As a resident of the greater Cherry Creek and Glendale area here in Denver, I receive the Glendale Cherry Creek Chronicle in my mailbox each month. While I generally only give it a cursory flip through, your recent article “How to Date in Denver When You’re Dead” caught my eye. I hope you don’t mind, but I felt the headline was inaccurate. Hence, I renamed it in my column here today.
Somewhere along the way, you’ve acquired the moniker “Sheik of Cherry Creek,” while I can’t imagine who comprises your harem. Your recent column is a cesspool of misogyny – and the last time I issued a smackdown of this magnitude, it was to Douglas Brown over at the Denver Post for his ill-researched, faux exploration of cougar culture. Pull up a chair – you’re about to get Bitch Slapped.
“Cut this column out, fold it up and put it in your back pocket. I’m serious. What you are about to read should be your first date constitution, the holy grail of dating. You could be a dead guy and use this recipe for success. It’s war out there and you need to be as prepared as possible when you enter back into the dating battlefield and if you’re not you will be left for dead, broke and lonely.”
Incorrect, Greg. It’s NOT war in the world of man-meets-woman. Perhaps for the douchebags who would read your column and take your advice as the holy grail, but not for the average population. It’s no shocker your column is dubbed “Confessions of a Serial Dater.,” as if you’re following your own advice, you’re likely to have more drinks in your face than beauties on your arm.
“First, you have to get your head right. Remember, women are wired to be dysfunctional by nature and when emotion overrides logic you know you’re in for a wild ride.”
This line actually made me spit Fresca. I truly adore the fact that you begin an article purported to be the Holy Grail for dating with a really offensive judgment on the nature of womankind. Now, I’ll hand it to you that there is psycho pussy wild and loose on the streets of Denver, but it’s douchebags like yourself that make it hard for all the kickass guys and gals out there looking for someone to share their lives with (or at least not kick out of bed for an extended period of time).
How about if I came out and said that every guy is a chauvinistic, self-absorbed, cheating, infantile, commitmentphobe dickhead? While I’ve met damn fine array of men in my lifetime who share one or an assortment of those qualities, it’s not an accurate assessment of men as a whole, is it? And it’s guys like you who spew such crap – and in a family-oriented community newspaper and a forgettably trafficked Blogspot blog, nonetheless – that make it hard for the hordes of decent guys out there because the awesome chicks think they’re assholes because some douchebag pigeonholed them. Alas, I could go on about this one aspect forever, but let’s move on to some of the other Holy Grail of Dating-type gems in your column.
“Your approach is everything. Your first impression and getting a woman to go out on a date with you is half the battle. Except don’t ever, and I mean never, call it a date…”
Really? We’re not “dating” anymore? Well, slap me and call me Myrna. See, when I go to sites like Match.com, guess what I’m looking for? A date. I’m not going to Friend.com or BeMyHikingBuddy.com. I’m going to a site that allows me to connect with MEN in order to explore future romantic involvement. And I never want to wonder if something is a “date” or not. So for fuck sake, it’s a date. Women appreciate straightforward. Go “hang out” with your buddies and watch the game. Take a girl on a date. After you’ve been dating a girl for awhile, you can “hang out” with her on the couch. But guess what – you’re probably going to have to take her out on a few dates first.
“So when you say, “Let’s go grab a happy hour and have some laughs” she is hearing a fun statement rather than a question that she can say “no” to. “Let’s go” rather than “Would you like to,” and “grab” meaning quick, in and out if she’s not having fun. Then “happy hour” and “laughs,” the double banger, booze and laughing, which are two of women’s favorite pastimes.”
Heavens. This is simply precious: booze and laughing are two of women’s favorite pastimes. Maybe this is true in the middle of Skankville where you apparently go trolling for your strange, but not among the smart and sexy women I know – and especially here in Denver. My girlfriends’ favorite pastimes include things like cycling, hiking, climbing, knitting, salsa dancing, charity work, going to a Rockies game and working in the garden. And sure – we dig a beer or glass of wine before, during or after some of those activities, too. But I dare say that no lady having any semblance of class, here in Denver or elsewhere, would list booze on any list of pastimes. If alcohol becomes a pastime, that’s called being an alcoholic.
“And remember resistance causes attraction so if you can get her to wonder if you’re into her and create a little mystery you will begin to have women chasing you in no time.”
Aside from my overwhelming urge to copyedit this sentence, I’ll just address the content. No, I don’t want to wonder if a guy is into me. Not at all. It’s total bullshit and a game that douchebag “dating folks” like you need to stop perpetuating. If you want to play games, move along before you end up a chalk outline in my dating neighborhood, because I’ll pass you over and mark you forgettable before you can even check your phone a 17th time to see if I’ve texted you back.
Great relationships are borne out of mutual attraction, timing, circumstance and…that “thing.” And let me just say that if you like someone enough to sit down and think, “Hmmmm…how am I going to jack with his/her head so they know how much I like them?” I’ll just say that you’re probably not too terribly into that person. I’ve been blessed with some amazing relationships in my life, and while they all didn’t turn out to be forever, not a single one of those men fucked with my head. And I didn’t fuck with theirs, either.
(The next outtake immediately follows the previously eviscerated sentence in Mr. Hollenback’s column.)
“After all we are merely extensions of nature; women are little flowers looking for the strongest seed to pollinate them. Be strong and safe out there.”
I am not a flower. Women are not flowers. We are women, and while we may have the urge to become mothers some day, I do not require any man to “pollinate” me. This is, by far, the most offensive fallacy you put forth in your laughable column. You’re trying to tell me that you honestly feel that women are meek and men superior and my days spent looking for one who will bless me with his seed? Let me guide you through a day in my world.
I get up between 5 and 5:30 A.M. I head to the gym or yoga. Back home, and get jazzed for my work day. You see, I own a consulting business and am a professional writer. If I don’t move my business forward, who will? Throughout the day, I speak with colleagues, work with clients, acquire new projects and close out ones completed. I laugh, I swear, I smack spiders with a shoe and mow the lawn. I’ll hop on my bike for a training ride my coach has laid out for me, have dinner with friends, cook and indulge in a little Netflix. Then I’ll wrap things up and get ready to do it all again tomorrow.
Do you see a need to be “pollinated” anywhere in my day? I’ll venture to guess there are a ton of guys who have pretty much identical days, too.
I’m looking for a partner, and yes, it’s true: I dig the good old Texas Hangdown. I dig dudes. It will be wonderful when the man with whom I’ll move through my life emerges and we can build a relationship. Laughter (sans the booze), straightforward communication (no cryptic bullshit) and the desire to make one another’s lives better. To help one another be whatever it is they dream of being. That’s what I’m looking for. If children are in the mix, it’ll happen. If my plumbing doesn’t work, we’ll adopt and there’s the miracle of modern reproductive medicine to help things along if that’s the path we choose. But I don’t need pollination. I’ve never met a woman in my thirty-seven years who did.
“Follow me on Twitter at sheikofcc and don’t forget to go to www.greghollenback.com to comment on this and previous months issues of “Confessions of a Serial Dater” along with Denver’s most complete singles social calendar and a way to get a hold of me for one on one date coaching. In the next article, “Happy Hour, Happy Ending” I am going to tell you where to go on your first date!”
It terrifies me to no end that you offer “one on one date coaching.” Frankly, why would anyone want dating advice from someone who describes themselves as a “serial dater?” I want dating advice from friends and family who know me and care, a professional matchmaker or a therapist (since all women are inherently dysfunctional, we all must have one, right?). I certainly don’t want it from you, and I’ll venture to say that none of my male readers, single or otherwise, would either.
And I’m pretty much appalled at the proposed headline for your next column: “Happy Hour, Happy Ending.” The phrase “happy ending” is synonymous with jerking off a patron in a massage parlor. I can certainly hold out hope that the editor over at the Chronicle will do his or her due diligence and strike that prior to publication.
To wind things up, I’m wondering if the Glendale Cherry Creek Chronicle’s editor was drunk or high when they accepted your column for publication and subsequently featured you on the home page of their website. I know someone had to have looked at it prior to print, as they were sober enough to fix the glaring grammatical and usage errors displayed in your blog version for the most part. But your advice to men looking to get the attention of “hot, modern women” is so simultaneously false, demeaning and otherwise offensive that I can’t believe a neighborhood-oriented publication in the suburbs of Denver has taken it to print and offered it to their audience. It’s not entertaining. It’s not even well-written. It’s just…well, it’s crap.
Glendale and Cherry Creek are places where people raise families. I don’t see a single father out there who would teach his son of the “holy grail of dating” you spew.
And you, Mr. Hollenback, have been Bitch Slapped. And you’re a first: I’ve never Bitch Slapped a person before, yet in this situation, I’ve made an exception.
Head Redhead/Not a Flower