Kesha’s plight of late has reiterated a point that has long been an unfortunate reality for women, whether in the media or not: “men” do not want you to talk. It’s fine every once and awhile to say something endearingly daft à la Marilyn Monroe in Some Like It Hot, but when you start getting a little too “expressive” or saying anything real, they get fucking terrified, which results in them silencing you by either 1) insisting you’re not of sound mind or 2) ignoring you entirely.
A visual instance of silencing the woman
The decision on a female judge’s part to grant Kesha’s Svengali-esque producer, Dr. Luke (the sleaziest of all sleaze in stage names) favor by forcing Kesha to uphold her contract with Sony to fulfill the obligation of six more albums is a clear-cut instance of no one giving a fuck about a woman’s emotions, in spite of Kesha’s overt despondency quite possibly preventing her from ever being to create anything that will even remotely resemble the glitter-infused pop of her past two albums. Whether the judge in question felt the need to prove she was being unbiased/had a dick of her own in the case is irrelevant, because, ultimately, it comes down to the patriarchy at large continuing to insist that a woman who tells rather than shows (her tits) is just a girl crying wolf and should be silenced accordingly. Well, you know what, you don’t want to see my tits, ’cause they’re fucking weird. And unless you happened to be at Boobie Trap in March of 2015 when I was drunkenly lifted up from the floor, you never will. Asshole.
The place a “man” chooses to live is often his making or breaking in this town. And the second he opts for Williamsburg, he’s already fucked three ways to Sunday. So why, dear God or whoever, would a self-respecting “man” packing any skin down there agree to live in a “dorm-like” structure called Common? Not only is the space little cubes stacked on top of each other that one must pay, at the minimum, $1,800 a month for, but it’s also designed to promote existing, essentially, in a vacuum. Perhaps most horrifying of all is the mission statement, touting that it’s “a community of passionate and creative people who live, work, and play together.”
Artisanal dorm bathroom
Whatever happened to compartmentalizing one’s life, huh? Common’s aim to re-create the college experience (specifically of bros) is not only a testament to the massively pervasive Peter Pan syndrome plaguing the “men” of Williamsburg (and “men” in general), but an utter inability to think for oneself. You don’t even have to choose your roommates if you don’t want to. Or buy your own toilet paper (though one imagines you’ll at least get three-ply for the price you’re paying). Moreover, the presence of a “community manager” a.k.a. an R.A. takes navigating the neighborhood on your own right out of a “man’s” hands. Who needs to think when you have money?
Let’s be honest: the overt metaphor behind a “man” who prefers cake without icing is that he can’t handle eating out a full bush. Maybe you don’t want to see the obviousness of this symbolism, but it’s there. With this in mind, a new bakery called Luckybird Bakery (that’s inconveniently located near Dun-Well Donuts for anyone trying to stave off a third ass cheek) specializes in making “no icing” cakes. The gall.
Naked as a jaybird
Not only is it utterly inane to create a cake without icing (which is precisely why everyone hates Bundt cake), but a “man” who seeks out this level of specialty in the type of confections he will consume is clearly too dainty to be fucked with. Moreover, if his taste buds prefer something with this level of dryness, it’s quite apparent that he’ll have no idea what to do with a wet pussy.
Sometimes it’s hard to decipher which neighborhood has perfected the art of the bouge more seamlessly: the Lower East Side or Williamsburg. With The Regal, one no longer has to decide, as it is a bar/restaurant (the Californianess of it all!) brought to you by the same luxury-loving minds behind Hotel Chantelle. The difference between The Regal and Hotel Chantelle? The Regal gets that extra bit of “edge” as a result of being situated beneath the BQE.
Interior hobnob station
For the dickless “man” who wants to eat a tuna sandwich that has sushi in it, The Regal, is of course, a perfect place to hobnob, and possibly find a sugar mama (Christina Ricci lives nearby). But for the “man” who still has some semblance of his dick left, why not go to nearby Night of Joy instead? At least they have a rooftop you can jump off of if you’re trolling luck goes awry.
We’ve all bowed down to Aziz Ansari as the king of Williamsburg long before Master of None even came out. No one is disputing his love of going to Baby’s All Right to see Father John Misty performances or his adventurousness in occasionally venturing out to Greenpoint to the far reaches of Achilles’ Heel. And yet, Ansari had to one-up himself by bringing his apparent friend and confidant, Jennifer Lawrence, to his beloved watering hole, The Commodore.
A fan of filming at The Commodore
And yes, once upon a time, The Commodore was a slice of the Williamsburg “artists” coming late to the game of being artists in Williamsburg enjoyed, but now, it is among the ranks of Union Pool in terms of the dickless riffraff it attracts–thighs, breasts and biscuits be damned. And so, while Ansari may have simply wanted to show Lawrence how the other half lives, he could have at least taken her to somewhere with a bit more cachet, like Milk Bar or M Shanghai. Now she’s sure to consummate her relationship with Amy Schumer if she’s basing her assessment of “men” on who she encountered at The Commodore.
We all get it, Valentine’s Day is a cheesy, often pressure-laden “holiday.” But still, we must submit to it whether we think we can avoid it or not. For to ignore it would be like ignoring that positive STD test you just got back: unwise. Thus, if you want to truly impress the woman in your life on this day of commercialized love, you ought to do more than simply give a gift or shell out for dinner.
At least give her a faint glimmer of an orgasm
What am I talking out? Like Salt-n-Pepa, sex. It’s time to deviate from your missionary/reverse cowgirl norm and do something drastically pleasurable. The reason for saving it for Valentine’s Day? ‘Cause then the bitch might actually get used to your “dick” being equipped for decent fucking on the regular. And we all know you can’t sustain that level of expectation. So come Valentine’s Day, if you can’t mix it up in her vagina, at least have the common decency to give head. It shows you care and might just be in possession of a dick after all.
It is one thing for Andy Warhol to have donned a sometimes silver, sometimes white wig. He was Andy Warhol. He had to contend with a lot of physical shortcomings, which forced him to compensate by being bombastic. In the case of other “men,” however, there really isn’t any reason for them to be paying perfectly good money they could be spending on penile implants on dying their hair gray instead.
Waste o’ dough
While The New York Times may call it an “adventurous” act, this is also the publication that once declared “Last Stop on the L Train: Detroit“. And, yes, the “men” of North Brooklyn have plenty of money to throw around frivolously, but why do it for something that turns them into a magnet for women with daddy issues? For we all know most women orbiting Williamsburg are just looking for a father figure with salt and pepper hair to take their problems away. Thus, if a “man” dyes his hair gray, he’s not only going to look like an old “man,” but he’s going to be expected to act like one. This aesthetic deception will only lead to more disappointed women as they discover they’re fucking with boys that have duped them with George Clooney hair.