It’s hard to know what makes circumstances favor the formation of a craze. In the case of Pokémon Go, perhaps all that can be said about it is that “men” of the American variety are very daft, and very easily entertained. Plus, the promise of a virtual world often holds more cachet for most than what’s contained in the real.
That being said, those riveted by the game tend to be so not just in open, outdoor settings, but indoor ones as well. Never mind that the consideration factor of this entire app is indicative of just how effortlessly selfishness has become a caricature of itself in the modern epoch, but let us also take a moment to consider the inanity of the game’s concept. A “man” literally holds his phone up to the location he’s in–probably the Williamsburg waterfront if he’s especially dickless–and takes a picture of the Pokémon for, Christ knows what, posterity? The bottom line is, it’s all so flippant, and only compounded by the “man” who chooses Williamsburg as the milieu for virtually throwing a ball “in just the right way” at something to capture it or using “stardust and candies” to acquire more power. Though, in many instances of the successful Williamsburg denizen, he is using something akin to stardust and candies to get by on a wing and a prayer that cultivates the illusion of luxury.
There is, as Carrie Bradshaw once noted in the episode “The Ick Factor,” a certain threshold for cheesiness in the modern era. To be sure, romance is much appreciated, as it distinguishes between the label of “friend” vs. “lover,” but an overwhelming display of affection and/or forced gestures of bathetic amorousness tend to negate the belief in a “man” having a dick.
Sometimes, dancing can only be done in a McDonald’s if it’s going to be passable as not overly cheesy
With fall in full swing, the couples scene tends to reach a crescendo of annoying maudlin-ness that is especially noticeable in Williamsburg. From sipping hot chocolate together at Mast Brothers to walking along the waterfront hand in hand, there’s nothing more vomit-inducing that the Wburg cold-weather tableau. But what takes the cake for dicklessness is when you pick a leaf up off the ground, offer it to your girlfriend to hold and ride with her on the L train without shame as you and she touch the leaf together while entwined together. It smacks of a goddamn Mandy Moore movie. Not even The Notebook, a Mandy Moore movie. So try to rein it the fuck in. This isn’t 1948, after all, and you’re certainly not dressed well enough to pull off anything other than buying your girlfriend a book that you thought she’d identify with (probably, knowing your dicklessness, Not That Kind of Girl by Lena Dunham).