Hipster Romeos do not intimidate me. Sure, they have many things going for them that I do not: they have the look, they have cultural “tastes”, they have a demeanor, which most single, under-30 New York women have come to expect. It’s a mix between Andy Warhol-femme and Brandon Davis-macho. At some undocumented point in cultural history, one woman down on Essex Street swooned, and it created a domino effect to rival anything The Eisenhower Administration ever augured. Obviously, all of this frustrates me. How the hell do I compete against such debonair excess? When I shop for clothes, I show up at a Target with an American Apparel catalogue, stake out a salesclerk, and spend the afternoon picking out inexpensive monochromatic t-shirts. Here’s the truth: I can’t compete. I just cannot. So, with that realization, I decided to embrace who I am. Instead of trying to lock horns for the affections of waifish females on a hipster’s level, I decided to bring them down to mine.
I went out, and bought a dog. A 19 year old puggle, to be exact.
Scientific studies have shown that an “average handsome” gentleman with a dog sets off a powerful pheromone in women. Presently, NASA is trying to convert it into rocket fuel. This means: I walk into a bar on East 2nd Street with Rufus on a leash, and it’s lights out, Ryan Adams. Sure: the little guy is blind in both eyes and only understands one command in Mandarin (“Ni-Pei!”, “Beg.”), but I rescued him. And doesn’t that alone – ladies – make me infinitely more sexy? What I’ve discovered is a seduction technique of Three Mile Island proportions.
So, to all the Hipster Romeos in the five boroughs, I throw down the inappropriately short cut-offs. It’s a level playing field: between you and your Frye boots and me with my blind, crossbred mutt. May the best poseur win.