It’s widely known that male surf rock is far less masculine than female surf rock. That’s why it seems incongruous to me that most dudes don’t fuck with all-girl bands of this genre. The likes of Bleached, Best Coast, The Donnas and The 188.8.131.52’s possess far more of an angry edge than, say, The Beach Boys or even Wavves. And yet, “men” in Williamsburg who are so fond of this musical form are remiss in owning an album from one of the aforementioned.
Even though listening to surf rock in general is already pretty effeminate, there’s a more rough-hewn edge to “men” who also incorporate female vocalists into their rotation as well. The dickless of Wburg would do well to remember that at their next listening party.
Bret and Jemaine of Flight of the Conchords once argued that there were too many dicks on the dance floor. The dual meaning being that there are literally too many sausages flinging themselves around on a dance floor and too many douche bags wielding said sausages. In Williamsburg, there are very few places left to dance, what with the Whole Foods/Urban Outfitters onslaught (and 16 Handles thrown in for good measure). Once upon a time, in a minorly gentrified land before Dunkin’ Donuts on North 7th, there was The Cove and Public Assembly to dance the night away at. The places that are still left hold very little in the way of men occupying the dance floor.
What you’ll find at a venue that welcomes dancing is, if you’re lucky, “men” in nondescript clothing color schemes slightly swaying their hips so subtly that it looks like nothing is actually happening. And maybe nothing is. Because you generally need a dick to be able to have anything going on downstairs in the way of artful movement. What Williamsburg needs is to bring the dicks back to the dance floor. Because, yes, in fact, real men dance. They don’t just sit there like a potato and drink Miller High Life to help further sprout their spuds.
Having a baby is already the least rock n’ roll thing you can do, but taking it to brunch really compounds your missing a dick situation. Why do you even feel compelled to go to brunch in the first place? Are soft scrambled eggs that much of an essential in your soft scrambled life? If you really must spend 25 dollars on a breakfast your could make for 10, at least have the decency to not bring your baby. And, please, under no circumstances, do not go with a “male” friend who also has a baby while your wives or nine-year long girlfriends go to yoga.
The type of dog you choose for yourself obviously says a lot about who you are as a person (man). In Williamsburg, most men have forgotten that having a large dog that takes mammoth-sized shits is very important to not being dickless. Unfortunately, even though many bars are dog-friendly, it seems as though Wburg residents are quite contented to have small, bitch-worthy dogs. We’re talking chihuahuas…the dog choice of Paris Hilton. If there’s any greater sign of a lack of masculinity, it’s men who don’t have a real dog. By “real,” I mean German shepherd, Great Dane, Saint Bernard, etc. So, don’t miss out on your dick by settling for a dog that weighs any less than 180 pounds.
I was walking on one of the faceless streets near a condo building that hasn’t been finished yet, and happened upon a weird store selling weird things with no cohesive theme. Among some hand-woven blankets and handmade jewelry was a bottle of Aesop soap. Generally only sold in Chelsea or the West Village, it seemed not unusual that the specialty (read: effete) soap should make its way to Williamsburg. Who are the male residents of Wburg if not totally absent of a dick? If you could track the evolution of the man living in this particular neighborhood, you would quickly find that he once actually consisted of more than half a Y chromosome. The feminine scent of the soap interrupted my reverie, and I exited the store before I was guilted into buying something, thereby rendering me a female dickless man.