Menu Close

Category: Wildside Tales

Womenology – 100 – Introduction To Womanry

Part 1 of 3
Being And Mystery

by WildMan aka, George Palczynski

September, 2019


Women, ladies, dames, broads, damsels, lassies, chicks, sheilas, squeezes, babes, gals, and girls – I have anticipated your… female… reactions! They are on the order/variation of:
“Oh no! Not another one of these boasting gloaters that hadn’t ever read ’50 Shades of Grey’, going on about knowing ALL about women!”

Well no, I’m not one of those boasting gloaters who believes he knows everything about women… omg… don’t you just HATE THEM!

Though… though… though with what I do know about women, I could lecture at the Sorbonne. And more the wiser the world would be about women, which is presently altogether too willfully obtuse and preciously deluded.

In The Beginning

Woman had been formed from the man’s rib. This tale may be parable but it is medically sound. Bone is reliably chockablock with pristine DNA.  And GOD apparently gave the plumbing some thought but little revelation. GOD does NOT push the envelope – I think Einstein had first made that discovery.

The human is a dichotomous creature. Either it is male or female; and then, to the higher form, man or woman. i.e., the mold and the molded.

It was bone that made Eve human, gave her substance made her near as much, physically, as Adam. But what had made her woman beyond the aforementioned plumbing? What had made her pysche womanish? What had made her think as a woman; feel as a woman; perceive as a woman? There’s a mystery here and it’s going to remain one… and with reason.

“Insofar as something retains mystery it commands interest.”
– George Palczynski

Mystery, Thy Name Is Woman

“I am not a woman—I am a world. My garments have but to fall, and you shall discover upon my person a succession of mysteries.”
– Queen of Sheba (to St Anthony)
Gustave Flaubert (The Temptation of St Anthony)

The Queen has not even broached the subject revealing mind/soul. Just at that level, merely the flesh, she is mystery – and don’t men know it.

In whatever of the brain’s nodules and relative synapses this ‘sex stuff’ is contained, however widely or narrowly dispersed, lies the greatest mystery of all, excepting the one – the WHY? of it all. But of everything else it is the greatest. Long after deep thinkers and esotericists have resolved the Theory of Everything into one neat beautiful equation, the mystery between man/woman will remain unresolved.

Men are crazy; Women are nuts. Fact – crazy and nuts are NOT the same.

What’s The Big Mystery?

Crazy is digital; nuts is analog.

Men are digital, binary. Women are analog and multivalent. Note the inherent complexity as to women… multivalent! Already, just sixteen words in, and a guy’s gotta start looking stuff up in Websters.

Men are on/off, yes/no, ones and zeros.

Women are yes and no – simultaneously; they are mostly maybe; yes with a little no; ‘no’ with a scaled down ‘yes’ micro-organically inserted.

You see the dilemma… yes?… no?

Men think digitally, expect to be responded to digitally. A man’s response to a man is digital/binary; yes/no, agree/disagree; drink/fight; or, rock-paper-scissors.

Women think multivalently… good luck with that. I’m not writing a damn book.

Men are mechanical; women are mechanical. Aha! Yes!

…Not so fast.

Men are simply mechanical; women are quantumly mechanical. Acquaint yourselves with the overwhelming complexity involved with the quantum microcosm – convoluted is the worst that can be said about it – maddeningly counterintuitive the best. THAT is woman.

Men are 1 or 0, or 1000101001, always precisely there and nowhere else. Woman, on the other hand, being an analog wave may be, quantumly, at two places at the same time; can be both at the crest and trough of the wave – simultaneously. I mean WTF?! How maddening is that… to have to deal with.

Yeah, no… I don’t have to hear it to know. Misogynist!… Terrified! Angry! Broken! Hurt! Damaged! STOP reading COSMO ladies!

Everyone Knows

It’s long been known. To say it is all not much understood is true; to say it is all not much true is ornery contrariness.

Women are idiots; men are lunatics.
Rebecca West

Women are wonderfully gifted with powers of observation. This is their wheelhouse. Ms. West was twice again a powerhouse. She was not only pithily observant she was pithily expressive. In the above quote, she reveals one of the truly great observations regarding the psychic chasm that separates the sexes. She’s not been proven wrong.

Women are idiots; because women are complex. Women make note of detail – all manner of details; and will overload their capacity for them. Women will make too much of details; conclude much the wrong thing based on details. With enough detail, ‘x’ may be inferred where ‘y’ had, in fact, been implied. In other words, women, to be repaired, if any man dared an attempt to repair them, would be fitted with a fine filter.

Imagine details as dots to connect. There is a point reached of too many details/dots, so that when they are connected they are not so much a shape, as a Jackson Pollock abstraction; and at that, left more to surmise about than know of.

Men are lunatics. Because men are simple, Men see things as though by moonlit silhouettes, without much, if any detail. It has the shape of a house? It’s a house. The shape is horsey? It’s a horse. What matter the detail, what can it matter if it’s a roan, palomino, or piebald – a horse is a horse… The recognition of the essentiality of a thing is knowledge of the thing – done. Men would be better off seeing things in the morning’s dawn, with some detail. But this is not about men but about women.

And on her we shall continue in Part 2 of 3:

Womenology 101 – Basics of Womanry

The Accidental PUA

Wildside Tales

by Wild Man, aka George Palczynski

Once Upon A Time I Was A PUA… Once, Kinda

What is a PUA? A PUA is a pick up artist; the envy of schlubs the world over. What is a schlub? A schlub is a male human who routinely trips over his tongue and most anything else when in proximity to a girl with distinctly girlish features… i.e., pretty. In other words, the PUA and the Schlub are on opposing terminals of a great lineal near cosmic spectrum. Where am I on the spectrum? Somewhere in that great place that’s called “the middle”. I insist it’s the middle nearer PUA. If anyone has reason to insist that assessment takes liberties with reality… keep it to yourself.

The following is based on actual events. Where memory does not well preserve the dialogue, it meticulously preserves the essence:

The place is crowded. A handsome female sits alone at a generous table for two. Twenty minutes later – status quo ante. I’m standing. I don’t mind standing. I am a young enough buck. I could strike a pose with the best of them – power, strength, elegance, and grace.

Aside: Bear with me. I claim, here, dramatic license. It’s my experience, my story, my memory, my perception, my finer points. Deal with it as best you can without resorting to speculative ornery dubiety… all right?


But I will not lead you astray. Let’s work backwards. I had grace… …when I was not moving. When I moved I was not clunky/awkward but… nearer them than graceful. To look upon me for the first magnificent moment, the better part of the population would have bet this bloke had it – grace. I hadn’t; just looked it. Mind, I was not a bumbler/stumbler. I could successfully dodge the furniture with seeming aplomb, but I could not dance on and around it like Astaire and Ginger.

Elegance! Yeeeaaah… …not so much; even though it didn’t require movement. I would cut a better figure in coat and tie than anything casual – but… but that’s true of most any guy; and I wasn’t wearing a coat and tie. It’s a bar with a big screen TV, a big ball game and happy drunks… and it was still morning. Power, strength, yeah, no sham there; it was unmistakable, though, not Promethean.

So, there I was, a mixed bag… and didn’t any of what was in that bag appear to be Adonis. So, there again, the record – stripped down to the truth. Now for the tale that’s as true.

To The Chase

I saunter over to the table for two with two sturdy chairs and the one handsome woman.

WM: Might I sit down… my name’s George?

Her: There must be an empty seat somewhere.

WM: Maybe, but none have you sitting next to it.

Her: (LOOK-THINK… near imperceptible eye-roll) SILENCE.

Aside: My Brain Churns Wildly! In all of a nanosecond, the following crosses my mind:

“CRAP! Did I just say that!… WTF man… Get IT THE FUCK TOGETHER!… Holy and cripes sake!… STOP doing David Niven!”

This was so unlike me, so alien, so out of character, so peculiar, so queer, so freaky-creepy… …but… I got my share of cool too… forgot to mention that.


WM: Look, I got a slightly bum leg – honest. I’ll leave soon as your friend shows… and drinks, on me.

Her: (with a slapdash flash of reluctance): Why not?

WM: (waves over waitress) What’ll you have?

Her:Drambuie coffee.

WM: What’s that?

Her: Shot of Drambuie in a cup of coffee and whip cream on top.

WM: What’s Drambuie?

Her: You never heard of Drambuie?

WM: Heard the name – don’t know what it is.

Her: Scotch and honey liqueur.

WM: (to waitress): Make that two. (to HER) sounds interesting… What’s your name?

Her: Carol

WM: Here for the game I take it.

Her: Yep.

WM: What’ll we talk about over the Drambuies?

Her: Must we?

WM: It’s that or awkward silence.

Her: I’m okay with that.

WM: Yeah right.

Her: Yeah right.

WM: You’ll regret it.

Her: Yeah?

WM: Yeah, all sorts of regrets.

Her: I doubt it.

WM: No one can resist being curious of a stranger. You’ll wonder tonight… hmm… was he rich, or, a cool guy, or… could he blow a mean trumpet?… might…

Her: (Laughter)

WM: There yah go – icebreaker! It’s on Carol.

Her: What’s on?

WM: We’re on. We’re gonna talk – not sit here like strangers, afraid the other’ll bite. Women always want to talk… talk.

Her: About what?

WM: Whatever. No limits. Anything.

Her: You start.

WM: Okay… what’s your favorite color?

Her: (another demure eyeroll… and some strange indecipherable sound nasally emitted – a ‘snort’!?!)

WM: Wait now. Before your eyes roll out of your head, I have first to tell you what your favorite color is by whatever means – guess, educated guess, deduction, induction… prayer…

Her: You swear this is a game?

WM: I swear it. When it’s your turn, you’ll ask me something and then tell me what you expect I’d say… capeesh?

Her: Yes.

WM: So… what’s your favorite color? I say it’s… …green.

Her: How did you get that?

WM: Your scarf has long swirls of dusky green. The thing hanging from your neck has a green stone of some kind… emerald? So… both your highlights are green, so… green!

Her: It’s green. And it’s not an emerald.

WM: Hah! Great, I’m up one. Your turn.

Her: Okay… What’s… your… favorite… … …lady part?

WM: I don’t blush easy… …and you’d say it was…

Her: Oh, forgot. Your favorite is… … …the breasts.

WM: Why so?

Her: I caught you looking.

WM: Looking at the pendant.

Her: That’s probably a lie.

WM: Now, you don’t know me well enough to tell if I’m lying… and… I won’t lie to you.

Her: It’s not the breasts?

WM: Not.

Her: What then?

WM: My favorite Lady Part is the philtrum.

Her: The WHAT?

WM: Philtrum. p-h-i-l-t-r-u-m

Her: That’s not a thing.

WM: You mean, you, a grown woman, don’t know what your philtrum is?

Her: You’re making it up.

WM: you mean to say, you a grown woman, had never had a guy compliment your philtrum? You poor neglected….

Her: You made it up.

WM: I told you I wouldn’t lie and I haven’t.

Her: Okay. What is it?

WM: Tell you what. Let me touch yours. …just for the purpose of pointing it out to you.

Her: Okay.

WM: REALLY! Right here with everyone around?

Her: Sure. I trust you.

WM: You have a page on me written already… or… you’re just hoping?

Her: It’s a feeling, my feelings are usually right.

WM: Okay, I need to get close to you, and I’ll need you to close your eyes.

Her: (Closes her eyes)

WM: (waiting seconds… puts finger gently onto the valley between her nose and upper lip).

Her: (Opens her eyes) That’s a philtrum?

WM: Yes, and yours is near exceptionally…

Her: So help me, if you’re making this up, I’ll…

WM: I told you I wouldn’t lie to you, and I haven’t.

Her: Why is my philtrum…

WM: (interrupting) it insinuates itself onto your upper lip and curls it up and out. Gives your lips the cupid’s bow shape guys like.

Her: You think maybe you have a little too much interest about such things?

WM: I have to.

Her: Why?

WM: That’s my realm of expertise.

Her: What are you an expert on… women?

WM: Hardly. I’m an expert on pretty… cute, and beautiful.

Her: Now that’s a lie.

WM: Is not. It’s a boast, there’s a difference. Guys ought never lie, they must always boast – it’s a genetic imperative.

Her: You are so… … …

WM: What, what?

Her: Full of it.

WM: That’s an evasion.

Her: That was nonsense… ge-net-ic.

WM: What is it when the male of the species fans his tail, splays his feathers, sings his chirps, or thumps his chest?

Her: I don’t know.

WM: They’re ALL manners of boasting. My fan’s greater than his; my feathers brighter, my chirps happier, and my thumps harder than his… BOASTING

Her: (long silence)… And your favorite part is the… philtrum?

WM: (humongous smile – VICTORY!) Yes.

Her: Hard to believe.

WM: But true, entirely… and I couldn’t imagine explaining it to anyone’s satisfaction – even my own. But it’s the first thing I notice on women – not lying.


The clock and I made it noon. It may as well have struck midnight. Her friend showed. He was not a boyfriend – he hadn’t an edge to him. My first thought – I could take him – easy, (unless he knew some of that jujitsu shit).

I excused myself immediately. Carol made all the right noises about staying, joining them. I had a previous engagement – friends that had invited me. She bid me wait a second and wrote something on a table napkin – handed it to me – it was a phone number. I requited in kind and borrowed her pen to do so. No problem. I was feeling not a little ‘damn good’ handing it to her and walking away without another word between us.

Aside: Not one moment’s calculation. The natural ebb and flow of girl and guy as it had been ordained ‘in the beginning’. The closest I’d ever been to a PUA, and it had all the good vibrations of pure intentions and not one iota of the craft of cunning.

Life was good that day.

By the by: the home team won the big game.

Imagination Is A Talent

A Paean, Tribute, and Panegyric

Had I discovered first, the Bard of Avon, I would have shouted the discovery far and wide. If instead I’d discovered Jonathon Swift, I’d have yelled – not as loudly nor as long, but yell I would. And I’d do as much for the ever-clever Mr. Wilde.

Now this is not to say I’d discovered someone new. Only that I’d noticed what has been little noted but was there all the time. The most brilliantly addled imaginative mind I have ever come across, personally, so to speak. His is either a brain to which half a hemisphere’s nodules and synapses are devoted entirely to imagination… or… he’s been swilling magic mushroom juice of his own making and refuses to put a label on it and market it for the masses.

Look, I’ll not be singing hosannas about anyone’s virtuosity because I just don’t roll that way.
Ask anyone who knows me well and they’ll tell this: the signal feature of my interest in anything… ANYTHING, is to badmouth, excoriate and abrade it. If you must think it than do so – I’m a natural born hater – there, I said it for you. If you can’t say something nasty about some one/thing don’t say anything at all.

Give me some one to beat up or have cider spit in their eye and I’ll beat him and spit cider – with a song in my heart. But ask me to say something praiseworthy about someone and I cringe all over. It’s not that I believe there are no humans worthy of praise – it’s just not in my wheelhouse – missing or damaged DNA perhaps? As that Dirty Harry guy said – “a man’s got to know his limitations”. The dark side of ‘nice’ is mine.

But I can not let it not be noted that I’d come across an imagination so fecund, so pregnant, so juicy/luscious, and, so delectable an eccentricity, or so nutritive a compost heap that is a brain, as the one that has hold of this fellow calls himself Psykosity.

I truly believe if you took the squeezin’s from a cold-pressed Psykosity the resulting decoction could cure the pandemic insanity that is warping the world. Would that not be a scientific breakthrough? Like venom fighting the venomous, warp would re-adjust the twisted.

PS – Psykosity, really, on the QT, between jus’ you ‘n’ me – Magic Mushroom juice… is that it… c’mon… is it? Is it? It is isn’t it? Yes?



FAGGOT! Faggot? Faggot. Faaaaa-gguuut, faggnut, faggy, faggoty, faggotry, faggolicious, faggatrocious, faggofreaky, fag-form, fagalot, foo-faggot*, FagWarning, faggyfag, flit**… and just plain fag. The iterations contain situational nuance apposite to near all contexts.

Synonym: Swish, swisher, swisheroo, swishbuckler

It hadn’t staying power. After a short while, anyone calling someone by any variation was… a fag!

Thus were the playgrounds, playing fields, and schoolyards of my youth. Peak ‘faggotry’ hit in the eighth grade.

Drop a ball, strike out with the bags loaded, miss the game-winning shot, etc. … Faggot! Trip and fall – Faggot! Arrive at school with your uniform school tie up high and snug? Faggot! Cool was anti-fag. Steve McQueen was ultra cool. Steve McQueen was no fag, despite the patronymic imputation.

A teacher complements a guy in front of the entire class. Two, three minutes time, he receives four, five, notes – all reading – FAGGOT!

Peer pressure played as great a role as adult role models and teachers in the making of ‘guys’. No one can better club a guy to the straight and narrow than a peer, a guy. Any failure to perform to expectations was tantamount to faggotry.

And The Point Is?

So, a week before the eighth year of grammar school commenced, scuttlebutt had it Sister Mary (let’s call her X) was assigned one of the two eighth grade classes. For a week I’d prayed to be spared – “please GOD, not her. I’ll never ask for anything again… ever”, I’d promised. God knows best – Sister Mary X it was – for the duration – nine long months.

Needless to say Sister Mary X and I had history, all the 6th grade long. I was her whipping boy. I was the example of what comes to the resolutely truculent – her word. Mine would have been puckish.

Oh what the hell, someone’s got to do it, but why always me? If the Sister thought no other boy was up to the billing I could disabuse her and recommend several on which I’d had dirt. But… for some reason, she really ‘liked’ me.

It wasn’t a week into the 8th academic year that Sister Mary X found something to hang me with. I must have thought it trite enough to forget what it was about. Nevertheless, that first Friday afternoon, I’d been made an example of.

When school day is done, the mates begin their departures. I’m a straggler. “George”, Sister Mary X calls for my attention, and gets it as I pass her desk. “Have a great weekend”, she says with a smile. It was, at once, like… a revelation… from an Archangel – Sister X hadn’t it in for me. I was her whipping boy solely because I could take it without taking it personal and without animus toward her. That afternoon’s encounter was tacit notification that our pas de deux would continue. The “wink-wink” was as tacit.


Things had gone near swimmingly with Sister and me, for the most part. The ‘understanding’ was not, ever, acknowledged, but was in tact. A few incidents played out according to script – everything was copacetic. Then, late in the year… there came something with a trace of sulfur in the air.

Thirty minutes before the Friday school day would end, Sister had apparently gotten her fill of me. Whatever it was must have been seething some time. This was going to be not good.

“GEORGE! Join me in the corridor, would you?” She headed out, and I dawdled, but arrived. “What is wrong with you?”, and she excitedly recited for me a ‘riot act’ and a litany of offenses. I was certain I wasn’t to respond. She threw in some Latin – I’d taken them to be prayers, not imprecations. She charged me with being utterly blithe about my education – kinda angry, like she meant it. In a final fit of exasperation…”George, you are the most indefatigably lazy young man ever put in my charge. You had better fix yourself… or!”

Soooo… you know what I’m thinkin’… that moment? I’m thinkin’… fix myself… what?… … …WAIT! Did Sister Mary X just call me a faggot? WTF?!

Made my way to my seat, took out my pocket dictionary and started hunting for “i-n-d-e-f-a-g-g-o-t-a-b-l-e. Nothing! Ten minutes left to the bell. The seating chart was a matter of the intervention of fate. Girls surrounded me. Now girls are not smarter than guys they’re just more – girly – fully on board with doing as told – always paying attention, always ain’t misbehavin’. If any guy had been that good, they’d be a… …you know.

I asked around. One, Patricia, had never heard of indefaggotable but was sure of ‘indefatigable’ – “as in ‘fatigue” – she’d helpfully added. Five minutes left. Looked it up. It was a Eureka moment – ‘tirelessly lazy.’ What a union! ‘Energetically lazy’! ‘Vigorously lazy’! ‘Dynamically lazy’! The enlightenment had begun, and I was hooked.

Next year, it was to be Will Shakespeare – wizard with words. Knew how to write; dressed like a faggot.


* Foo faggot: see ‘foo fighter’ – UFO (unidentifed flying objects)

** Flit – see “Catcher In The Rye” – flitty = outrageously faggoty.

Wild Man – Genesis

By: George Palczynski aka Wild Man

Prelude A (major):
My name is George Palczynski. I am an initiate to WTF?!. It is by the generous impulses of both Sparky, and Modesty, that I am here. I thank them both.

Prelude B (minor): Manual For Human Behavioral Sciences: Vol 4: Sec:21 Article 214: Dweebyness is cause for ostracization.
Ref: ” How 2B Dweeb Free For Life
#14. Never ever pick a nickname for yourself… it’s pathetic
#15. Never ever, EVER claim a rep for yourself… it’s pathetic

In The Beginning

The Proprietress had invited me to participate at WTF?!. The message began with the salutation: “Hey, wild man. Would you…”

She had me at ‘wild man’.

I’ve no doubt that Sparky knows next to nothing about me. She could not possibly even have suspected she was massaging cool a hot raw nerve. From the time, the moment, I’d given up childish things I had wanted to be a ‘wild man’… of some sort. You know, of the kind of man who’d had a long apprenticeship as ‘bad boy’ and now knew the ropes… and all the knots… and all the “spots”.

Now it’s possible that Sparky had some other allusions in mind in using “wild man”. But I can’t imagine a one. Well no, I can imagine one come to think of it – a carnival freak/geek biting the heads off cute little ducklettes. Uhh uhhh! No way – she meant what I’d heard. I’m laying 100 to 1. Until she dissuades and disillusions me, to my satisfaction… I am wild man, endowed with a new persona. It will take getting used to.

Now, there’s a backstory to this new demigod. If you know some of it you may understand better my good spirits over my new rep.

During the interminable blah, blah, blahs of school-time lectures, I would wander over to the margins of my notes and write, in my best cursive – as was the wont of boys and girls for millennia – the name of my ‘crush’. But it was not the name of a girl; AND NO, not a guy. My crush was my one and only aspiration. I’d fallen for the idea of being a… wait …Louche Scoundrel. I’d even heard tell of a School For Scoundrels. That would have been a Master’s degree worth pursuing.

Now what terrible ordeal was there behind such a strange desire? None. It’s just one of those DNA molecule clusters that found a nest to rest in what happened to be… my mind. That’s my theory.

Now understand, my life was not a hermit nerd’s. The girls all thought me good company. I was blessed/cursed with a benign popularity but there was never any heat from their direction; you know what I’m getting at – yes? What heat there was, well, it was all mine. Never had their cheeks flushed, no nervousness, no scanning for an escape route. What I wanted was to have the Count Vronsky Effect on females whereby they feared their own propensities when in precarious propinquity to me. I wanted very much to be every female’s Svengali; and have every female my Trilby. I wanted to be the guy females hate themselves for falling for. So that was what had driven me to pledge to my gray sad brain that I would become a rake for all seasons and times.

Why sad… gray sad brain? Well, up until I’d resolved myself to becoming Wild Man-Louche Scoundrel-Rake, I was – this took some effort to recall – I was… let’s start at the beginning:

“Georgy Porgy “Bubbles”.”Yogi”, “Curly”, “Sweets”, “Jerzy”, “Hoagie”, “Hootie”. “ChooChoo” “L.G.”, “C.T.”, “Big G”, “Tootsie Wootsie”, then, inexplicably, “Tootsie Whoopsie” (don’t ask – I’m not tellin’). Not all at once, of course, but serially. Each one of them being much as markings on a doorway denoting growth spurts. At his point, I believe, it would be entirely appropriate to interject – WTF?! I really hadn’t thought I’d had THAT many nicks. The last two had been hatched in the fertile minds of females (don’t ask – I’m not tellin’).
Not a hint of ‘wild man’ anywhere in all that, right? Particularly annoying was Tootsie Wootsie/Tootsie Whoopsie (don’t ask – I’m not tellin’). The one that had gams and had never vexed me at all was “Big G”. It had attached itself to me with good will and had to it a literal bonhomie spirit. It was a riff off an ad campaign for General Mills Cereals – The Big G on the box stood for goodness, they said. That was me… then. Now, now, I am wild man. Live with it – I will. This is going to be one hell of a ride from here on.

The Wind-Up

All the consternation, the wishing, praying, hoping, and… here again…WTF?! Just two words out of the mouth of a babe and voila – my aspiration was no longer beyond my reach, it was clutched in my clenched fist. Now I have only to care that I not get carried away and become insufferable.

Thank You Sparky, twice trebled!