I Hate Your Fake Diligence
Most people do things because they are attention whores. They are not motivated enough to actually do the task they are imitating, so instead, they just pretend to do it. It's called a ruse, and I fucking hate it. Like that girl you're friends with who, every night you go out, inevitably ends up crying and carrying on, cursing out bouncer and making a HUGE scene for no reason other than she's a drama-starved-bitch, mascara running down her face, shoes off, ten-inch ash dangling from her cigarette like the old lady who snoozes on her porch with a lit butt and eventually lights her nightgown on fire. Or the guy who goes to the gym, owns more gym clothes than Jack-fucking-Lalanne, has 17 iPod shuffles, but spends most of his time walking around talking with girls who think he's cool because he wears his $400 sunglasses inside, and flexing his coke-sculpted arms in the mirror.
It's all about the ego. People servicing their ego because they are really full of shit and feel the need to be something they are most definitely not. And you know what? I don't care. I really don't. If it doesn't affect my day, feel free to wear a fucking astronaut suit on the subway. Dress up like a fucking Navy SEAL and call in air strikes in Central Park. I don't give a fuck about your need for attention. But if what you do does interfere with me, what I'm doing, than you can go drive your car into a volcano.
For instance, I was at a bar last Friday. It was relatively crowded; Friday, happy hour - it's a given that most bars at this time will be more crowded than they are on a Tuesday at 10am, when all the most awesome people in the world do their drinking. So I was fine with the stuffiness. But I was a little annoyed because, for whatever reason, the bar owner thought that, since it was hotter outside than Mumbai in the summer, it was perfect weather to turn off the air conditioner and let in some nice, balmy, lung-choking air. Terrible idea. But I was dealing with it because I was drinking and there was still daylight outside, and drinking during the daytime is fucking awesome. So, at some point I went to get another round and upon my return to our table, I accidentally brushed up against a bunch of papers hanging off a neighboring table. My initial reaction was to apologize, because sometimes lonely old bastards take their newspapers to the bar and pretend to read while they're really wishing they weren't 80 and being beckoned by death. And I do feel bad for these guys, so I wanted to say, "Hey sorry, pops, didn't see you breathing over there, I thought you were DEAD! Know what I mean, eh, eh, eh?"
But when I looked down, it was just some young doof wearing a salmon colored shirt, one hand holding a pen, the other holding down the pages of a text book. He was alone. All over the table were papers and books. He couldn't have been older than 26-27. And he was giving me a dirty look, like I was the fucking problem. I wanted to break my beer bottle against the table and grind it into his face, because that is the exact punishment he deserved for acting insulted because I, a patron of the bar who is there to spend fucking money to get drunk, accidentally brushed his fucking lab papers off the side. But I didn't maim him. Instead I went back to my table and did what you're supposed to fucking do in a bar. Still, I couldn't help but wonder why the fuck this guy packed up his law/business/grad school work and decided, "You know what? I think I'll go do my 40 page paper outline at O'Connell's. There's just something about being surrounded by a hundred drunk people while baking in 90 degree heat that gets me motivated to do some hard, honest work."
What a fucking LOSER. He was at the bar pretending to do work because he was desperately hoping some girl would notice him and she would think he was Will Hunting or some sort of fucking cool intellectual. OH, HE IS SO SMART, HE EVEN DOES WORK AT THE BAR - I SHOULD BLOW HIM! I bet his girlfriend just dumped him for a Persian coke dealer and he had been out of the game for so long that he had no other gameplan. Well guess what, buddy? Your fucking gameplan SUCKS. Everyone is making fun of you. Even that fat guy who looks like Peter Jackson with Ragù stains on his shirt thinks you're a dork. You've had that same pint of Wheat-Holland-Bullshit for an hour and a half, it must be like fucking hot chocolate now. I've drank 37 bottles of Miller Lite during the same time frame - who fucking rocks more, huh? If the bartender smartens up and stops trying to bang that married woman who is clearly waiting for her husband while flirting and working him for free drinks, he will hopefully heave you into the gutter for taking up a whole table to not spending money so you can pretend to do work.
This is not Europe. We do not go to bars to do anything besides drink heavily and/or try to convince someone to have sex with us. Want to pretend to read a A Light in August? Well...HOW DOES MOTHERFUCKING "MAN IN THE BOX" SOUND AT FULL VOLUME WHILE YOU'RE TRYING TO CONCENTRATE??? You're lucky the alcoholics who normally sit at the table where you've placed your fag-bag and cashmere scarf don't tear your pockets out of your pants and then beat you with a guardrail out back.
Being fake sucks. But I understand the practice will never go away. It should be curbed, though, held to arenas created for the assholiest of assholes - lounges and clubs with one syllable like Dusk and Night and Heat and Cream, places reserved for douchebagery. You see, young man with papers everywhere, this is a bar. A real fucking bar. People get punched in the fucking face here. And no one sues. No one here owns a summer house. No one here talks about stocks. No one here went to summer camp. If you feel like drinking too much and vomiting on yourself and the table and the floor, go right ahead. Remember, if the name of the place begins with an "O" and ends with an "S" do not come in and pretend that you are studying for your MBA.