The Nighthawk: An Essay

I have to confess—I am completely disenchanted with The Bro. Thanks to the popularity of Bro Culture, Bros are no longer a novelty; they’re trendy, and nothing kills something faster than becoming a trend. Just ask Ashton Kutcher’s trucker hat. Bros are no longer delightfully clueless creatures for us to study in their natural habitats (bars, lounges, kickball games, etc.) Rather, you can go to your local Barnes and Nobles and buy a book to tell you everything about them, or pick up any trendy lifestyle magazine to read some smug, wry, hipster dissect them and their culture (that’s my job damnit! Not theirs!) Therefore, I’m officially retiring my fascination with Bros. Good luck partying like it’s 2003 Bros, may you keep the dream alive.

As with any death, I buried my emotions deep down and decided to hit the bars this weekend to distract myself, surrounded by the company of friends, my main man Sam Adams and a little bump and grind to T.I. on the dance floor. It was hard to distract myself from my ex-social-obsession with delightfully creepy Bros inviting us into their party busses blasting “Journey” headed towards the waterfront for the “sickest bachelor party ever!” My heart said, “Say yes! There’s a strobe light and I think I see a “Best of Eminem” mix CD! This can’t end badly!” My head however, said no. I had to be strong.

Three of my girlfriends and I were sharing a cheer-up beer at Caddy’s in Bethesda Friday night after seeing the disturbing depress-a-thon Changeling, starring Angelina Jolie (I think I went into the theatre thinking it was a touching family comedy…Turns out it’s more of an axe murderer filled...insane asylum centered...not comedy.)

I was sitting at our table outside the bar wondering how I was going to tell my friends that I was too scared to drive home on the back roads alone, when I suddenly caught a glimpse of the guy sitting at the table next to ours who looked suspiciously like Speedy Gonzalez. His eyes were scanning the crowd as he slowly stroked the nine hairs he calls a moustache, deep in concentration. At first I thought he was alone, but I soon realized there was another guy sitting across from him, also creepily surveying the bar. I thought maybe they were strangers who decided to share a table out of convenience, but I noticed whenever a hot girl walked by them, they leaned in and shared a succinct head nod and pervy smile before going back to scanning the crowd in stony silence. It became apparent that although they were probably good friends, they were at the bar to strictly find girls to pick up, sitting in stony silence until that moment arrives. "Who is this creature?" thought I. They weren’t well dressed enough to be White Caps, but not fun-spirited enough to be Bros. It dawned on me that I’ve seen these men before, and odds are, you have too. They were Nighthawks.

The Structure, Mating Habits and Social Rituals of The Nighthawk

Figure One: The Nighthawk


Introduction: The Nighthawk (alternatively called “That Creepy Guy,” “Why is This Creepy Guy Talking to me?” “Who was that Creepy Guy You Were Talking to? And “Ugh, There’s That Creepy Guy I was Talking to Again,”) is a man who comes to the bar or club with one thing on his mind and one thing only: to get the drunkest chick in the bar to fuck him. Whether it’s in the bathroom, in an alley or actually on the dance floor, they are there to get some, and that’s it. I realize that most guys go out with the shared goal of getting laid, but Nighthawks take this classic principle to an extreme and socially awkward level. They’re purists; they waste no time taking part in normal social rituals like talking to friends, having a good time, chatting up a girl, mingling, laughing or generally acting like a normal member of society. These are all things that could potentially distract and take time away from spotting their prey. Instead, they prefer to stand in the shadows of the bar, gently nodding their heads to the beat, ominously sipping a beer, while making intense eye contact with girls to see which one is drunk enough to smile back. It’s such a simple existence. They’re like the Tibetan monks of the bar scene. Once they find a girl to approach, they simple wander over and attempt a conversation starter (“I’ve been watching you all night, you really know how to dance,” “You have beautiful eyes,” “So where do you work?”) If the Nighthawk has done his work right, she’ll quickly give him a once over and decide it’s getting late and she needs ass enough to go home with him.

Clothing: Doesn’t matter. Drunk chicks don’t care what you’re wearing; they care how fast the room is spinning and whether or not you’re interested. Oh you are? Here’s my virginity.

Community Structure: What perplexes me most about Nighthawks is that they’re solitary creatures (save for the double-team my friends and I got.) There’s no point in having a community because community means distraction and competition. Remember, it’s not about having fun; it’s about hunting your prey and going in for the kill. While Bros are LOLZing about the newest South Park episode and White Caps are comparing golf scores, Nighthawks are counting how many Long Island Ice-Ts that blonde chick has had and are waiting for her to lose her balance. Competition is out of the question. Let’s say that drunken blonde chick loses her footing after the fifth Long Island Ice-T; a Nighthawk doesn’t have the social skills to win her affection when she tumbles into his buddy's arms. It’s say goodbye to Sally McSlurs and start all over again.

Where to Find a Nighthawk in DC: Anywhere and everywhere. You might have no clue what I’m talking about right now, but the next time you’re at a bar, you’ll see him, alone, surrounded by groups of friends. He’ll be staring too hard at some girl. If he loses interest in her, his head will quickly dart around 180-degree’s like an owl’s to search for another. If you make eye contact, run away. If he starts a conversation, ask him if he’s found Jesus yet.

Mating Ritual: It’s usually awkward, off-putting and socially retarded. Let me share with you what happened with the Nighthawks from Friday: The Hawks decided they were going to focus their attention on our table. When simply starring too hard didn’t yield results, one of the Nighthawks literally pounded his fist on the table to make a pint glass on the edge of the table fall and shatter, in an effort to attract attention. Mind you, I’m the only one at my table facing them. One of the Nighthawks looked at me, smiled and knocked another glass off of his table. Then he made a mischievous “shhh!” motion with his finger to his lips before knocking another glass over. When my friend across the table looked down, slightly disgusted, to make sure her purse wasn’t wet, the Nighthawk looked back to me and giggled like “Don’t tell her what I’m doing! LOLZ! We’re all this together! LOLZ!” Finally, when it was clear we weren’t drunk enough to think knocking shit off a table is manly and sexy; they literally started pounding on their table like monkeys until we turned around to look at them. Apparently this is an invitation to join us in the mind of the Nighthawk, as they got up, dragged over their chairs and joined our circle. Sadly for them, Anna and Sarah bolted to the bar, I told one of them I was married and pregnant before returning to my beer and Jill was left to awkwardly squirm and look to me for help. Unfortunately I was distracted thinking about my wonderful fake husband and unborn baby at the time, sorry Jill.

How to Capture a Nighthawk: Get drunk and look desperate.

Final Summation: I’ve recently decided to declare war on the mass display of actions that are socially unacceptable, a war I call “The War on Social Terrorism” (read: I declare war on social retards but don’t want the blog to get sued again making so-called negative comments about the handi-capable). Nighthawks are at the top of my list of Evil Do-ers and I ask you for your support during this difficult time. Thank you, and God Bless the Blog.