I may need to release a sex tape.

I met with my publicist about taking things to the next level, whatever that may be. Nobody wants to live in a cubicle for fifty hours a week. To avoid that corporate trap, I need to sell more books. To sell more books, I need more exposure. A logical person would surmise that increased sales should come from higher quality books. Untrue. I have one word for you: Snooki. You didn’t hear me? How about this word: JWOWW?

“OK, here’s what needs to happen: You need to leak a sex tape.”

“Very funny.”

“I’m serious.”

“And I’m fifty. Have you lost your mind?”

“Look what it did for Tommy Lee, Paris, and Kim.”

“I don’t have half the penis Tommy Lee has and the other two, while closer to me in genital size, happen to be beautiful women.”

“None of that matters. It’s all about exposure and publicity.”

“Well, I’m not exposing anything.”

“It can be done tastefully to help your image.”

“Really? My image is so poor that a sex tape would actually improve it?”

“Well, you are known for dating and dashing as well as picking on poor, defenseless dogs and chubby gals.”

“But …”

“You also poke fun at cougars, bikers, Bostonites, and religious fanatics.”

“Technically, they’re Bostoners. Heh, heh.”

“Hush. So, to combat all of this negative energy, we accidentally release a sex tape featuring you and a fifty-five-year-old woman from Boston.”

“I’m intrigued. Continue.”

“You met her at a café while on a city bike tour. She recently moved to San Diego with her chocolate Labrador.”

“God help me.”

“He will because you two go at it in her bedroom beneath a crucifix mounted above her headboard while you wear your bike helmet and her dog lies at the base of the bed watching.”

“Why the helmet?”

“She’s going to be a little rough with you and the crucifix will fall and crack you in the skull.”

“Well, can she at least wear a nun’s habit then? I used to have a thing for The Flying Nun.”

“Now, we’re getting somewhere.”

“I want her to call me Reverend Lance and get nasty without saying any dirty words. We need to be cognizant of the Motion Pictures Association’s film rating. She can be like, ‘Oh gee whiz, yes, freak me, baby. Give it to me. Don’t you love my fragrant tulip? You’re making me tremendously not dry. Your banana is so unripe right now.’”

“What have I done?”

This could work, I began thinking. Still, this dish, like most, could use more topical spice.

“What if the woman is a college woman’s basketball coach and I have my way with her in the locker room? Then, an assistant coach hears the moaning and slapping. The assistant makes all sorts of racket, trying to get us to stop but we’re too busy with the pump soap, hair pulls, and all. Afraid of the fallout, the assistant runs from the locker room and calls Kris Jenner.”

“Kris Jenner?”

“Yes, of course. Kris just happens to be in the middle of a torrid lesbian affair with the coach. Kris storms into the locker room in a jealous rage—OK, with a dog—and demands an explanation while spraying Chloe and Lamar’s Unbreakable fragrance to clear the scent of sweaty old-people sex.”

“Why haven’t I learned not to tempt you?”

“Have the camera crew ready by six. I’ll go shave my balls.”

Are you a john to media whores?

We enjoy poking fun at famous people who make lots of money with little talent, such as reality TV stars. Ironically, by doing this we are feeding the frenzy. We should consider the art of making oneself popular (branding) to be a talent worth admiring and cultivating. Why? Consider the following:

• Snooki is paid more for college appearances than Nobel Prize winners are.
• The Situation will make over $5 million in 2011.
• The Kardashians will make over $65 million in 2011.
• Publications pay millions of dollars for the rights to publish celebrity baby pictures, weddings, and “Just Like You” pictures of stars who couldn’t be less like us (unless we were popular enough to hire publicists and paparazzi to pose us).

At first, I was disgusted by this. I take part of the blame because I subscribe to magazines like Us Weekly and regularly watch shows like The Bachelorette and Jersey Shore as well as shows that generate most of their success by commenting on reality shows (e.g. Chelsea Lately).

Women are the primary johns as they can’t seem to get enough of housewives, dancers, singers, daters, addicts, and dieters. I had a female friend stay with me for a few days on her vacation. She chose to stay in one night to catch up with the Kardashians … on her vacation! I watched her watch. She was mesmerized, as was I.

Then, I fell deeper into the trap.

I enjoy watching The Millionaire Matchmaker. When I moved to the sugar daddy and gold digger capital of the world in 2004, I was fascinated by how many women would trade their pride to be with unattractive men with thick wallets. I witnessed these men (most of them faking it) reel in women with ease, only to treat them like cufflinks. That’s why MM appeals to me—Patti, the host, exploits the freaks on both ends of the transaction. Clever woman!

This concept only works with spoiled men and desperate women. Try putting together a Barely Getting By Matchmaker and it will be cancelled in two weeks. “Meet Joe, a middle manager at a financial planning company who works fifty hours a week, struggles to pay his bills and child support, and forces himself to hit the gym to combat his expanding belly. He can’t find time to meet his soul mate. Meet ten women who spend most of their time fighting aging with clothing, makeup, treadmills, and hair coloring, which too often is wasted on unappreciative men.” *Yawn*

I ran into Patti Stanger from The Millionaire Matchmaker at a local club this past summer. She was attractive, kind, and buried in her Blackberry. She fascinated me, so I bought her a drink and flirted as she checked me out over her reading glasses. No luck. Afterward, I thought, Why did I do that? I’m not attracted to her. Obviously, her show is produced and scripted. Liking her on the show isn’t the same as liking her in person. I guess I was star struck.

Then, a few weeks ago, a friend of a friend contacted me saying Patti asked him to find her “a nice San Diego man.” He had me send an email with some personal ditties and pictures, which he forwarded to her. “Be patient. She’s very busy,” he warned me. No shit.

After I sent the email, I felt icky. Why must I sell myself to a woman I hardly know? Screw that! She should send me a sales pitch. Then I considered the fame aspect. If she agreed to meet me and actually began dating me, this could help my brand immensely. She might mention my books. I might appear on an episode. Paparazzi might become curious about me. More eyes on me would translate into more book sales.

Still, it felt dirty.

I wavered and waited for her response. Finally, we spoke on the phone and I was encouraged because she didn't seem like the hyper-critical woman from her show. She asked me to text her another picture. I complied and then I didn’t hear back. Oh, well. A friend persuaded me to send just one more follow-up text, in case she was too busy to respond. Finally, she responded, confessing she “didn’t feel the chemistry.”

The ego punch was gentle, actually, as I had low expectations. To me it felt like losing a business opportunity or being turned down for a job. I responded saying, “Fair enough. Still a fan. Best wishes.” Naturally, her next text solicited me to become a customer. Ugh. Must it always be about the money? She has the goods and I almost paid. I nearly became a john.

Can’t we admire people for their personal qualities instead of their financial influence? Can’t we find love based on what’s deep inside, instead of the shiny bows and wrapping paper that conceal the goods? Must we consider taking on certain relationships for the non-emotional benefits they offer? Can we distinguish the person from the brand and love one regardless of the other? I’m not sure it’s possible.

Uh-oh, ex alert!

You run into people in the strangest places, don’t you? You’re just out minding your own business when you see someone who looks oddly familiar. Your brain scans the files of relatives, coworkers, and classmates. No matches. The person is closing in on you. You blow the dust of your cerebral “names of people I once knew” box and flit through the folders. Hurry!

It’s no use. You’re about to be reintroduced. Last-ditch effort: do the alphabet scan thing.

A – Albert: No. I would never date an Albert.

B – Brian: Hmm, I think I had a one-nighter with a Brian once.

C – Chris: He doesn’t look like a Chris. Maybe if he had lighter hair.

D – Damian: Scary.

E – Edward: My grandfather’s name was Edward. I wouldn’t have forgotten that name.

F – Oh, fuck … too late.

“Hi, Beth, how are you?”

“Fine. So nice to see you again.”

Here comes that awkward hug. Maybe I can match the scent.

“Nice to see you too.”

“Gosh, it has been so long.”

“Oh, silly, last spring isn’t that long ago.”

Time to recover. I wish my dumbass friend would introduce herself before I embarrass myself.

“To you, maybe. I’ve been so busy.”

“So, who’s your friend.”

Come on, girlfriend. God, she’s stupid. This bitch is buying the rest of the night.

“This is Allie.”

“Hi, Allie. I’m Franco. Beth and I met on eHarmony and went on a date last year.”

Fuck!

“Look at that: My glass is empty. Be right back. Anybody need one?”

It’s wise to remove yourself from the stressful situation to regroup and analyze. Search your phone. Nothing. No use signing into eHarmony here. I suggest you use humor to diffuse the situation. If that doesn’t work, lie.

“Oh, hey there, Beth. Welcome back. What are you drinking?”

“Vodka.”

“… and club soda?”

“… and more vodka.”

This is where your friend excuses herself to allow you to do some treading in the tears of your ex.

“So, I never heard back from you.”

“Um. Yeah. Sorry about that.”

“That’s OK.”

“Good.”

“I mean, I liked you and thought we were a great match.”

“Aw.”

*gulp*

“I still do, in fact.”

“You’re sweet.”

“But, you never returned my calls or text messages, so I assumed you weren’t interested.”

“Right. Well …”

“You don’t have to explain. Jeez. It’s like almost two years ago. I’m over it. No biggie.”

“Ah, OK.”

“I’m still single. How about you?”

“Kind of dating someone.”

“Is it serious?”

*gulp* I’m going to kill Allie.

“Serious enough.”

“Do you think you’ll marry him?”

“I don’t know. Gee, where did Allie go?”

“She’s over there talking to the bartender.”

“Oh, maybe she needs a hand.”

“I get it. You’re trying to ditch me. That’s OK. I’m sorry I bothered you.”

“No, not at all. Look, Franco, you’re a great guy. I just wasn’t ready back then, I guess.”

“Well, if you weren’t ready you shouldn’t have been on eHarmony and you certainly shouldn’t have let me take you out.”

“Yep. You’re right.”

*gulp*

“Why don’t you make it up to me by letting me take you out tomorrow night?”

“Because I’m dating someone, remember?”

“You’re just making that up as an excuse to get away from me.”

*gulp*

“Be right back. Hey, Allie …”

As we toss bodies on the pile of exes, we’re eventually going to have to deal with the stench or find new landfills.

Are you looking to date your daddy?

Not literally, silly. Take a little inventory of your recent bedwarmers. How many of them—specifically, the ones you liked for more than their sub-sheets skills—had similar personalities to your father? Go ahead and think about it. I’ll wait.

Just got a tiny chill, didn’t you?

It’s actually not so creepy. You’re expected to love your parents and you probably developed a deep appreciation for the sacrifices they made to help create the ball of wonderfulness you currently are. Consider how many evenings your father would have rather done almost anything other than spoon feed you candied yams, pick up all the Cheerios you tossed on the floor, and change shirts stained by your projectile “stuff.” You'd damn well better appreciate it, young lady!

I exploit this tendency when I meet a potential lover. I have her describe her father. Based on that description, I know if I have a title shot or not.

“How is your relationship with your father?”

“Oh, it’s great. He’s a magnificent person.”

“So, you’re daddy’s little girl.”

“Yep. He spoiled me with gifts and hugs.”

Duly noted: Buy things and cuddle.

“Aw.”

“He always made sure I knew how proud he was of me.”

Also noted: Voice appreciation often. Emotional propping may be required.

“I’m sure he’s proud. Look how amazing you are.”

“Thank you. He maintained a positive outlook and went out of his way to help people.”

Another note: No whining about my misery and carry some spare change for the homeless.

“Well, I hope to meet the fellow someday.”

“I’m sure you two would get along famously.”

“Hey, as long as he’s not allergic to cats or a Tim Tebow fan, we’ll be tight.”

Women need a reality check, though. Not every father can be the best father ever. Some, frankly, had to suck. One easy way to see if your admiration is justified is to review your last five or so lovers and see what percentage of them were considered by most of your friends to be unworthy of you.

“What on earth did you see in Stan?”

“He’s a good guy.”

“He totally is not. He treats his ex-wife like shit.”

“Maybe that’s because she’s psycho.”

“What about his insecurity issues? He was the most jealous man I ever met.”

“That’s because he loved me so much. He couldn’t stand the thought of me with another man. It would make him crazy to consider that I loved anyone before him.”

“… and then he cheated on you.”

“I know. Well, I guess things weren’t going as well as I thought.”

“What?”

“If I gave him what he needed, he wouldn’t have cheated on me. It was momentary weakness. He apologized and promised to never do it again.”

“Wait. Didn’t he get a different girl pregnant right after you forgave him and took him back?”

“True. Well, it’s over now. He’s a good guy though.”

“Oh my god. Please stop defending him.”

This woman was obviously neglected by her “wonderful” father, as were most women who find themselves hopelessly attracted to bad boys and abusive men. She needs to meet a nice guy and change her expectations of how men should treat her. If you have a friend like this, tear her away from her father figure and guide her gently toward a gentleman.

Think about what you’re occupying.

When you want to be heard, you speak in a place where the ears you’re trying to reach can hear you. You should also have a point, not just a gripe without a proposed solution. Nobody wants to hear whining. This is what annoys me about all of the “occupy” protests going on. People are gathering in places where the intended audience spends little time. The protesters are carrying signs and chanting aimlessly. You wouldn’t pray this way.

“Dear God, I’m pissed.”

“What about?”

“Everything.”

“Well, you know where the exit is.”

“Seriously, Dude, this sucks.”

“What does?”

“For one thing, I don’t have as much money as I used to.”

“So, you think you should be paid for sitting in a tent in a park playing Angry Birds on your iPhone.”

I’ve had little luck in the romance department; that’s no secret. Would it make sense for me to plop a beach towel down in front of a hair salon? Should I chant to the ladies getting their weekly blowouts, “I lost my wife, now I got no sex life”? Ladies would step over me while delivering condescending glares. Sure, some would show pity. They’d probably toss me a porn magazine or suggest I get a puppy.

I would love to protest about this recent trend: Women give me their phone numbers, don’t answer when I call, and don’t return my message. Some take it a step further and complain the next time they see me that I didn’t pursue them sufficiently. What’s that all about? If I chase them, I’m the creepy leech guy; if I lie back, I’m the aloof low-ambition-having goof.

To protest the above mistreatment, what do you suggest?

• Don’t ask for phone numbers. Ask for Facebook friending.
• Take my shirt off so they can decide if they really want to waste a number on such a furry beast.
• Disclose my feline fancy.
• Import a bride from overseas.
• Take a yoga class wearing a T-shirt that reads, “I prefer doggie style to downward dog.”
• Scan the obituaries for emotionally unstable recent widows.
• Stuff a pool noodle in my pants.
• Go to a gay club, pose as a gay male, and infiltrate an all-girl table telling them I’m curious.
• Netflix.
• Hair coloring, chest shaving, teeth whitening, Spanx for men, elevator shoes, and trade my 401(k) for a Mercedes.
• Beg an ex to take me back.
• Aim a lot lower.
• Become a marriage counselor.
• Write about it, hoping to find the ticklish spot on a woman in a similar situation.