Boyz in the Hood

November 9, 1998

In the past month I have gone to three parades. First there was the parade in the "Canyon of Heroes" honoring The World Champion New York Yankees. Then there was the Halloween Parade in Greenwich Village. (I had the most original costume: I came dressed as a heterosexual male.) And last week I went to a parade in Times Square sponsored by PETA (People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals). The reason I went to this last parade was because a group called Models Against Fur was going to be demonstrating in support of PETA, wearing nothing but tits and ass.

The fur event was remarkable for who wasn't there. Aside from the autistic man behind me who kept shouting, "Tattas! Look at the tattas! Look at the tattas!", there weren't any real men in the bunch.

Instead, there were all these pretty boys. New York is full of these guys. They're at parades, hanging out on street corners, and scattered about every party that ever goes on in this city. (You will never see them at an office, so I don't know how they support themselves.)

Allow me to describe the Manhattan Pretty Boy. First off, he's tall and lean. Jeans and black leather shoes cover the lower half of his body. A white T-shirt and a light brown suede vest is the summer uniform, while a black turtle-neck is all that's required in the winter. Aside from the mandatory sideburns, their faces are completely free of hair, acne, scars, or lines. The vacant eyes and the crazy hair on the head is the signature of the Manhattan Pretty Boy. The Manhattan Pretty Boy has wild hair, but it's not the kind of wild hair that the Manhattan Homeless Guy has. The Manhattan Pretty Boy pays some hair designer (never say "barber") $100 bucks or more to create that just-rolled-out-of-bed look. The haircut is uneven and choppy. It's combed forward and up; then gel, mousse, or spray is applied to make sure it stays that way.

I've never heard Manhattan Pretty Boys talk. They just stand in groups with their hands in their pockets. Yes, their lips do move, but the sounds they emit are at frequency that only other Manhattan Pretty Boys can hear.

And I never see these guys with girls, but I hesitate to say that they're gay. They're kind of asexual. They're kind of just there. The Manhattan Pretty Boy is a unique hybrid of human and mannequin, grown in the labs of Calvin Klein and Tommy Hilfiger, for use as models in unisex jeans and fragrance advertisements in slick, national magazines.

The five or six Manhattan Pretty Boys who were at the PETA rally turned their heads toward the man saying "Tattas! Tattas!", but their faces remained expressionless. It reminded me of when my dog, Jack, hears a noise and turns his head in the direction from which it came. He just stares blankly for a while, until some other noise catches his attention.

And so the Manhattan Pretty Boys looked at the Tattas guy for a few seconds and then turned back to look at each other, hands in pockets, communicating via telepathy. If they did turn to look at the tattas, I did not see it. I don't think they really cared about them like I did. They were there because the PETA parade was an event and events are their raison d'etre.

There was quite a contrast between the disheveled, horny, Tattas-gazing guy and the salon-perfect, emotionless, Manhattan Pretty Boys. It was while I was caught between that paradox that the greatest idea of my life was born: An upscale, VIP restaurant serving only the beautiful people of New York, with a wait-staff composed entirely of naked beautiful models. It's name?

Brestaurant.

Broadway Jim Sosnicky

		Boyz in the Hood
		November 9, 1998 In the past month I have gone to three parades. First there was the parade in the "Canyon of Heroes" honoring The World Champion New York Yankees. Then there was the Halloween Parade in Greenwich Village. (I had the most original costume: I came dressed as a heterosexual male.) And last week I went to a parade in Times Square sponsored by PETA (People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals). The reason I went to this last parade was because a group called Models Against Fur was going to be demonstrating in support of PETA, wearing nothing but tits and ass. The fur event was remarkable for who wasn't there. Aside from the autistic man behind me who kept shouting, "Tattas! Look at the tattas! Look at the tattas!", there weren't any real men in the bunch. Instead, there were all these pretty boys. New York is full of these guys. They're at parades, hanging out on street corners, and scattered about every party that ever goes on in this city. (You will never see them at an office, so I don't know how they support themselves.) Allow me to describe the Manhattan Pretty Boy. First off, he's tall and lean. Jeans and black leather shoes cover the lower half of his body. A white T-shirt and a light brown suede vest is the summer uniform, while a black turtle-neck is all that's required in the winter. Aside from the mandatory sideburns, their faces are completely free of hair, acne, scars, or lines. The vacant eyes and the crazy hair on the head is the signature of the Manhattan Pretty Boy. The Manhattan Pretty Boy has wild hair, but it's not the kind of wild hair that the Manhattan Homeless Guy has. The Manhattan Pretty Boy pays some hair designer (never say "barber") $100 bucks or more to create that just-rolled-out-of-bed look. The haircut is uneven and choppy. It's combed forward and up; then gel, mousse, or spray is applied to make sure it stays that way. I've never heard Manhattan Pretty Boys talk. They just stand in groups with their hands in their pockets. Yes, their lips do move, but the sounds they emit are at frequency that only other Manhattan Pretty Boys can hear. And I never see these guys with girls, but I hesitate to say that they're gay. They're kind of asexual. They're kind of just there. The Manhattan Pretty Boy is a unique hybrid of human and mannequin, grown in the labs of Calvin Klein and Tommy Hilfiger, for use as models in unisex jeans and fragrance advertisements in slick, national magazines. The five or six Manhattan Pretty Boys who were at the PETA rally turned their heads toward the man saying "Tattas! Tattas!", but their faces remained expressionless. It reminded me of when my dog, Jack, hears a noise and turns his head in the direction from which it came. He just stares blankly for a while, until some other noise catches his attention. And so the Manhattan Pretty Boys looked at the Tattas guy for a few seconds and then turned back to look at each other, hands in pockets, communicating via telepathy. If they did turn to look at the tattas, I did not see it. I don't think they really cared about them like I did. They were there because the PETA parade was an event and events are their raison d'etre. There was quite a contrast between the disheveled, horny, Tattas-gazing guy and the salon-perfect, emotionless, Manhattan Pretty Boys. It was while I was caught between that paradox that the greatest idea of my life was born: An upscale, VIP restaurant serving only the beautiful people of New York, with a wait-staff composed entirely of naked beautiful models. It's name? Brestaurant. Broadway Jim Sosnicky