Though we keep telling ourselves that gender roles are an illusion (and soon enough so will reality be altogether thanks to, among other things, persistent hologram concerts from the likes of Roy Orbison and Amy Winehouse), it would seem that many “men” still rely on the tried and true Jay Gatsby go-to of making a shit ton of money in order to both impress therefore “procure” a woman. Tragically, what he can’t seem to procure is a clue regarding how to be sociable in a way that doesn’t scream “eccentric millionaire” (although one hopes, at the very least, not at quite the same decibel as Howard Hughes). So he goes about his usual manner of being a bumbling idiot that somehow managed to make him vast sums of money not in the face of but precisely because he is socially inept and generally daft.
The girl, of course, is partially at fault for falling into the cliche trap of wanting to be, to use a gross, parody of something Frank Sinatra would say, wined and dined, allowing herself to fall prey to the inevitable sandpaper hangout session. Because, what can she say, that statistic about women making seventy-five cents for every dollar a “man” makes still rings true, and thusly, she could use a paid for meal every now and again. Yet for all his best attempts to treat the dinner like a job interview and go on about his various qualifications for the role of potential fuck and maybe–if she’s lucky–boyfriend, she is, as usual, of the Shania bent, not impressed much. And in truth, sort of just trying to get through the dinner without vomiting her food too prematurely (that’s for later, in the privacy of her own bathroom). So it must be said that just because a “man” has a wallet more burgeoning and thrilling than his so-called panisse does not mean it is enough to 1) keep a woman’s interest or 2) even reel her in in the first place. Because there’s something to be said for the non-faux pretension of poverty dick. Crusty though it may be.
Because stereotypes make everything easier and generally hold some grain of longstanding truth (e.g. Italian Americans working in construction or plumbing), it is safe to say that the reason “men” hold such general contempt for women is a result of their many luxury “needs” (though some “males” would like to deny their unwitting complicity in the success of the beauty and fashion industries). The things, in short, that make them so very susceptible to desiring and coveting the bourgeois lifestyle. Certainly, it’s not as on blast as it was in the 50s, when Lucy was asking for all manner of increase in her allowance from Ricky, or in the 80s, when Bret Easton Ellis was inspired to write about someone as frivolous as Evelyn in American Psycho. But the residual materialistic airhead trope is hard to shake even with the firm presence of the twenty-first century as well (see: Paris Hilton, the Kardashians, Kylie Jenner specifically and, for some reason, Tiffany Trump).
The resentment “men” have toward women of this nature (which is to say, most of them), stems from the reflection it gives back of his own inadequacy as a functioning member of a capitalist society (the only society still recognized by mainstream media). Because, yes, for the most part, “a scrub is a guy who thinks he’s fly” but also has no fucking money to at least back up a shitty, irascible personality in addition to being bad in bed. So it is that they balk at the bourgeoisie so as to make themselves feel slightly less deficient about being unable to ever be a part of it. Because you know goddamn well if you could be, you would be. That you would not be so quick to balk at an endless reserve of cash if you could actually access it without more than the effort it takes you to get out of your pathetic excuse for a bed.
Balking also aids in convincing the girl whose vagina they’ve briefly managed to enter that she’s the one who’s in the wrong–insane, in short–for wanting access to such vacuous things as a memory foam mattress or a Nespresso maker. Convince her that it’s the more proverbial “man” who has infected her brain with these false and inane aspirations that set us all back to the June Cleaver era. But like, again, if these things were handed to a “man” instead of him actually having to work for them, where would his balking be then? Probably slightly muffled by the taste of homemade bread from a stand mixer.
There’s a lot of “freaks” out there. It was the basis of an entire Sex and the City episode, for fuck’s sake (season two, episode three–“The Freak Show”–you should watch it, even though it’s really hard to be reminded of New York when it wasn’t so flaccid). But most of them are freaks not because they would have served well as extras in Tod Browning’s film of the same name, but because they actually have the gumption to sell themselves in this manner, parading themselves as “open,” “progressive” and hippy dippy or what have you when, in actuality, at the end of the day all they want is a muhfukkin basique. A non-Katie (a.k.a. complicato), like all the rest.
Yet possibly due to a typically youthful desire to seem rebellious and/or original (unfortunately youth extends interminably in most “men’s” “minds” these days), the faux freak “male” likes to feign that he’s as kooky and creepy as any sideshow attraction. This often translates into making a lot of random sounds, pretending to take an interest in off-brand bedroom behavior (when really, missionary is always his go-to in between the usual lackadaisical request for up the ass) and, for a time, seeking to pair with a girl who is as equitably 1950s queer as he is. However, every faux freak of a “man” grows tired of the charade with the girl who is genuinely a weirdo, ultimately taking his circus tent to a new metaphorical town (read: vagina) to perform another private show (as Britney Spears would call it), one that will enrapture a more basique element in the end, for that is what he truly wants–to be the so-called “special” one of the relationship.
Enough hours have passed since the start of January 21st’s historic protests throughout the nation, and one has seen the gamut of social media depictions of the Women’s March in both New York City and D.C. at this point. That being said, of all the many candids showcased, there are two instances of dick missing that can be easily parsed out. The first, of course, is the “men” in the crowd with leering and lascivious looks on their faces indicating either 1) they’ve been hired by some Trump juggernaut to kill the opposition or 2) they’re on the hunt for impassioned women whose passion they hope translates in bed.
The second type of “man” sans dique at the Women’s March is the one who isn’t really there, but instead simply posts found pictures from other people’s experience and passes it off as his own. Or worse, actually pops in to the Women’s March for a hot second to prove he cares, then dips out just as quickly as he came (this is also a nod to the likely fact that he’s a premature ejaculator). This is the sociopath-type “male,” the one who wants to appear empathetic enough on the surface to still secure some pussy in the future, even though the intelligent woman protesting can see through his veneer just as quickly as he saw with X-ray like vision through her clothes.
“I’m gonna cut your face up so bad you’ll have a chin. You’ll all have chins!” This threat from Liz Lemon to her staff of weak chinned “men” on 30 Rock is a valid one, and perhaps a warning that truly should be executed by women who endure the presence of weak chins in their lives. For you see, it’s widely known that this sort of physical defect isn’t just unsightly, but also an indication of a “man” who has come from jank ass stock.
It is one thing to excuse this fault for the sake of relishing some of a “man’s” more compensating qualities, like a sense of humor or a sense of generosity when it comes to expressing affection and/or sentimentality. But the thing is, whenever you do make this exception to the intolerance of a weak chin rule, he will inevitably reveal himself to be just the sort of “man” who one expects to have a weak chin–because he’s dainty, uncouth and otherwise extremely punchable. No, no, it’s angularity that shows character, even when such angularity can give way to vanity.
“Men” do a great many things to disappoint women. But usually, on the bright side, it’s things that they’re at least aware of. However, not in the case of a certain overzealous sperm donor by the name of Ari Nagel, who has donated his seed to enough women to have produced twenty-two children, some of which could be learning French in Williamsburg right at this very moment.
While, theoretically, it’s all very “noble” and “generous” for an “educated” “man” to contribute back to society in this way, the act is rendered immediately skeevy when it comes to one’s attention that Nagel’s wife had no idea of the extent to which he was being so charitable. Indeed, it seems as though Nagel quite literally gets off on the spreading of his seed in secret–the illicitness of it all contributing to his orgasm. But sooner or later, the well is going to run dry, and then what will he be able to offer his wife other than a framed picture of the New York Post cover story he was on?
“I don’t like cities, but I like New York.” So sums up Madonna on the aptly titled song, “I Love New York.” And yet, there are so many “men” who can’t seem to fathom a woman’s love of this objectively cruel city. Unless, of course, they are able to live within the cushion of Williamsburg, where a different New York resides.
Your ire is dickless
Those who live in a less cushioned version of the city, however, will tend to despise the town a bit more frequently. Whether this is because they’re forced to work in a more common “man” sort of way or because they can’t afford a lifestyle that they fancy themselves accustomed to depends on the nature of the “man.” Though, usually, it’s because he’s too fucking dainty to deal with it. Maybe this is the reason the ratio of women to men in New York is something out of a sci-fi novel. Because he’ll never understand your need to be a City Grrrl.
You might have thought that rich people eating gold products was a thing of the past, something that belonged to the Versailles era of living. But, sad to say, the modern day versions of the ultimate dickless “man,” Louis XIV, are living in Williamsburg, where their latest beloved food trend–after ponying up for $42 chicken–is gold-coated donuts.
Behold, this needless gold donut
At a semi-new restaurant called Manila Social Club near, appropriately, The Knitting Factory, the jelly-filled (at least one element kept plebeian) 24-karat yam-mousse and Cristal donut (or doughnut, if you want to give it that extra bit of fanciness it calls for) will set the “man” paying for your delicacy back $100. But, chances are, you’re too waifish for the “man” in question to allow you to have one. He’ll likely eat it for himself, fuck you in his condo and then head to Equinox to pay off his physical debt rather than his monetary one.
There is a certain kind of “man” who refuses to give up the ghost of his potential for sex while trolling the bar Monday through Sunday. No matter how late it gets and, thusly, how significantly the potential for taking someone home with him dwindles, he still can’t seem to apprehend that he is leaving the bar alone.
Donny boy is just the type of “man” to troll past 1 a.m.–good looks or not
He will ignore all attempts at sustaining any form of dignity by leering, slurring and offering to buy drinks to any woman who looks vulnerable enough to take the bait. But, truth be told, the type of “man” who is willing to opt for the type of woman leftover by the time last call rolls around is probably finding his soul mate–for the night. Particularly at Lucky Dog.
We all love LCD Soundsystem. We’re all still mourning the end of the band in the wake of their final Madison Square Garden show in 2011. And yet, lead singer James Murphy’s plans to open a wine bar in Williamsburg is simply not the way to fill the void that has been present ever since LCD stopped putting out new music.
Murphy, who previously collaborated with
Blowhard Blue Bottle to create a single-origin espresso line, is no stranger to the Williamsburg business scene. Perhaps that’s why he’s so attuned to knowing what will allow him to thrive in it–and that the density of dickless “men” in the neighborhood will flock to sit and drink “natural wine” for an obscene price. To add to the missing a dick nature of the establishment, it will be called The Four Horsemen and is moving into the space near Havemeyer and Grand where Foodswings used to be. Bottoms up (’cause you’re def getting cornholed in the bathroom of The Four Horsemen).