There was a time in Williamsburg when a snowball fight was just a snowball fight: carefree, filled with the abandon brought on by the fresh air–the cold feel of the snow–a simple expression of relishing what little joy the winter brings. But now, apparently, the dickless of the city want to prove their faint glimmers of testosterone still exist by turning the classic snowball fight into an all-out brawl followed by robbery.
Regardless of whether the “man” who was incited to the next level of violence felt disinclined to engage in a snowball fight (/was kind of a narc) and therefore prompted to act out in a blind rage against the other “men” merely desiring to embrace their “playful” side, there’s really no excuse to take one’s aggression out on other “men” when it’s clearly women they all hate.
For the most part, people like to vilify Valerie Solanas for shooting Andy Warhol and nearly cutting the iconic artist’s life short. They write her off as a “dyke,” a “feminist,” a “crazy bitch.” But does anyone ever bother to think about all the actions of certain “men” that led her to that breaking point in 1968? That point where she was like, “Yeah, I need to buy a fucking gun and shoot this fey motherfucker–the representation of everything that’s ruined me.”
The prized manifesto
After Warhol agreed to produce her play, Up Your Ass, and then didn’t, Solanas was naturally a bit hurt, as most people with functioning emotions would be when a promise is made and then not kept. Then, spurred on by the paranoid schizophrenia that most “men” have an innate talent for inflicting upon every woman they fuck over, she began to think that he was stealing her work–not just Up Your Ass, but also the crowning achievement in her oeuvre, S.C.U.M. Manifesto (S.C.U.M. being an acronym for Society for Cutting Up Men). When Maurice Girodias, the owner of Olympia Press, offered to publish the manifesto, she interpreted the deal to mean that he would thereby have complete control over the rights to the work–which really isn’t that far-fetched of a postulation. She became convinced that Girodias and Warhol were in league together. Armed with a chip on her shoulder and a desire to shoot up every “man” who disappointed her and threatened her artistic license, Solanas stormed the Factory and took aim at Warhol, Mario Amaya (an art critic/museum director) and Fred Hughes (Warhol’s manager). Those shots were all she needed for the sweet release of getting a “man” to wake the fuck up about how much he pissed her off.
There is nothing a New Yorker loves more than talking about how he’s endured something that no one else outside the city limits could understand. In the recent case of Jonas, a blizzard that has dropped the second highest amount of snow NYC has seen, the “men” in particular are quite avid about speaking of their bravery in the face of near death.
Skinny Dennis: where Williamsburg “men” find courage from the storm
And yet, apart from the “man” who snowboarded through town on the back of a Jeep, the only “bravery” exhibited in Williamsburg was a number of “men” hauling their bundled up in The North Face bodies to the trifecta of one of the following bars all owned by the same people: Lucky Dog, Skinny Dennis or Rocka Rolla. So unless you whored yourself out for money like this “man” on the same day of the storm, please note there is nothing heroic about drinking a hot toddy two blocks from your apartment like un petit bitch.
I don’t really know where rom-coms got the notion that a “man” would ever be capable of “just staying in bed” and “cuddling” after spending the night a.k.a. fucking a woman. It’s not in a “man’s” genetic makeup to simply lie there staring at the ceiling. Sure, a woman can because all she’s doing is basking in the post-coital pheromones. But a “man”? All he’s thinking about is where to go next and possibly if he should get something to eat on the way.
You’re so busy
This strange freneticness “men” have seems in contrast to their general lack of accomplishment, particularly those of the Williamsburg strain. All they appear to do is “make deals” and “watch the money roll in” as they drink at overpriced bars and hit on under-personalitied women. In general, when someone is incapable of staying still, it is due to an unquiet mind, possibly in this case made restless by trying to stave off the unavoidable thoughts about how absent his dick is. We’re not asking for a weed-smoking couchsitter, but shit, at least someone that can spoon you for more than three minutes without getting bored.
It’s already bad enough when “men” do yoga at all, but to do it at the Modo Yoga NYC location in Williamsburg with Arcade Fire band member Sarah Neufeld as your instructor is simply groundless in logic. For one, you know she’s only going to play soft indie music that hardly motivates you to find your so-called inner zen, and, for another, she’s going to depress the fuck out of you.
Teaching her ways–though not musically
Why depress you, you demand? Well, because it’s a bit upsetting when musicians can’t simply be musicians–they have to have other “projects,” whether for financial need or simply to add to their repertoire of attention-grabbing antics (just look at James Murphy’s Williamsburg wine bar). And then we must consider the type of “man” who wants to take a class from Neufeld. He is the sort who has to tell his friends and, later, Tinder date over Kombucha or matcha that, yes, he is being schooled in the ancient art of yoga by someone from Arcade Fire. He has touched the pinnacle of celebrity in a neighborhood that hasn’t given us someone worthwhile since Barbra Streisand.
For anyone who has ever seen the knockoff version of Loony Toons, Tiny Toons, you’ll easily remember the over-the-top, suffocating ardor of Elmyra–the animal-obsessed, skull bow wearing, red-haired child (naturally red-haired because all truly crazy women are depicted with red hair) who loved too much to be fathomed by another being.
What it takes to keep a “man” these days
In addition to her unbridled, Lenny-like passion for animals, she is fixated on Montana Max, a rich kid who lives essentially alone in his parents’ mansion and tends toward the behaviors of petulance and bullying. In spite of Montana Max’s blatant disinterest in her, Elmyra still pursues him with the shameless open-heartedness of someone in her pre-teen age bracket. And yet, so many women well past the age of twelve make Elmyra’s mistake of being too earnest, too on blast with how much they care. But it shouldn’t be a mistake, now should it? A “man” worth his weight in dick should be able to handle and appreciate Elmyra’s level of intensity. But like Marcello (Marcello Mastroianni) in La Dolce Vitafearing “aggressive, sticky maternal love,” Wayne (Mike Meyers) in Wayne’s World being disgusted by Stacy’s (Lara Flynn Boyle) psychotic into itness or Jack (Jay Mohr) in 200 Cigarettes cursing the fact that every woman he sleeps with falls in love with him, “men” can’t handle the love a woman is willing to give them, instead viewing it as yet another way in which their youth and freedom is being suppressed–when, in actuality, they have simply been driven mad from dicklessness.
The IUD has gained beaucoup de favor in the universe of casual (and even regular) fucking in the past few years. Though this decision, like abortion, is of course fully the woman’s, it can’t be denied that the “man” she’s “casually fucking” has some sort of influence over her eventual gravitation toward the “device.” And let’s talk about that word, “device.” Does it sound like a woman should be stocking her vag with a sexual appliance (unless it’s a much needed dildo)?
Would you care to stick your nub up here to compete with the IUD that’s already in it?
And yet, when a woman is eventually persuaded into sticking an apparatus up there, she claims it is for her benefit–the convenience of not having to remember pesky little things like birth control pills or condoms. She tells herself that in this fast-paced world of pretending to be busy at a web design/marketing company, “men” don’t have time to be bothered with frivolities of “protection,” and neither does she. In the back of her mind, though, she knows it’s for the ease of the “man,” who if we’re being honest, deserves to get the skin of his minimal dick caught in the IUD like Paul Denton fears in The Rules of Attraction. And speaking of, you know IUDs are a torture device when Bret Easton Ellis is literarily advocating them–a misogynist invention indeed.
There’s no limit to how pop culturally self-aware the ilk of North Brooklyn can be. But sometimes, there should be a limit. As is the case with Videology’s weekly games of Arrested Development bingo, priding itself on the sort of into-itness that should be reserved for discovering the cure to world hunger or pollution control.
Michael judging you for playing Arrested Development bingo
But no, the “men” at Arrested Development bingo prefer to use their energy on lusting after Kitty’s (Judy Greer) blurred out tits or figuring out how to re-create Gob’s magic tricks as terribly as he performs them. And, in spite of a disappointing fourth season–and what could potentially be an even more disappointing fifth season–the fanship has not waned enough for any of the “men” trying to win a frozen banana for getting a bingo to realize that their own banana has frozen and shriveled off as a result of their participation in this event.
Ask anyone who remembers, and they’ll probably tell you that the Williamsburg you heard about being so filled with artistic energy and edge died with Cokey’s in the early 00s. And yet, it’s still hard to watch the continued fall of places that, yes, were hubs for assholes, but in some cases still held a special place in your heart because they were “old” and played music you could dance to without feeling ashamed.
And the lights will shine no more
The last of those places was Good Co., now slated to become a “Southern concept restaurant,” according to its owner, who has already closed the bar and eviscerated it of its signature bus that once invited revelers in a non-creepy way into its recesses. Whether it’s because of the overflow of Southerners in Williamsburg or a simple need to destroy what once was to create something completely unrecognizable, there is little appealing about sipping mint juleps and eating bite-sized ribs in the backyard that was once a beautiful retreat from the dance floor.
We all get that the death of David Bowie is like the death of music itself. But some “men” just don’t know when to quit in terms of putting their mourning on display in the worst possible ways. For one thing, “men” “grieving” in Williamsburg don’t even really listen to David Bowie. They’re the type of people who listened to Huey Lewis and the News in the 80s, not Bowie. But then, that’s just one of the many downfalls of being rich: you lose your edge.
One of the many events The Grand Victory has put on in honor of Bowie in the past
And while it’s all well and good to find “like-minded” bemoaners of an icon, it’s safe to say the bona fide “man” who truly loves Bowie would prefer to dance on his own terms, in a venue a little less, well, douchey. In any case, for the dickless lot of you, Saturday’s your night for flapping your non-dick around on the dance floor at The Grand Victory.