Worse than a “man” who goes through life utterly oblivious of his dicklessness is a “man” who also comes across as blissfully unaware of how toady he is. And still worse is when said toady “man” “banters” with women a.k.a. demeans her under the guise of Hepburn/Tracy-level repartee as though this is going to charm the pants off of her (have you heard? Women wear pants now).
But, in spite of a woman’s blatant eye rollings or flat-out ignorings of the toad who thinks he has a chance, he will continue to hound her with his constant insults–what he feels is flirtation. And now that there are manifold ways with which to communicate with a woman apart from in-person verbal assault, there is nary an escape from the toad once he sticks his tongue out and catches you in his mouth like the fly he thinks you are.
Worse than Chet (Bill Paxton) actually transformed into a toad in Weird Science, the “man” toad of Williamsburg has money and, in his mind, power. Power to control, power to get what he wants. But like class, money can’t buy non-toadiness. No matter how many trips one takes to the surgeon.
Look, I know that, deep down, a lot of gay “men” hate women more than straight “men,” but it’s a rare breed of dicklessness to be not just a Trump supporter, but a gay, New York-based Trump supporter. Deemed “alt-right” proponents of the erstwhile real estate mogul-cum-presidential candidate (though one doubts he’s capable of cumming out of a wang so microscopic), the orchestrator of the upcoming #DaddyWillSaveUs: Make Art Great Again! art show, Lucian Wintrich, is making Williamsburg even worse.
In addition to presumably featuring some #Twinks4Trump-inspired artwork, Wintrich is also hosting other pro-Trump gay boys contributing art to the project, though one imagines there won’t be much variation in style on the walls as there are probably, at most, only four gay “men” residing in New York wiling to “create” in support of this event. Appropriately, it’s likely Martin Shkreli will be there. And so, there goes America. Williamsburg was already gone.
There are but few “men” to admire in the modern era. One supposes in the 90s, comedically speaking, it was Jerry Seinfeld that “men” enjoyed quoting and revering (and even now still, to a large extent). But now, it seems as though Louis C.K. is the underachieving hero “men” of North Brooklyn look to for comfort about their own flaccidity.
While binge watching Louie is one thing, religiously watching Louis C.K.’s standup and subsequently quoting him as though his words are scripture is altogether different. And yet, it is not ever out of the realm of possibility to overhear a “man” in the vortex of “upper” Brooklyn begin a pedantic sentence with “To quote Louis C.K., ‘Cars and cameras are the two things I let myself be materialistic about. I don’t care about other stuff.'”
Justifying anything through the blue collar humor and boilerplate wisdom of Louis C.K.–especially an overt lust for wealth–is Class 1 dicklessness. But then, faux self-deprecation and faux modesty are, what the Williamsburg set live for.
Once again, the only person capable of getting away with pompous behavior (pampas grass behavior, if you will) is Jordan Catalano. But even he couldn’t be held fully responsible for the constant change of his band name. It was, as usual, the accursed lead singer, Tino.
Nonetheless, lead singer or not, if a “man” is in a band (and “he” usually is when it comes to the ways of the North Brooklyn nexus), “he” should be quite wary of being part of an entity that says things such as, “I’m in this band now, Frozen Embryos” or “I’m in this band called Mystik Spiral, but we’re thinking of changing the name.”
Not only is this level of erraticness in a band an extension of the inconstancy of the band members themselves, but it’s also a testament to how non-committal “he” probably is about “his” musical style, ergo “he” will never be a success. That sort of fluke shifting in monikers and genres only managed to work for Iggy Pop.
Unless a “man” has somehow been able to transcend into Jordan Catalano, there is very little excuse for him to act in a manner that suggests he hasn’t just noticed you enfeeble yourself by politely saying “Hey” in such settings as a party, a mutual friend’s home or when trapped in an ATM vestibule waiting for the next machine to be available (it happens often, just ask Chandler). Even when you barely know him and you’re just trying to unfreeze the icy gap caused by a lack of social reconnaissance.
When “he” stares blankly back at you, possessing the simultaneous blank and enraged expression of someone who has just been given a colonic, you will wonder why you even bothered to engage in twentieth century social graces in a twenty-first century world, where “men” can, at best, only grunt, sneer and grab themselves in response to just about everything.