has sense of dress. Culturally smart (must know the name of the continent Morocco is in). Beautiful, knows she’s beautiful, but doesn’t let it get to her. Somewhat arrogant, but in a natural sort of way, and has everything to back it up. Must speak either English, French, Arabic, or Italian. Must make herself desired, but is honest and straight. No huge tattoos, no piercings other then ears and belly-button. No drugs. No childish games. I’ll cook for her, but really, no childishness.”

I gave this description to an ex-girlfriend once and she said I was completely irrealistic. That that sort of a woman doesn’t exist. Then I thought I had found her, and was pretty close, but after a month I was disillusioned. Broke up. What a pity.

Is this really so extraordinary?

Ah, French, what a beautiful language. French, as I see it, is a beautiful thirty year-old woman, a lawyer or director working at some top firm, wearing needle-point black-heeled stilettos with a strap, a tailleur and jupe, light make-up, dark red lipstick, dark black hair, and brown eyes behind black rectangular frames. Beneath that, she wears black lace lingerie and brown collants, and maybe, if you’re lucky, that’s the day she’s wearing her porte-jartelles (the absolute sexiest thing in the world). If French were a woman, she would be slender, wear black suede, have a sexy quiet voice, and would rarely look at you in the eyes. But if she did she would be Medusa’s nemesis, and whereas a look from the latter would turn you to stone, French would inflame your passions on fire.

It’s not that Italian isn’t more melodious (Italian, another woman, is sexier by virtue of her larger chest and long tanned legs), or that Arabic doesn’t have poetry to it (Arabic is an imperial queen, nothing less). But French, my friend, French is a woman who has learnt how to be a woman (Beauvoir). French is une femme, smart, beautiful beyond despair, daring, discrete, devious, stylish, sexy, witty, manipulative, a proper bitch perhaps, but oh so desirable. Mon dieu quelle beauté et quelle perfection absolue des sens et de l’esprit.

French is never old. When she’s 20 she’s cute, when she’s 30 she’s sexy, and after 40 she’s beautiful. Forget Botox, French is its own fountain of youth. She is une plume (a feather) writing on a parchment whose words become alive as they are written. French is where women look at you with a “regard exquis”, as exquisite indeed as a slice of paté and a glass of white wine.

French is a woman you take to the finest restaurant, drink the finest Bordeaux with, and while you are savouring a canard lacqué or a blanquette de veau, she takes her foot out of her shoe and slips it between your legs, slowly rubbing against your calf, then your inner thigh, and finally into your sanctity, completely disarming you. All while she is looking at you in the eyes, chewing with her innocent mouth closed, she cracks out an imperceptible smile that lets you understand that you’d better be up to par, because tonight she’s planning to take you on a crazy, racy, wild ride.

Make no mistake; French is not a woman you take in a Mercedes across Paris late at night. No no, that’s too cliché, not unique enough. French takes a walk through the lit Champs Elysees, up to the Place de la Concorde, and you stop at the “Café M” or “Buddha Bar” for a martini or champagne. French can dance, oh yes, like lines that have not yet been drawn, but at 3 am you and French will walk to the Pont Neuf, and sit atop the Seine river, moonlit or not, speaking or silent, it is irrelevant. Forget sex, what you share with French is an explosive orgasm concocted by the mere powers of mental desire and lust.

Of course there is sex with French. But it’s not typical sex. You don’t go clubbing then have sex. That’s Anglo-Saxon. You don’t kiss then start taking the clothes off. Non. With French, sex is unpredictable, it is hot-tempered, and you don’t know where or when it’s coming. With French, you are walking through Place Vendôme when, standing in front of the Bulgari store, you brush her face with your hand and feel a sudden urge for sex. You race down the stairs to the parking of the Ritz, and right there, between a Rolls and a Porsche, standing against the wall, you have mind-blowingly powerful sex. You throw her against the wall, pick her leg up and sling it around you, possibly lifting her black skirt in the process, and bury your mouth inside her neck. She might claw at you, but don’t misinterpret it, she means “ne t’arrête surtout pas ”. French is beautiful, French is a goddess, and wants to know that you acknowledge her status as a goddess. She wants to know you’d do anything for her, that you are so desperate for her you are ready to rip the walls as well as the clothes that stand between you and the desire of her beauty.

French is a woman, and if you know anything about women, you’d better know how to convince them they are unique. When you are with French, she forgets all else and you forget all else. When you are with French, there is no world except the one of your hands in her skirt and her hands in your hair. There is no tender kissing, only inflamed lips locked with teeth and tongues reenacting the battle of the Three Kings. When you are with French and you finally make your way to a bed, the sheets are red and you have a goddess lying naked in the middle of a red bed, and everything is perfect.

Lastly, don’t forget that French is unique, and will only be interested in a unique person. French doesn’t want someone who exists only to please her. French doesn't want someone who tries to fit or someone who conforms to a model. French wants someone who is himself, pleases himself, and who she can be honest with. As I said, Italian is sexier in a more obvious sort of way. But Italian is a diva. If you ask French, Italian is eccentric because she’s insecure. She needs a man to take care of her because she can’t take care of herself. French can, she doesn’t need anyone. She merely wants a hedonistic companion for the complete fulfillment of life. Italian is loud and roaring, French is noblesse, and her natural arrogance sets her high above all others simply by virtue of herself. French, my friend, is a wandering perfume unbottle-able, a tulip in a field that never sees winter, a tigress with purring skin and predator eyes. Don’t mistake French for something else, because French is...French.

In the Darkness of the Night

Took a lighter out.
Lit a fag.
Stared at it for a long, long time.
Took a drag.

Seduction perhaps,
But really more a duel,
She had eyes like gems,
Any takers were met cruel.

They call it a game,
But you don’t leave unharmed,
Unscathed, unbruised,
Unmercifully charmed.

She’s a witch, not a bitch,
Though it’s all the same thing:
You want her but won’t get her,
When she wants you she’s your king.

So he took one last drag,
Threw the poison while with guile,
He prepared his darling weapon:
And met her with his smile.

For that she was prepared,
Although she must admit:
“At least he’s not a cocky,
I’ll let him live just a little bit.”

He approached her at the bar,
And she laughed as he came,
“So hasty, unromantic,
If only he knew my name.”

But her he didn’t talk to,
Rather he poured a drink,
Took a sip and just stood there,
Having a little think.

She left, but returned,
Once again they remained,
He looking out the window,
Her while the moon waned.

“Show courage; speak to me,
I promise I won’t bite.”

“It’s not that you scare me,
There’s a moment when it’s right.”

“If you wait
I may leave.
I can’t forever stay.”

“And my heart,
You would thieve,
But I shan’t stand
In your way.”

“You’re a poet, Oh I see.
You’ll regret you challenged might.
If you’re really up to it,
You may live through the night.”

And right at that moment
She finished her glass,
Picked up her bag,
And marched off to dance.

The music was strong,
Like his hand on her hip,
And she first unveiled her eyes,
They hooked him with a grip.

For hours they moved,
His angles, her curves,
Music their religion,
Dancing their words.

His lips by her ear,
His hands in her hair,
The pleasure of his desire,
Gushed feelings she couldn’t bear.

From two they formed one,
And they touched without fear,
Though her eyes were shut tight,
She had never seen so clear.



They call it seduction,
But really it’s a fight,
A tigress roared and purred,
In the darkness of the night.

The first mirror, and other existentialist conundrums...

I wonder how the first person to use a mirror reacted. It was, after all, the first time a human being could see as clear and eternal a reflection of her/himself. Sure, before that people could always walk to the pond and look at their reflections on water, or even look at a window and have a semi decent reflection if it was sunny enough. But a mirror... wow, what a revolution a mirror was.

A flawless, perfect, all-reflecting mirror. Think about it. Humans are notorious for spending their lives thinking about themselves, their existence, their evolutionary superiority, etc... Imagine what a stroke of the ego, as well as a confounding riddle, it must have been to look at oneself on a mirror for the first time.

We all used mirrors when we were babies, so we got used to the phenomenon very young. But that first time, it must have been quite something. In all logic the first person would probably have been somebody learned and rich person. You’ve got to have a lot of money to buy silver and put it behind a piece of glass. Probably by the time the person invented this, (s)he was old. Just imagine you’re 40 years old, and almost magically, you’re looking at yourself, the room behind you, the smile that’s creeping out of your mouth just as you’re watching bewildered, and the smile just keeps growing just as you watch it grow. You can see your hands move, your eyes turn, the quality of your beard, etc… Amazing. What’s the first thing a person thought, or noticed? A literary genius might come up with some great pondering question, but I’m ready to bet that one of the first things the first mirror user noticed was that (s)he had a stain on the clothes. Or some stupid, meaningless thing like that.

From an existentialist perspective, do you realize what that means? Even more than ever before, you become somebody important to yourself. You EXIST! Obviously, humans always knew they existed, but for the first time they have a proof of that. A visual representation of themselves. Imagine what a boost on the ego that must have been.

I don’t know. I just think it’s interesting. There must have been a first person to do something. And when it comes to using a mirror, it must’ve screwed up with the person’s brain quite a bit.

However; the first mirror experience isn’t quite my favourite. Think of this. This would actually be a great idea for a book; I might even write it if I find the proper inspiration.

Imagine God. Alright, imagine God is in a room, and there is no other god but God, and all the angels and demons and the rest of the divine court are gone. All gone fishing in the nearby pond. Anyways, God is alone.

Imagine God in his room, and he gets up, and takes a step but slips on the slippery floor and falls crashing head-on on the really hard marble floor. And then God wakes up a good 24 hours later, and has amnesia.

So basically, God is scratchin' ye ole white beard, throbbing red bump on the forehead, squinting around, and wondering, out loud: “What the... where the... Who the fuck am I?”

I’ll let you meditate upon that one. It would be hilarious though, wouldn’t it?, God waking up one day and has an identity crisis. Ha! I say, that would be mighty funny if that happened. Good old God...

Fucking Bouteflika

Most of the time I speak about international politics, terrorists, Bush, seduction, and such non-sense. Once in a while though, I must speak about the title of this Blog: THE SAHARA.

Ladies and gentlemen, the Western Sahara is an integral part of Morocco. It is Moroccan, its inhabitants are Moroccan, it is recognized as Moroccan by Moroccans on both sides of the "divide". The Sahara is not an independent country. It is MOROCCO.

But my dear Mr. Bouteflika, President of Algeria, puppet of its generals, hypocrit-asshole-truthless-piece of shit, I claim that the puppet Sahrawi Republic you have created with the help of Libya in 1976 is pure propaganda. It is bullshit. You will never take it from Morocco. I swear that. Am I clear? I swear to God that the Western Sahara will forever remain an integral part of Morocco, loyal to the Moroccan Monarchy that has to this day protected it as much as any part of Morocco.

Do not tell me that a "country" twice the size of Greece with a population of less than 700,000 is a real country. Especially if ~95% of it recognizes itself as Moroccan. Besides, how do you run a country with as few people, especially if a lot of them are Bedwin, thus nomadic tribes who travel from here to there? How do you defend it? What kind of a country do you make with a population the size of a neighborhood? Bullshit.

There are numerous reasons for Algeria supporting the Sahrawi Republic, and none of them actually benefit the people there. First of all, there's the fact that by continuing to support the Sahrawi Republic you continue to infuriate Morocco, which means your generals can continue to use the threat of war to enrich themselves. Second of all there's the fact that you have no access to the Atlantic, and by creating a puppet-state in the Western Sahara you would gain direct access to the Atlantic without passing through Morocco. Third, there's the fact that you consider yourselves Socialist, and thus enemies of the "imperialist" Monarchy in Morocco. But Algeria is no more socialist than America. It is a Military Oligarchy, which thrives on fear and the threat of war to enrich itself. Finally, the fourth reason is the fact that you have committed so much money, international humiliation, and official support to the Western Sahara that it would be a travesty, a complete disgrace, for you to backtrack and admit your error. Your population would ask you: "What do you mean? For 30 years you've used our tax and petrol money to prop up a state that you now give up on?" You can't afford that.

But listen to me well, get your eyes close to the screen, open them wide, pay close attention: OVER MY DEAD BODY. Never will any other flag except the red and green star fly over a house or building in the Western Sahara.

Algerian brothers, I have nothing against you. Our past is mixed, we helped ourselves achieve independence, we quarreled over a few cities, you got all of them. But when we meet, whether for a soccer game or dinner, we realize we are all brothers. We have a shared past, we sing the same songs, we pray to the same God, we even riot together in France.

But your leaders... Bordel. Vous pouvez aller vous la mettre la ou je pense. Tu piges?

Personne ne touche au Maroc.