They were mostly just semi-awkward dudes who had trouble navigating the bar scene, and needed a boost of confidence (a very expensive boost, but a boost nonetheless). What was more interesting were the tactics espoused by Savoy and his band of dating boot camp instructors. Apparently, it's all about preparation.

They prep you for everything, including, but not limited to: how to position yourself at a bar to make it look like girls are hitting on you, and not vice versa (stand against the wall); how to meet girls in a club ("Approach a girl and ask, in a loud voice, 'On a scale of one to 10, how much fun are we having?' If she says eight, take her by the hand and twirl her. Then say, 'Now you're at a 10!'"); how to meet girls at the airport ("Fly Southwest—the open seating is great for sitting next to a hot girl"); how to "isolate" a girl and move her around the room to strengthen "trust"; how to plant the seeds of sex in her mind early in conversation; how to make friends with her guy friends so they don't punch you in the face; and even how to snag a threesome ("It's important to elevate intimacy with each girl in sync. Also, alcohol helps").

I mean, isn't a lot of that common sense, repackaged with cute catchphrases? I guess in some ways, this is a more manly, uber-expensive form of a self-help book. I know perusing the self-help aisle is not exactly at Schwarzeneggerian levels of masculinity, but it's still less embarrassing than telling your friends you shelled out 3K to get advice from someone named Savoy.

Pay For Play [Radar]

Earlier: Intrepid New York Reporter Hits On Moddels, Fails Hilariously
'The Pick Up Artist': Extreme Makeover Edition

Oh, and P.S., when I say "fun" I mean in a "because I enjoy absurd experiences" way, not in a "there's stuff I'm not telling you" way. Nothing went down! He is, um, not exactly my type.

I was sitting at a bar at the intersection of Second Avenue and 69th Street, feeling relieved that Paul Janka had stood me up and wondered if I a trip to the Upper East Side could possibly constitute a post. Certainly, it was bleak and desolate. "There's nothing here, " said the three guys sitting next to me apologetically. "You have to get up to the nineties." Maybe Paul Janka was just the product of his surroundings, fucking women for sport because there is literally nothing else to do. An older British man to my right engaged me in conversation about W.H. Auden, the merits of vodka vs. gin, my father's prostate cancer. "God bless your father," he said. It was seven nights before Christmas. I felt a pang of guilt for considering skipping out on a pre-holiday family dinner to attend the Harper's Christmas party. It was 11:09, one hour and nine minutes and three separate text messages after my appointed meeting time with Paul Janka. I had not heard a word.

I got a text. "Still there?" it said.

"Come over for a bit."

I went. I briefly mistook his building for one with a doorman. His had no doorman. It smelled like Ramen, or perhaps chicken and dumplings or something the elderly are more likely to consume. HIs apartment was on the third floor. The stairs creaked walking up. His door was one of maybe four in a little vestibule, suggesting that I was maybe in a converted flophouse.

He opened the door. He is hot, but you knew that. He smiled a little bit and kissed me on both cheeks. He was wearing an American Apparel gym T-shirt in dark heathery gray.

"So you're Maureen. Why do you go by 'Moe'? Maureen is much sexier."

Dudes invariably say this to me. They do not want to fuck "Moe." It's boring but I don't mind it if they bring it up after I have already considered fucking them because once you have started considering fucking someone your conversation is bound to get objectively more boring. However, I had no interest in fucking Paul Janka. I think he could sense this, because he immediately commenced trying to change my mind or trying to get me to think he was trying to get me to change my mind.

He took my coat. I surveyed — um, looked at — his apartment. I have seen a lot of apartments but I have never seen one so small and I have been to Japan. There was a closet to the left and a ladder to his loft to the right, and a leather chair. Beneath the loft was an antiquey-looking desk that looked like it belonged in a Ralph Lauren store, covered with those shirts with the horrible rat-sized Polo logos. Next to the leather chair was a gorgeous, impeccably well-maintained redwood armoire, atop which a crimson candle glowed.

"Take off your shoes," he said when I sat.

"Okay."

"Look, my shoes are off." He pointed to his socks.

"What are those, boots?" he asked.

"Yes."

I took them off. He squatted beside me, and took one of my feet in his hand and placed it to his nose, inhaling deeply.

I laughed. He started rubbing my calves. Approximately eleven seconds into that process, he began kneading my thigh. What is this, the Iron Chef of date rape?

"Don't cross your legs!" he said.

"You're insane!' I replied.

"So what is this, you want to interview me?" he asked. "Are you somehow affiliated with Gawker?"

"Yes and yes."

"Are you willing to sacrifice your journalistic integrity?"

"I'm not here to fuck you. I'm interested in you as a phenomenon."

"How tall are you?" he asked.

"About 5'7."

"Really? I don't believe you, I think you should stand up."

"Oh Jesus, you know? You're going to have to take my word for that because..."

"Because you have no reason to lie about it. Okay. You know, you're really cute. You have a sort of, robust sexiness about you. So what's your last name? Are you Jewish?"

"It's Slovak."

"Is that like Czech? My father is Czech. Is Slovak the same thing?"

"It used to be the same thing, but uh, they broke up."

He commenced pawing me. The weird thing about this is that generally I would probably feel uncomfortable, afraid I might succumb to a level of physical intimacy I might regret with Paul Janka, but even though I am totally ovulating right now I did not feel this fear while he relentlessly caressed my legs and arms, or on any of the ninety or so occasions he attempted to access my breasts from the neck of my shirt. "You know I'm not some rapist, he said at one point, and he had a point. My instinct, when he'd try to paw at my crotch, was to find a gnawed-on piece of rope and throw it down the hall hoping he'd go fetch. The point is, you don't think the dog diving into your crotch every time you come in the door is going to rape you. Of course, there was no place to throw a rope in Janka's miniature bachelor pad.

And dogs aren't evolved enough to properly masturbate; Janka went to freaking Harvard. What was his excuse?

I couldn't really find out. "I was a late bloomer," he admitted at one point. He'd lost his virginity at 20. By this point I was up on his bunk bed thingy. He has this rule about "no street clothes" on the bed so he had kindly offered me a pair of his Dolce & Gabbana boxer-briefs, folded meticulously in the armoire, to change into. "

Are you going commando right now?" he asked as I changed by his tiny closet.

"Ew no."

"Did that letter I sent, were you turned on when you read it?"

"I don't really get turned on by erotica."

"What turns you on?"

"I kind of actually like conversation."

I tried to pursue one with him. What about the adolescence that had left him so warped. He'd grown up in Santa Monica. Where'd he go to high school?

"See, this is the thing about conversation. Who cares where I went to high school?" he said.

"I'm just trying to apply my extensive knowledge of cultural stereotypes and gross generalizations to analyze your behavior," I said, or something like that.

"I went to a big public school."

Okay, in brief: his mother's feelings about his vocal Casanova-ness are "mixed" — she disapproves but approves if he can "monetize" it. His attempts to "monetize" it have thus far consisted of talks about a reality show. He will appear at some point in the future, he says, on Inside Edition. He refused to talk much about his employment history, claiming he had been a technology analyst for a hedge fund but he never really "liked, like working." He likes to write; there's a screenplay he's shopping around.

"I also wrote a lot of college essays I really think are good. I have those." He did not share them.

He owns some books, but neither of the titles I inquired about — The Prize and the Book of Mormon — were ones he claimed to have read. Julia Allison is the one who first "discovered" him. He finds Julia Allison "cute" and "attractive" and "cute." He broke up with his girlfriend of two years a month ago, the event that seems to have precipitated the resurgence in interest surrounding his self-internet published 2004 work How To Get Laid In New York.

"I still love her; I'd love to have children with her, but we were just at different times in our lives," he said, or something along those lines. He found a picture of her (incredibly pretty) on his computer; when the screen first alit I was treated to a picture of a man — I believe it was Paul — holding his erect penis, perpendicular. It seemed large enough. He also shared with me photos sent to him by girls who had befriended him on Facebook since his appearance on the Today show. I could not tell if they were attractive from the photos, because they generally only displayed their asses. Like so many men of his generation, Janka is obsessed with butt sex. "29 years old and you've never had anal sex," was a common refrain, after I revealed to him I had never been penetrated there.

This paltry bit of information came at a price; once up on his bunk bed his frenzied touching grew more aggressive and strategic. "Don't break the TV," he would say, if I got too far away from him and too close to the flat-screen television mounted on the wall opposite his pillows. "I'm worried about the TV." He tried to grab at my crotch. When I covered myself with his blanket for protection, he said, "oh, I'm cold too," and covered himself with the blanket.

Once underneath the blanket, he felt at ease to start jerking off while looking at me and squinting while I asked questions. I don't know for a fact that he was jerking off, of course, but he was moving up and down rhythmically and it was the only period during our encounter during which he seemed to find a use other than probing me for his hands. It was a relief, but he got even worse at answering questions. I began to see holes in his stories.

"Please, please will you just...touch it?" he asked.

"No. Why do you like to fuck drunk girls if you're not drunk?" I asked.

"That information is outdated," he said. "I don't do that anymore. I ran the numbers, and it just wasn't worth the cost. "Three drinks for her, plus seltzers for me, that's sixty bucks, times five times a day is $300..."

"Five times a day?"

"Five times a week is $300...and then you don't even really know if you're going to get a girl back home. Especially now, in the winter, you'll leave the bar and suddenly the cold air hits her face and she says, I'm just gonna go home..."

And then he began to contradict himself.

"But seriously, when I did that the girls were never drunk. They'd usually have one drink, two tops."

Suffice it to say his new strategy has been working very well since his appearance on the Today show. His most recent conquest was a Polish model in a loveless marriage who contacted him on Facebook in search of no-strings sex. But sometimes it backfires; the day before a girl had come over and he was, unbelievably, untempted to have sex with her. "The chemistry was off," he said. "She was kind of overweight."

Sigh.

Anyway I left pretty quickly after that. It was getting sort of boring. The one admirable thing about Paul Janka was that, unlike most oversexed pervs, he was not enough of a narcissist to seem to desire any analysis or tolerate introspection. He seemed driven purely by an insatiable need to get laid constantly. So insatiable was his need last night that he actually donned his American Apparel jacket and left his apartment when I did, headed for some destination across town. We hugged goodbye. On the way downstairs he said it was a shame we hadn't met under different circumstances, that he thought we could have a lot of fun with one another, blah blah blah blah. "What happens to us?" he finally asked, hilariously, before begging me to kiss him.

I abstained.

After watching David Faustino get actual phone numbers with, for example, his identity concealed, his hands tied, and his mouth duct-taped, no guy should ever have to fear approaching a woman under normal circumstances again.

So instead of watching the interactions of two eighties TV stars and the desperate Los Angeles women who throw themselves at them, we'll be watching two guys who just happen to resemble long-forgotten eighties TV stars and the women who throw themselves at them, then try to rescind their overtures when they discover it's a case of "mistaken identity," who meanwhile have totally dated themselves on-camera by responding to guys who look like Bud Bundy and Parker Lewis? Did you think there was something that could be more painful than reality television? You clearly forgot about MySpace.

MySpace Teams Up With Neil Strauss [International Herald Tribune]

The Men Who Love To Dress Your Feet [NYO]

So um, this is Mystery?

I'm Mystery among friends, Eric among girlfriends.And my nieces call me uncle Butthead.

Have a lot of people called you today?

About fifteen people have called and hung up. I can tell culturally it's a lot of black people, and I'm getting the 212 area code, which is Chicago.

Where are you? 702 is a Vegas area code, right?

Well yes but I am currently in Los Angeles. I just got to Los Angeles last night. I'm in my empty new apartment right now, I got in last night late, and I've got three pitch meetings for a new project today. I've got a pitch for a new project today at ten a.m.

I'm sure you'll succeed. You're very convincing. Although the guys on your show...

People out there need to reach people for good or for bad.

Do you ever come to New York? I have a friend who wants to date you.

My New York days are behind me. New york is just, too, um there's so much humanity and they're so blind and trapped by their lives and you see it all around ...Do you know that song "Bunch Of Water" by Live?

Live, like "I Alone" Live?

No, Live like "Lightning Crashes" Live. That guy is definitely a Rock God.

Totally. Who else do you revere as Rock Gods?

Well, Tool. Maynard ... there is definitely somehow transcendental some sort of message he is preaching

So...are you dating anyone? Or a lot of people?

You mean, do I have a special someone?

Or an unspecial someone, you know, I'm easy.

Well, I've put myself in an interesting position where I have a lot of opportunities. And there are some people on this planet are really truly we're spiritually connected to...

Okay, did you get laid last night?

Um, no. I did jerk off to lesbian porn at 4:30 in the morning though.

Oh, lesbian porn is my favorite. Sometimes I struggle with that. Like, does it make me gay?

All women are bisexual to some degree, it's a hard wire. Even my sixteen year old niece has a crush on....well, a female actress.

I'm worse than that, I have a crush on Samantha Ronson, and she's a dyke!

Who is that?

Oh, she's Lindsay Lohan's DJ best friend enabler big sister lover type. She's really really cute. Do you think you could de-gay her?

Any man can de-gay a girl when she realizes he's just a spirit and they're both spirits and it has nothing to do with the boy-girl dynamic thing.

But what about men? Men aren't all bisexual to some degree?

I'm still trying to figure things out; my brother's gay but at the same time, when I watch Borat or flip past a gay porn channel - because you know I'm from Toronto and they're very liberal about pornography there, there are ten porn channels - I can't help but feel my nose crinkle and say "that's gross."

Why do you think Scott Baio is 45 and single?

Well let's see, I have a thought about that. It's sort of the same thing as if I were to see Bea Arthur of the Golden Girls have sex. Why would I want to watch someone who has already gone through menopause.. go through that? It's biology. I'm evolutionally calibrated to not find that attractive. Why would I pursue something that it's not attractive to me?

(And I have no idea if there was a segue into this next thought)

One of the things I find myself enjoying is licking a girl's ass. I feel like I'm owned by her, and simultaneously owning her in a weird way, and it's a weird symbolism when you watch two girls do it and nothing gets me harder. I can be an intellectual, but I'm bound by the human condition. It also appears that millions and millions of human beings feel the same way. Just type in "ass licking" on Google and see what you'll find.

Oh no. I've actually had my SafeSearch on ever since I Google image searched the words "period sex." Big mistake.

I've had sex with a girl on her period, it's not disgusting. It's not a fetish or anything. Even ass licking isn't a fetish, it's spiritual. Most guys are not fetishists. They're needy for sex, but really what you're trying to do is feel a sensational experience with someone. That's what this whole pick-up thing has been about. It's not about trying to pick up a girl so you can get laid. It's about building trust in someone, whether it's a sushi meal or an orgasm, at the same time life is just about experience.

Right, I mean, I totally agree. But the guys on your show...

The guys on my show are all on the path.

So when did you lose your virginity?

When I was twenty-one.

So like, when you were in college?

No, I didn't go to college, in fact I quit high school in grade ten, and then went back, and I have a half-credit to go before finishing grade twelve. I'm one of those people who recognizes the responsibility of education lies in the student, not the teacher, and over the years I have studied a myriad of subjects, from cosmology to astrophysics to microbiology and chemistry. I didn't get to be a millionaire by not educating myself.

But so you, like, never took the SAT.

I'm Canadian so no. Talking to you is fun. You speak with a lot of clarity.

I'm really hungover.

What's your name?

Moe. Well, Moe among friends, "Maureen" usually to boyfriends and dudes who aren't comfortable with the idea of fucking a "Moe." What are you wearing?

Well I'm putting on jeans, and new shoes I got yesterday at the Fashion Show Mall, where I was recognized by at least fifteen people. I get recognized easily now, and everyone is just so positive. There's so much positive energy. Oh hold on a second, Matador is here. Here's Matador.

M: Who is this?

I'm Moe.

M: Wait, here, talk to Chris.

C: Hey, who is this?

Moe. I was just talking to Mystery.

C: How do you know these guys?

Um, we just have a shared interest in cosmology I guess. Did you get laid last night?

C: Me, no. My girlfriend's on her period.

Oh my god, me too! We're synched already. Mystery has no problem having sex with a girl who's on the rag, do you?

C: No I don't mind, it's just like, blowjob week.

So it must be pretty exciting being friends with Mystery!

C: Oh yeah. I mean, you could take a retarded monkey boy and put him on TV and he would get laid, but with Mystery, there's the double impact of, like, Mystery, and now he's on TV.

It's sort of like this thing I read about in Cosmo, where you have clitoral orgasm and a G-Spot orgasm at the same exact time.

C: And it's all spongy and filled with blood ... yeah, just like that! To Mystery:Hey man, why don't you smoke on the balcony? You pay thousands of dollars for a nice place and then smoke a cigarette?No longer to Mystery: So who are you, are you hot?

Um, not right now. I fix up okay. But "hot" isn't, like, my selling point. I'm more of a "fun" type person. Like, I am really hungover right now, and probably not looking so good, but it's because I was "fun" last night. Anyway I'm not sure why I'm telling you this. What neighborhood of LA are you in?

C: West Hollywood.

Does Mystery ever talk about his favorite books to you?

C: Hey man, what's your favorite book? Carl Sagan's Demon Haunted. Carl Sagan. You heard it here first...okay, here's Eric.

So wait, hold on, another of you is calling.

Who was it?

It was another African American voice. I could tell just from the laughing. I can even tell if someone is from Northern or Southern England, right away. I'm kind of like doctor Doolittle in that way. I can tell from just the smallest bit of laughter where people are from.

Where do you think I'm from?

Well, the 646 is a Toronto cell phone prefix.

Um, but I'm in New York.

C: No man, 646 is a New York number.

But I'm actually from Washington, D.C.

Oh, I've done a boot camp in Washington D.C. There's.. just not a lot of beauty there. I don't want to do boot camps there anymore.

But the girls there are smarter than girls anywhere else.

Oh, I'd definitely agree.

Okay, you need to pitch your television shows, and I am going to send you lots of positive energy although you don't need it because you are going to be amazing, but can I call you again maybe to talk about life and stuff?

Sure!