Oh happy dagger, for the dashing, pant-pressing Señor Laroo has bid me adieu and our torrid courtship, too. “You viper-tongued tart!,” spat he of the buoyant coif and architectural leanings. “May you never know the dizzying rapture of a golden section.” Truly, reader, I felt ruined; my heart, still it hurts. But then, Coco Mia, bosom confidante, sent an S.O.S. package to the divan where I’d weepily flung myself, wilted and wan. Inside was one giant flan and the official NYC Dating Primer drafted below. I beseech you to eliminate prospects from any of the five classifications exposed in the guide, for eventually they will drive you to chronic journaling and a spinsterly love of cats.
As indiscriminate fawners go, the kid is at least enterprising. Oily Freelance spends his days on the dole and in bed, chewing Vicodin and contemplating all 17 flavors of the Hot Pocket line. This stay-at-home parasite is seeking an heiress and will try and seduce you with either sloth or flaccid cooing if only you say you’ll pay for another round of martinis at the Slipper Room. You: “Dinner at TanDa is on me tonight.” Freelance: “You have pretty hair.” I condone hitting it with Freelance solely during times of profound dating distress. So if you’re a recent exile to Dumpsville, go ahead and bankroll him for a night of see-through gushes and salutary racketeering. Usual Haunts: Swim (146 Orchard Street, 673-0799), M&R Bar (264 Elizabeth Street, 226-0559). $
Bookish and droopy, this sulky breed of Manhattan man slouches around like an owl in Underoos, with his uniform of too-tight high-water cords and “Ithaca is Gorges” baby tee. The twin afflictions of extreme myopia (note the horn-rims) and contrived ennui make Indie sort of a curdled sourpuss. Typically an artist-musician-writer toiling in obscurity, but trust-funded by his parents, Indie smokes Camels, misquotes Hegel, and adores prolonged, dulling dissections of his tortured soul. This is a peevish, neurotic namby-pamby: My counsel is to ravage Indie for a weekend before packing him off to an electric beach for some much needed melanin and brushes with populism. Usual Haunts: Southside Lounge (41 Broadway, Williamsburg, Brooklyn, 718-387-3182), Baraza (133 Avenue C, 539-0811). $$
The Unauthorized Biographer
Observe the Kato Kaelin-esque loitering of this toadying cad—a simpering, vapid vulgarian who is forever Charlie Rose-ing around town. Page Six is Holy Scripture to Unauthorized, a glossy, opportunist modelizer who navigates the peripheries of fame via starfucking and liberal splashes of Drakkar Noir. This dastardly gnat of a man has no scruples, but if you’re still feeble-minded enough to sleep with him despite my pleas to the contrary, be certain that he will run off with a blow-dried publicist and her Rolodex the second your V.I.P. passes to the Yeah Yeah Yeahs fall through. Usual Haunts: Sway (305 Spring Street, 620-5220), Industry (509 East 6th Street, 777-5920). $$$$
The I Want to Get You in the Sactivist
This pale, frail wheat-free do-gooder chases skirt between rants over the plight of itinerant Tongan sweatshop workers and exaltations on Theater of the Oppressed. A mangy teetotaler prone to prominent nose hairs and flatulent manifestos, the Sactivist will woo you over macrobiotic pâté at Angelica Kitchen and the “revelation” that he—el hombre muchacho campesino!—was a women’s studies major at Sarah Lawrence. But caution, gals, for this self-righteous vigilante of the downtrodden is really just a stagy rat fink who wants to get on NY1, then into your pants—in that order. Usual Haunts: soapboxes, Dojo (24-26 St. Marks Place, 674-9821). $$$
But I’m From Brooklyn, Yo (BIFBY)
Only Pootie Tang or The Onion‘s venerable mutha from accounts payable, Herbert Kornfeld, could interpret this choleric phony jive: “Dis be a shout-out to my true crew, I be gettin’ kung fu on y’all’s asses.” Must it really take a nation of a million to hold these rude bwoys back? BIFBY is the baffling new phylum to emerge from amid the disenfranchised recesses along Smith Street and Bedford Avenue. These pimp dandies tend to hail from Darien, not Stankonia, but will name-drop their B-town residencies five minutes into your first PBR at the Gowanus Yacht Club. Still, though it is doubtful any specimen of BIFBY has ever even crossed Nostrand Avenue, I suppose it’s reassuring that someone’s fighting the power in Carroll Gardens, yo. Usual Haunts: Frank’s Lounge (660 Fulton Street, Fort Greene, Brooklyn, 718-625-9339), O’Connor’s Bar (39 Fifth Avenue, Park Slope, Brooklyn, 718-783-9721). $$$$$
$—Stingiest lulu. Will refer to you as “dude” a whole lot.
$$—Gets drinks only. Might wear pleated pants. Mock turtlenecks not ruled out, either.
$$$—Pays for drinks and dinner. Prefaces sentences with “Don’t be that guy.” Tragically is that guy.
$$$$—Expect drinks, dinner, and a movie. Signature oratory: “Too bad for you it’s hot out because sugar melts and aren’t you already wet?”
$$$$$—Expect all of the above, plus a suite at the W. Signature oratory: “When your heart’s on fire, smoke gets in your eyes, and right now baby, I can’t see a thing!”