Not that I could ever know what it’s like to have money or how business works (which is why I’ll never know what it’s like to have money), but it seems to me that spending forty million dollars on a real estate deal is a little excessive in the missing a dick category. If you have forty million dollars you should use it for something good, like traveling or designer labels–not fucking real estate deals that further decimate a neighborhood.
Dunkin’ Donuts is part of a 40 million dollar building. Seems really worth it.
What this building will be transformed into remains to be seen (though a Dunkin’ Donuts was already there to begin with), but whatever it is will obviously not be worth the money plunked down to make it into [insert shitty brand here]. Not even if it was a store that contained Donatella Versace in an all-white room reading your tarot.
Everything you need to know about the evolution of Williamsburg is summarized in the existence of the Dunkin’ Donuts on North 7th and Bedford. It’s every shade of wrong, I don’t care how elegant and inviting the wood paneling and gold-tone logo looks to you. For you to give in to its temptations is an utterly dickless move.
Dunkin’ Donuts, as only Williamsburg could imagine it
Whether you’re going there for a “coffee date” or just picking up a cup on the way to the subway before you go to your freelance job in the city or, more than likely, at the edge of the waterfront, there really isn’t any viable excuse for you to set foot into this establishment. You’d show more respect going into the Tasti D-Lite at the corner of North 6th. At least it’s been there longer than the span of Miley’s career.
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.