***TAKEN FROM THE BATHROOM WALL Editon***
Monday, November 16, 2009
In order to adequately describe Looks Like Dad, we must share a story from our daily lives as Dealbreaker connoisseurs.
Once upon a time on the Lower East Side, two girls were invited to a party by a host they did not know so well. When they got to the party, lotsa beer and good cheer in tow, they were greeted with a ghastly vision: RECEDING HAIRLINE. SWEATER VEST. NEW BALANCES. SNARKY GRIN. And, most horrendous of all, THE COMB FORWARD. We stood there wondering how the fourth-cousin of the Donald Trump comb-forward manifested itself on someone who had looked so cute in their Facebook profile picture, and yet, realized, he Looked Like Dad. Oh, and didn't appreciate the beer we had brought. Asshole. What a buzzkill.
Looks Like Dad is a curious syndrome the occurs to those under the age of 27, and incidentally, they end up looking 47, and not in a good way. Visual cues include: thinning hair, high-water khakis, weird moccasin/slipper/loafer/Croc footwear situations, burgeoning Z-axises , and a weird way of making you feel like you broke curfew and should apologize for it. In essence, the poopiest of party poopers.
The poisonous seed for this unique brand of social caste is sown in the very fertile soil of American suburbia, where it takes root and flourishes, stimulated by Jay-Z remixes on Z100 and the readily available supply of Sean John and Marc Ecko duds at the local mall. It is, indeed, the ubiquitous Wigger.
The first, and undeniable marker of Wigger, is their Caucasian race, which they attempt to disguise under a mass of South Pole sweats and brand spankin' new Timbs, not to mention a warped version of 90's ebonics.
After attempting to "get down" with their "brothas" (aka the one black kid at school, who listens to Dave Matthews Band and wears Polo by Ralph Lauren) and getting denied, homeboy swaggers (See DB #6) home to a two-story Colonial with a pro-Cheney dad and Chico's-wearing Mom, only to take solace in Weezy's latest release.
On the weekends, Wigger like to get down by sippin' on some purple drank stolen out of the medicine cabinet and loiter around in mall parking lots with his "gang" with a basketball and a jacked chain from Claire's Accessories hidden under his extra large t-shirt, proclaiming the "truth" that Tupac is alive and well. While in the 'hood most people have to look over their shoulder constantly, but in suburbialand, the only thing Wigger has to worry about is whether his AND1 jeans are going to expose his puny little butt.
Usually a garment seen on the backs of our European brethren (see #20 for more details), the satin Puma track jacket is often chosen by a particular bro for it's "sporty elegance." However, it is most commonly (and actually) seen on groups of two or three Murray Hill bros slumming it up with the plebeians at rooftop Brooklyn raves. Where there's one, there's others, and oftentimes, the level of Puma track jacket group-hug beer chug bromance reaches the point where they meld together as one continuous Puma-clad mass. And yes, sometimes the love's so strong, they can't resist kissing the other on the cheek. . .proving once and all that the strongest bonds of love between two bros can never be broken.
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
Oh, the soul patch. Is it possible that such a tiny swatch of scruffed up chin floss indicates volumes about one's personality, character, and aesthetic values?
The answer is a resounding Y-E-S. The soul patch, possessed by those dudes who are convinced of their smoothness, savvy, and, indeed, soul, is in our opinion, noncommittal (in addition to being straight up lameee)--why keep a tiny dot of unshaved nothingness? The soul patch is related to, but no way as ballsy as the maintenance and upkeep of the goatee (another dealbreaker, natch). Either way, you end up looking like a tragic aging boy band reject (see AJ and Kevin above. . .cannot believe BSB had TWO soul patches running their steez!!!), and, quite honestly, no one wants to look like that.
Monday, November 2, 2009
Disclaimer: We have several friends and acquaintances who attend this prestigious institution that we don't wish to offend. However, for every minority, there is a majority. And the majority of these people are, well, So NYU.
So NYU is a difficult dealbreaker to describe; we'll try our best to put it into words, but it seems to be either understood inherently or not understood at all. Despite our legacy of making shambles of the male sex, So NYU is an attribute prevalently manifested in females (males have it too, but it's usually less offensive, so we'll lump them into the bro category).
The last week of August invites a legion of swarming masses of naivete leaving the quaint suburbs and invading our metropolis. This is a moment all established Manhattanites dread.
It's an epidemic, as they desecrate every virgin spot south of 23rd St. For nine never-ending months they swarm West 4th, leaving Greenwich Village in the dust and leaving us wondering if the Washington Square of Ginsberg and Dylan ever existed at all. From dorm to class they travel in packs, speaking of Campus Cash, lecture halls, and their fake Greek life. They are identified by their ill-fitting cargo or sweat pants, usually too loose in the leg and hitting at an improper spot above the ankle, giving us an ever-so-nauseating sneak peak at those thick Hanes cotton socks or Ugg boots. Their Jansport backpacks hearken of 1997 and they tug at the mass of mousy brown, uncombed hair. During welcome week of college they are ready to hit up the 18+ clubs (Manor or KGB Bar, anyone?), the guys resplendent in their Abercrombie and Fitch muscle shirts and puka shell necklaces (more on those later) and the girls in their polyester getup reminiscent of the Deb. Yes, every college in the city has its own distinctive style just begging to be criticized (So SVA, So FIT, So CUNY), but when you have to walk through NYU every day, a little bit of specific hatred starts building up inside.
The bottom line is these offenders are trying to sit at the cool kids table, but their Kohl's-purchased leggings make them look as if they never left Ohio.
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
Standing on a street corner, lit Newport (always, I SWEAR) in hand, chub-in-skinny-jeans wears thick framed lens-less glasses and a pyramid belt to get down and hipster, guzzles tallboys of Bud, and never notices that he possesses a muffin top, accented by a too-tight band t-shirt (and it's usually a really shitty band, no?), sideways trucker hat, and some sort of cord choker situation (hearkening of DB #2, WHAT a recurring theme!). The chub-in-skinny-jeans is usually a huge DOUCHEBAG, proud of the poor souls he's already seduced, and resentful towards the attractive broads he hasn't (they know better). Because of this bitterness he usually points out female imperfections and criticizes dates for "not being hot enough"--seriously lame. In addition, why does the chub-in-skinny-jeans also opt for a severe bootleg some of the time? Clearly they are ladies jeans, as they hug the thigh and flare out at the ankle. What's the point, dude??? M-I-N-I-M-I-Z-E. Or at least buy some straight legs.