2022, Early Summer
Before we start three little introductory remarks.
1. This is the second story in: The Pub-Correspondent series. It makes reference to the first one. (Which you can find here.) It can stand on its own (I hope) so do as you please but I would advise to read the first story, you know, first.
2. I am still struggling with the music recommendations. I would recommend listening to this piece if it is written as if it was written by wealth itself. Just a suggestion of course.
3. Thank you so much for joining me. It is a pleasure to have you with me during my adventures.
Music recommendation: Bo Burnham, All Eyes On Me
It is lunacy, to be back here. To plunge once more into this ridiculous world. I was exploited here once. Much like the waitress, the shaker and the security guard. I am glad that I escaped. Escaped the Insta-stars, the football players, the rich kids, the men of money with their model girlfriends. I recognize the faces. The faces of the guests but perhaps even more those of the staff. They might as well be actors. Then again so may I. I do not belong here. I don’t have the money to qualify. I am not rich, I am reckless. I will just order a 15 Euro G&T. You can always blend in with a G&T.
I remember pulling the mask over of my face. The same mask the exhausted hostess is wearing this evening. Stress and tired feet, and yet smile, smile like an angel in heaven, we all did. The type of smile that one might see from a runner up in the Oscars. It is a special type of acting. Being lovely is good but here it is shallow enough to become empty. A place like this makes everything empty. I have felt the stress behind the façade. It isn’t fake niceness exactly. People care, about their jobs, about doing well, about others. It is just not enough. There is too much money involved. With this amount of money, personality is bound to loose.
I go outside to light a cigarette. The thick orange light of a setting sun sweeps over the balcony. The man next to me is smoking a chunky cigar. I am sure his is the good stuff. Out of habit I ask him if my smoking bothers him. He laughs, says it is as if I am worried about the sound of my scooter whilst he is sitting in a roaring Ferrari. His statement resonates.
This rooftop lounge with its view, its music, its pool; it is a shrine. A shrine where those, who by wealth transcended, cheer on with expensive liquor. If wine is the blood of Christ, then these cocktails shall be the blood of Reagan. But God doesn’t look upon this shrine. Atlas does. On the top of the old town hall, across the street, stands the lonesome titan. He witnesses this shrine, night after night. I look at him. For a brief moment I could swear I saw him shrug.
‘Personality lost’ would be a good name for this place. Hip, rich and sexy. Who needs authenticity anyway? After all, this place does serve its purpose. Its only, singular purpose: money. Forget art, forget taste and forget class. Sure, the cocktails are tasteful. The shakers know their art. But this is not their purpose. I suppose Michael Angelo created art in service of God. The shakers do so in service to money. The difference appears to me: noticeable.
If music is the food of love, this isn’t music. But if music needs to fit the scene, play on. This is elevator music with a beat. A superficial as you like it. The DJ plays popular, inoffensively and there is no madness to it. It hardly distinguishes itself from a serviceable silence. It suits the whole staff, in as much as it doesn’t serve anything meaningful.
As I am writing this, I occasionally take a break to look at my laptop and edit the Chateau story. How bizarre! Real class is to be found in France, or, if you prefer, with the (half) naked hippies there. Certainly these people seem less free. Less real. Maybe they are happy to conform to the stereotypes. Perhaps I am wrong, perhaps the hippies do the same. But when they smiled, I believed them. I have no use for an empty smile. People here are concerned with how they look, they are centred around themselves. They might care somewhat about the people they entered with. Either because they care, or because the other has use to them. In this bar chance encounters are not facilitated, a bar community is out of the question. I am often alone in bars, writing is a lonesome trade. Most bars don’t make me feel alone, this one does. Empty and alone.
I honestly don’t understand how people find a home in this world, this world of fake golden tables, champaign bottles and trust fund talk. A feeling creeps up to me. A feeling that money is a tool, and to dedicate your life to a tool is folly. Who dedicates herself to a hammer? Tools with no purpose, are meaningless. Dedicating a life to this, it can only lead to superficiality. It is the rat-race ladder that leads to nowhere. Defined less by the ladder’s steps and more by the emptiness between them.
If you want to worship an empty-handed god, come to the W Lounge! Enjoy! (And please ignore the sad titan across the street.)
I might be too harsh on this place. Some people are here just to indulge for one night. There are other places too where the rich can enjoy themselves. Places with art and fine music. Places with real fluffy towels in their bathrooms. Money isn’t evil. Tools aren’t evil. It can be used for good things. Patronize the arts, help the poor, visit old friends. It might often be a necessity for survival. Money isn’t always bad, but sweet Jesus, in this place. In this place it becomes nothing. People become nothing. The staff becomes nothing. I used to be nothing. Nothing but an object used in the divinization of a tool.
But if you must come here to pray tonight, please don’t pray to this new god. Try praying to the old ones. The sun has all but set, and the night is turning cold. Atlas still silently watches over us. If you must come here to pray tonight, pray to him. Pray that little titans may rise up against this new and purposeless god. May we all pray to Atlas. If he shrugs may we all take his place and hold up our world together. Lest we all drift into emptiness. Drift into a place of barely any style over no substance at all.