Today's Cary Tennis column tackles the problem of what happens to a nerdy guy who desperately wants to be cool and so moves to Williamsburg with his indie girlfriend, only to be excommunicated to an uncool borough like Queens once the relationship goes south.
If three or four years of online dating and thirteen years of living in Williamsburg taught me anything, it's that the tragic nerds are the guys a girl really has to watch out for. You think they're all dorky and cute in their ill-fitting jeans and cartoon-embossed t-shirts, but meanwhile these guys are getting over on every piece of tail in town and nothing less than a Burning Angel girl will do.
You'd never guess you were dealing with a pussy hound from looking at them or sitting through their refreshingly pop-culture-reference-free conversation, but these dudes make their bedheaded, guitar-toting, paint-spattered brethren look like amateurs. Because at least with the urpy hipster doofi, a lady knows what she's getting into—one night of mediocre sex with their band's dreary demo as sountrack.
You don't kid yourself that those guys are going to call again, because you know they're going to be banging some publicist next week. But the nerdy guys—a lady gets lulled into a whole this-is-different/I'm-doing-this-dude-a-favor mindset that comes right back around and bites you on the ass when he pulls the fuck 'n' dump. Not that I'm talking from experience or anything.
UPDATE: Mike's right—it's a girl! That's okay, my point still holds. I just dated her twin brother is all. She's going to ditch her nice boyfriend for some mouth-breather musician type, just you wait.