ONE GUY'S ADVICE: JUST BE YOURSELF.

Byline: Glenn Gaslin Daily News Staff Writer

I am a loser.

Make that a big loser.

I accepted my title the moment I sauntered up to the bookshelf of dating advice for the male of my species. These paperbound pep talks - the titles range from ``How to Pick Up Topless Dancers'' to ``MTV's Singled Out Guide to Dating'' - tell me that nothing could be easier than meeting women. All I have to do is look self-assured and always say funny things.

Easy. Except that the idea scares me. Like many of my brethren, I'm content to lean on the bar, think ``She's cute,'' and continue peeling the label from my beer bottle.

But for one night, I shed my shy-guy skin and become a Code Guy, a soldier taking orders from ``The Code: Time-tested Secrets for Getting What You Want From Women - Without Marrying Them!''

The book's point, basically, is that a man should look, act, talk and be confident. Hot lovin' will follow. Then act like a pig and she'll go away.

And for further inspiration, I dig out the dirty old man of self-help books, ``How to Pick Up Girls'' by Eric Weber, first (and obviously) published in 1970. Things haven't changed much.

His point: Always have something to say. A ``Don't I know you from somewhere?'' or ``How long do you cook a leg of lamb?'' beats a blank stare anytime.

And so armed, I prowl. I compile a cheat sheet of pickup lines. I hit a mating den called Yankee Doodles in Woodland Hills, following the advice of Weber, who writes, ``Girls who get picked up in singles bars don't waste any time getting into bed with you.''

Now, ``The Code'' tells me to make a grand entrance, a sweeping first impression.

So I do. Early in the evening, the crowd stands around a dance floor watching a middle-aged guy perform a series of hyperactive gyrations, by himself. He's having a blast ... until I jump in. I dirty dance with the guy. I bump and grind. The crowd whoops and hollers. They love it. He's a Code Guy, they're thinking. He can pick up girls anytime, anyplace. I seize the momentum and work the room.

``Do you want to dance?'' I ask.

``I need a few more drinks first,'' one woman says.

``Um, I'm recovering from surgery,'' tries another.

I turn to Weber for comfort. (``Getting rejected isn't as degrading or as disturbing as you think.'') Eventually, a tall blonde in hiphuggers dances with me. I whisper a few of my prepared one-liners (``Are you Swedish? Are you a model?''), but she can't hear me. Minutes later, she grabs her friend by the arm and they dance me right out of their lives.

Sure. No problem. I'll be fine. (``The Code guy never forgets that he is, first and last, the consumer, and that is his strength.'')

I circle the room, shopping. But nobody else tries so hard. The faces along the wall and bar seem defeated; they can only watch tight dresses pass by and nudge their buddies. But I stay in character. Am I the only Code Guy in here?

``Hi there,'' I say to a brunette at the bar. ``My name is Glenn. I'll be hitting on you tonight.''

The ``line'' doesn't matter, my books insist. Any old opener will work. Women want to talk to me. These women came here tonight to find that special somebody. They came here to meet me.

``You know,'' she says, her smile fading, ``Just ... no thanks, OK?''

The harder I try, the slimier I feel.

A girl walks into the club, bright-eyed, her hair tucked behind her ears. Exactly the kind of woman I would follow around the bar with my eyes all night and never approach.

Instead, I decide to tell her that she has ``sexy ears.'' (Writes Weber: ``While picking up girls, flattery will get you everywhere.'')

To build courage, I get a drink. I go to the restroom. I spritz myself with imitation Drakkar cologne from a coin-operated machine near the toilets. As I head back to the dance floor, a security guard grabs my arm and points at my shoe. Streaming behind me like a wedding-dress train is a serious image problem, a trail of toilet paper. I consider just leaving it there. You know, as an ice-breaker: ``Hey, baby. I've got toilet paper on my shoe. How about you?''

But when I return, she's gone. (Loo-ser!)

The Code Guy can't strike out too many times in one room. So I find a new bar, Cozy's in Sherman Oaks, a more refined place with live music and fewer pool tables. The only four ``available'' women fortify themselves at a single table. They look, shall we say, experienced. Sharp. Dangerous. They might as well wear T-shirts reading, ``Don't bother.'' A cornball blurb like ``Can I marry you now? Or do I have to wait'' wasn't going to work.

I had one option: Be myself. The loser.

``Hi,'' I say. ``I'm a reporter and I'm doing a story on pickup lines.''

I'm in. They're laughing, loving it, telling me a decade's worth of dating horror stories. I no longer feel the pressure to be a Code Guy.

``There's no such thing as a good line,'' says Katherine, who appears to be their leader. ``But a cute guy can say anything. He can ask me what sign I am, even.''

``Yeah, but if a man comes up to me and just compliments me,'' adds her buddy Dominique, ``I always ask, `What do you want?!' ''

I tell her she looks like a model. She giggles.

After last call, after I leave the bar, they pull up to the sidewalk, yelling out the window of their Jaguar, calling me over. They can't get enough of the shy loser with a notebook. As I had been learning all night, the books don't work. I submit to a new strategy: Lose the Code. Be myself.

Now, where'd that girl with the sexy ears go?