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The Painter

This post is also available in: German

One block from where I live, on a residential street corner, I saw a lanky, unkempt white man talking to two attractive blondes dressed in the uniform of the City Bitch On Her Way To Do Something So Very Important At Her Paper Pusher Job: crisp Banana Republic skirt, tennis shoes for the sidewalk commute, and hair in a ponytail. Upon closer inspection, I noticed the man had a tall painter’s easel in front of him with a postcard-sized canvas propped on the easel. He was dangling a brush from his right hand rather effeminately, while the girls smiled broadly, flipped their ponytails to and fro, and engaged him in animated conversation.

The canvas had a few splotches of pastel-colored geometric shapes on it. If this was supposed to look like my neighborhood, I couldn’t make out the resemblance. I figured it must be some postmodern stylism that only the illuminati, and City Bitches, could comprehend.

Then I noticed something else; I recognized this guy. I’d seen him ambling around my neighborhood, walking with that loserly shuffle. He was a local. I’ve never seen him painting outdoors on a weekday morning either, and until now I’d never seen him in the company of women. This new painter’s schtick he had devised was clearly working. There he was, three random colors on a tiny canvas, a cheap art store easel on the sidewalk corner, and two hot blondes eating out of his palm. He was probably smacking himself for not coming up with this idea sooner.

Go ahead and try it. Buy an easel and a canvas board. Set up shop on a corner in the daytime, ideally during the morning or evening pedestrian commute. Dangle a paintbrush from your hand effeminately whilst cocking your head like you’re deciding how best to capture the majesty of the street corner. Wait for girls to approach you (which automatically signals their lower status relative to yours, as girls are programmed to never approach men), and run your normal game as usual.

“I’m surprised you can recognize the deep spirit of the land and its people I’m trying to evoke. I wouldn’t have taken you for the type of girl who could appreciate art.”

You don’t need to be an artist, or even have painting skills, to pull this off. All you need is the ability to handle the public attention you will get, and a cultivated sense of haughty arrogance.

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