I don’t know if Williamsburg “men” are aware of this, but matcha is actually just green tea. Granted it’s “finely milled” green tea, but green tea all the same. However, one supposes the ceremonial fanfare surrounding matcha is part of the appeal for the dickless “man.” After all, those missing a dick relish a smoke and mirrors approach to life in order to distract from their absent genitalia. And creating or consuming matcha is nothing if not an exercise in dissemblance.
Yes, there is such a thing as “matcha art”
When phrases like “location on the tea bush” and “stone grinding” are used in reference to non-sexual endeavors, one tends to wonder at the interests of a “man” obsessed with obtaining matcha from the only location where you can get it in this town, MatchaBar
. If you ask me, a dickful “man” would pick up some fuckin’ Earl Grey from the Duane Reade on Bedford and call it a night. After all, we’re no longer in the Tang Dynasty era, when matcha first came into being. This is the Wang(less) Dynasty.
Wild Ginger, like Spike Hill, is one of those Bedford “staples” leaving the area that one shouldn’t really bother getting verklempt about. Any “lady” who has ever been taken on a date there was presumably going out with a dickless “man” who either 1) was too cheap to take you somewhere legitimately expensive or 2) was attempting to channel some annoying health-conscious aura.
Delicate fare is for delicate “men”
Unlike other Bedford entities that have permanently gone the way of the dodo, Wild Ginger is simply moving to N. 10th closer to Driggs. Big fucking deal. If you’re going to make the effort to move, you might as well get the fuck out of
Dicklessburg Williamsburg the way Trash Bar did. And any “man” who gives enough of a shit to continue patronizing a place that serves delicate fare like cilantro tofu and ginger snap snow peas is probably not concerned enough with his bedroom technique/is probably as non-committal as the term “pan-Asian cuisine.”
While saying the word “lady” in any context and in any time period is nothing short of disgusting, there is a distinct brand of dicklessness to the “man” who actually types the words “Hey lady” out into a text. It shows that the “man” was given greater opportunity to truly consider what words he was using to address not a lady, but a girl, woman or female. When a “man” uses the word “lady,” it simply conjures the lyrics to “Dude (Looks Like A Lady).”
Of all things a “man” can text (especially in the middle of the night), it seems that “Hey lady” is by far the most condescending and hackneyed. In general, you will be lucky if any self-respecting woman responds to your banal greeting. And if she does, then, indeed, you deserve one another.
Gone are the days when the Wythe, where many a dickless “man” has booked a room, was the sole game in town. The imminent, ahem, erection of the generically monikered Williamsburg Hotel on N. 10 Street and Wythe Avenue signals not only the advent of a bigger, douchier “boutique” hotel, but also a bar that’s situated within the building’s water tower–a.k.a. the drinking gimmick to end all drinking gimmicks.
A “man’s” drink is liable to cost twice as much as a result of being consumed in a water tower
When you go to a bar in Williamsburg in general and on Wythe Avenue specifically, you are declaring that you’re probably missing a dick. And so, to ascend into a water tower in order to drink what will presumably a minimum of sixty dollars’ worth of cocktails in order to prove that you do, in fact, have a dick merely serves to exhibit the opposite.
It’s weird in general when “men” exercise and, like, pay special attention to how their body looks, but yoga is a particular genre of uncomfortableness in the world of “men’s” exercise. Though it’s still hard to reconcile the fact that “men” feel the need to workout at all and the days of functional activity like jousting have long since passed, I acknowledge that “men” feel a call toward the gym or whatever.
The gym is one thing. But yoga is quite another. You’re standing there in a tight, form-fitting outfit breathing heavily and posing. Everything about this screams: I am woman, hear me roar. Sure, the yoga industry may want you to think that yoga is gender neutral, but that’s for their own financial gain. “Men” are never going to have the flexibility (both physically and emotionally) that women do, so why waste the time trying to achieve it? Let’s all just lay on top of each other like Bibb lettuce during sex and call it a motherfucking day. Christ knows none of the doughy, yet slender Brooklynites living in Williamsburg are expecting an acrobat in the boudoir.
Just when you think the sanitization of Williamsburg couldn’t possibly be any more complete, news of the Turkey’s Nest (in addition to Rosemary’s) switching their signature drink format from Styrofoam to plastic comes along. Is it more environmentally conscious? Yes. Is it a sign of the increasing lack of genitalia in the neighborhood? Most assuredly.
How a Turkey’s Nest cup should look
One would have sooner expected that Turkey’s Nest would have shut down altogether before agreeing to switch to plastic instead of Styrofoam. It is, after all, their signature. And so, those “men” who consent to accept the decontaminating of what was once the irrefutable mainstay of no frills alcohol are, in turn, contaminating themselves.
Real estate in Williamsburg and essentially anywhere in North Brooklyn is almost impossible to attain. So what does one do when the space is in short supply? Eke out a patch of it on one of those meridian triangles that should in no way be permissible to have a building erected on.
The triangle in question.
Located on the distinct geometrical shape known as Heyward Street, the first in what will inevitably be a series of petite triangle-shaped buildings has cropped up thanks to a building permit that was requested in 2012
(an apocalyptic year, to be sure). This trend-setting architectural feat of insanity is, to put it mildly, indic
ative. Any “man” living in a building of this nature should be given serious reconsideration as a one-night stand prospect.
So I know living in Williamsburg automatically means you have money to burn, but leaving one’s door unlocked to invite the pilfering of your possessions seems hyperbolically wasteful. It’s like you’re inviting Christopher Lloyd in Dennis the Menace to creep into your house and start shoveling the silver into his nondescript, shapeless beige sack.
Waiting for those unlocked doors
In fact, to reference another John Hughes movie, one would think Harry Lime in Home Alone was alluding to Williamsburg when he said, “I bet they don’t even lock their doors.” Even if the motive for not bothering to secure one’s apartment before leaving for an overpriced brunch at Pies ‘n’ Thighs is due to a Buddhist approach wherein possessions mean nothing to you, wouldn’t you want to at least give it to someone with more gumption? Someone who would plunder from the Upper West and East Side rather than take the easy route of stealing from rich people by honing in on Williamsburg?
From a “man’s” perspective, it might seem a hair on the maudlin side to share food from his own plate. It’s, in fact, something that “men” comfortable revealing their age (approaching 30s) are all too willing to liken to the Tramp in Lady and the Tramp (Missing a Dick’s older “male” readers may have thought I was alluding to a Charlie Chaplin character).
Sharing food is a sign of larger generous, chiefly in bed
But sharing food is one of the key indicators of a “man’s” generosity. Epicurean stinginess, however, indicates that he is likely niggardly (I will not apologize for the use of this frequently maligned word) in other important areas, like head giving or buying you either sentimental or expensive gifts when the occasion calls for it. It also probably means he thinks you’re too fat to share food with, in which case he’s too thin and you should be having a go with a “man” who’s burlier anyway.
I never much understood people who attempted sobriety, whether long- or short-term. Thus, when “men” in Williamsburg and the greater Brooklyn area try to make a big to-do about “sober January,” I feel a little bit queasy. Function without alcohol? But why? To maintain your “mannish” figure? It makes no sense.
“Not for me. It’s sober January.”
The one good thing about being a “man”—apart from being able to act like a totally condescending asshole and not get called a bitch or a slut for it—is that worrying about your body is not necessary. There will always be a woman with low self-esteem there to make you feel like you have the Ryan Gosling aesthetic that you don’t. So I’m just a hair unclear on why “men” would want to give up one of the only enjoyable social (and often non-social) pleasures there are in this life (especially the life specific to Brooklyn).