I usually begin one of these mental health exercises with a quote from The Sages. The subject is "pretense", however, and when I'd realized that I could not remember any related quote from my quite prodigious memory, I took to the internet to search one out.
Only to discover most of the quotes recorded on the subject came from second- and third-rate modern actors and actresses begging not to be considered pretentious frauds.
Whereupon, I gave up on the endeavor.
Because, seriously, who DOESN'T already think that Ryan Reynolds and Kate Winslett aren't pretentious in the least way?
But, I digress...
Pretense is the subject of this missive and pretense we shall have. Dammit.
I have become an expert on this subject having spent almost my entire life living in New York City.
New Yorkers of a certain type have always been considered snooty and easily dragged by all the latest trends from similar sewers across the globe -- Los Angeles, Milan, Paris, and so forth -- but these sorts, by and large, are not real New Yorkers, and for the most part never have been. In the past, they have largely been "wanna-bes", that is to say, people of no individual or distinct personal virtue (or even purpose) who flit from taste du jour to cause celebre of the week to latest fad of the hour, for whom New York serves mostly as either a backdrop or a totem, but it was never "home".
Just their current address.
For this sort of douchebag, being in New York (particularly in Manhattan, although you do encounter this attitude in the outer boroughs with the influx of corn-fed fucktards from the Midwest) when something happens, or merely having an address there, serves as a mark of sophistication and social success that they otherwise would never have had, had they remained in Shitkicker Junction (population: 206, not including livestock).
This kind of person, I've found, usually has a rather predictable background:
They were born and raised in an upper-middle class enclave surrounding one of the provincial capitals (that is to say, a Godforsaken place like Columbus, OH, Evansville, In., Norman, OK, or -- the worst of the lot -- anywhere in Iowa 50 miles from a decent cocktail lounge).
Come to think of it, anywhere in Iowa is at least 500 miles from a decent cocktail lounge.
In any case, the local business whether agriculture, oil, auto parts, novelty plastic dogshit, or battery-operated sex toys -- where dear, old Dad made his name -- did not appeal. These (usually) second sons of the Gated Community on the Outskirts of Hell have larger dreams, and bigger ambitions, and the stratified, insular life of The Plains, with it's church picnics and pot lucks, it's rodeos and demo derbies, it's State Fairs and Homecoming Dances at the High School with 31 students, has little to keep them in the Dust Bowl. Their eyes are fixed upon, their fortunes dependent upon, "making it" in the toughest city on Earth, and along the way, they hope that some of the "charm" and allure of The Big Apple rubs off on them.
So that when they do go back home for Thanksgiving, and run into Polly Purebred -- the girl who held out on them all through high school -- they can mention they live in Manhattan and he can regale her with all of his dangerous tales of getting tables in all the sophisticated restaurants juxtaposed against the inherent danger of being mugged at knifepoint, every story that begins with "Well, we New Yorkers", and so he hopes these will be the magic words that will impress enough -- finally -- open Polly's knees so that he can finally get at her.
And disappoint her, because Brook's Brother's polo shirt can never overcome small penis.
We'll return to this particular variety of asshole in a moment. Remember him well.
Then there is the second kind, which is something of a tragic and comic figure all rolled into one. For the most part, these are refugees. They have escaped what they see as the unmitigated Hades of small-town life where they never really "fit in". This second species leaves the Elysian Fields of Whitebread for the bigger cities, hoping to find "acceptance" and "tolerance" in a more-cosmopolitan place, only to become the most unaccepting and intolerant little ulcers the world has ever seen.
Whatever it was the drove them to escape the one-stoplight prison of Pantybunched Heights (Population 1,653, including the servants) -- no outlet for their inner "artiste", no room for a Flower Child among the Weed-Pullers, their screaming case of Fag -- has left them psychically scarred for life. Much like the aging generation of "Civil Rights Leaders" who, on the one hand, have experienced true racism, and on the other, have lived through social change and advancement and the virtual elimination of racism in public life, the pain of the past leaves them unable to see the progress they have made.
And much like the old NAACP warhorse and the storefront Reverend of that era, they are unable to take "yes" -- or at least "who gives a fuck?" -- for an answer, and go on behaving as if they're still being persecuted when, in fact, no such thing is taking place. Mentally, they NEED that persecution, and if it doesn't present itself with their everyday interactions with the world, then they are quite capable of inventing it for themselves.
Like the person who responds rudely to "Good Morning", searching the utterance desperately for an indication of what a rotten person their greeter truly is, convinced that there is some from of subtle racism or homophobia "between the lines" because they were delivered with what appeared to be an inauthentic smile, a sure indication that someone is engaged in an inner struggle with their latent racism and homophobia.
Because feelz.
This kind is not the subject of this thing; I include them because I want to give you some impression of what New York City is becoming.
The Native New Yorker is a dying breed. They are moving away; the tax burden is too great, their jobs are relocating, the general condition of the city and state, the filth, the influx of a younger generation of absolute fucking crybullies -- and the politicians they vote for -- is driving them away.
The myth is that New Yorkers are "Progressives" in everything, but this is not true. It was, until recently, not unusual to find someone who had spent their entire life in the same house, in the same neighborhood, who knew everybody to the 3rd generation on the block, never leaving because this was "home", even when the surrounding neighborhood went to shit due to crack or government-insured mortgages to deadbeats.
These are people who don't like change, but over time, grow to accept it, maybe even incorporate it into their lives. They are generally stoic, sarcastic, sometimes fatalistic, and pretty much mind their own business, a character trait passed down from one generation to the next by the simple example of watching others get knifed, gunned down, or pushed in front of subway trains for making unwanted eye contact, butting-in uninvited, or otherwise violating the No Go Zone that every New Yorker develops during adolescence that extends two inches from one's own nose.
But, give them a reason to band together -- a snowstorm, a blackout, broken water main, an elderly neighbor in need, 9/11 -- and watch them come together and do things that no other people on Earth can do.
This new wave of Blue Ribbon Shitbag is replacing that older sort. So quickly that property values are rising at a prodigious rate, and the new arrivals -- having priced themselves out of the primo shoebox rentals in pre-war, restored and modernized cold-water flats and walkups and the mythical "lofts" -- of Manhattan, the reconditioned and co-oped Ghettos of Brooklyn, have begun to spill over into the other boroughs.
I get at least one of them a week ringing the doorbell asking if I'm willing to sell.
They bring with them all of the old bad habits they acquired back in the mudholes that spawned them (they tend to be spoiled and naive), as well as the new bitchy ones they acquired while pretending to attend college (they tend to be bulletproof stupid).
So, as soon as one bearded fuckface moves in, you begin to see protests against All Things New York -- no more Street Meat (pushcart vendors); no more street noise; protests against block parties and "feasts"; no more al fresco dining (because you can't walk with your face stuck in your phone, or three stroller-bitches* abreast because the sidewalks are full of people dining at outdoor tables; the neighborhood pizza joints forced to abandon tradition and serve toppings like brussels sprouts; tofu products predominate; tattoo/piercing parlors replace the local drugstores and bars; the local restaurants having to "certify" that all their food is "Free Range", "Farm-to-Table" or "Organic" for the sake of the Mated Pair of Phony Bohemian Douchebags who come in once every six months.
And none of it is for fucking real. It's all for show. Because that's what "being a New Yorker is all about" to these people. Following trends. Slavishly chasing passing fashions. Trying to be someone they aren't...in fact, most could never be.
It's all pretense. You would laugh if it didn't make you want to vomit. It's a lifestyle that has been deliberately MARKETED to them, from renaming neighborhoods to changing all the names of landmarks to honor dead liberal-democrat failures. It's disingenuous, manufactured, forced, ranging from the young mother taking her hermetically-sealed infant to its Tantric Yoga class that now takes place in what used to be The Pool Room, to the man-bun sporting metrosexual in bright, yellow Spandex covered in European Racing patches riding his ten-speed to the local "microbrewery" to enjoy something fruity, frothy and yeasty that isn't to be found between some woman's legs, while he chats about skin care products, his latest pedicure experience and the "you-must-try-it" Mongolian/Brazillian/Icelandic fusion cafe for the lactose intolerant.
As of late, the pretense has gotten thicker, deeper, and smells worse than ever before. It reared it's ugly head during a business meeting in Manhattan earlier this week, which is why I told you to remember the Hillbilly Turd in a Suit mentioned earlier. Two of them, actually, and they pulled some shit that reminded me of a similar incident that occurred 30 years ago.
I got my revenge for that one, and I got it for this one, too. I shall explain.
The proposal was for an automation project for a prestigious Wall Street firm. I shall not name it, but your Overlord once worked there, many moons ago. The particulars are unimportant, too, and too technical to explain here. Suffice to say, that this corporation, with all the resources at it's disposal, decided the project should be outsourced to an outside vendor. This is either an indication that they are looking to do this particular thing inexpensively or they don't possess the expertise to do it right, and probably both. Judging by who they sent to this meeting, I'm positive it's the latter.
I got the specs about three weeks ago.
So, I'm giving the overview of the proposal, what my company would need in order to get it done, what we intend to do, and how much it will cost (ballpark). The usual sales pitch.
At some point during this word vomit, a young, exquisitely-suited idiot who could have been the cover boy for any vaguely-homosexual magazine you could think of, writes something on a legal pad and is furiously circling it . He then elbows the ambiguously gay former shepherd to his left and shows him what he's written, and the two of them giggle like little schoolgirls. I ignored it at first, but I got a look at what Nancy had written a little later when he put the pad down:
"Bridge and Tunnel Boy".
For those of you who don't understand what this means, I'll tell you.
It is an insult, usually delivered by a denizen of Manhattan made in reference to an inhabitant of the Outer Boroughs. It refers to the fact that Manhattan cannot be reached from the Outer Boroughs without crossing a bridge or utilizing a tunnel. It is a vile put-down, grounds for murder, in some parts, and it reflects the elitism that is common among many who live in Manhattan...even though they are up their armpits in homeless dudes' shit, as rats hail cabs in front of the ritzy apartments of Millionaire's Row, as they listen to the crunch of plastic while walking over used needles full of AIDS-infected blood and remnants of heroin on their way to Nobu.
This is bad enough when you get it from someone who is a born-and-bred Manhattanite.
(Ahem: I was born on the Lower East Side and my family lived in the Knickerbocker Houses for the first few years of my life. I AM a native born Manhattanite. My father grew up the son of a building superintendent on East 29th and 3rd Avenue, in fact , the paternal side of my family has been in Manhattan since 1903. I'm a 4th generation Manhattanite, Asshole. I just don't live there, because I know better).
It is a killing offense when it comes from Lance and Taylor from Weeping Armadillo, Kansas (pop 132, if you count the kid with webbed feet) who have taken my Brooklyn accent for the mark of an unsophisticated and uneducated lower-class bootblack.
So, I asked Lance where he was from and he said (when you read this, imagine you really have to pee, have crossed your legs in an effort to keep your bladder in check, and are probably still sore from the five, seven, sixteen, who knows? guys who left semen in your anal cavity the previous evening, and just shaking off the fog of the drugs you had to take to let that happen):
"Newwww Yorrrrk".
No, I said, "I mean where do you originally come from?"
"Oh, you've probably never heard of it."
He is obviously uncomfortable discussing this subject. He can't look me in the eye. Embarrassing, perhaps? Did you grow up in Public Housing in Omaha, your mother turning tricks for food when the food stamps ran out? I'll bet she did. I knew you looked familiar.
"How about you?", I asked Taylor.
Taylor must be new to these parts, because he answered right away. Taylor hails from the Upper Peninsula of Michigan. He hasn't been sufficiently brainwashed yet to know that you never admit you've come from Petticoat Junction or Dogpatch, because then those you look down upon have a reason to laugh AT YOU. Lance gives Taylor a look that could curdle milk.
But both are quick to drop their pricey and ritzy Manhattan addresses on me, chat me up about some exhibit at the Guggenheim (Mapplethorpe? How did I know?), ask me a few questions about my business and background, and then can't wait to get the fuck out of there.
But before they go, I have to ask:
"By the way, do you guy's work for _________?". I already knew the answer.
"Why, yes, we do. Do you know him?"
"No", I lied, "but I've heard of him".
Not only did I know this guy. I used to be his boss. He got a phone call where the behavior of his staff, and their blatant disrespect, was discussed. He's from Queens and has suffered similar abuse at the hands of wanna-be sophisticates all of his life, too.
I received the apology calls this morning.
And this all took me back to a morning 30 years ago.
I was a young Technical Specialist back in those days, and my specialty was mainframe operating systems. I was all of 22, but already had a few years of experience under my belt. A Presentation was to be given to a bunch of "Management Experts" at another Wall Street firm where I was working at the time, and I was chosen to give it. I had the best knowledge of what was happening with this particular project, but didn't want to give the presentation. My Boss told me otherwise.
"It'll be good for you. Get some exposure", he told me.
And so I gave it.
And as I was giving it, there in front of me were about half a dozen, well-dressed, well-heeled gentlemen, all graduates of "prestigious" universities...and they they were giggling. Apparently, they found my Brooklyn accent hysterical. I made it through the presentation, and afterwards my boss apologized to me. He was livid; for the same thing had happened to him years before when he was about my age. A bunch of pretentious assholes laughing at a kid from the Bronx.
He told me their laughter was a sign of insecurity. These were creatures who dealt mostly with the appearances of things, because they weren't smart enough to get the substance. Half of them were probably hired as "a favor" by a friend of their father. I was obviously smarter and better than they were, he told me, but so long as I continued to speak that way, they would never take me seriously.
So, he sent me for diction lessons. I took them. I used the lessons learned, and they did come in handy over the course of my time among the Phony Fucktards of the Concrete Canyons. It became part of the costume one is expected to wear in that environment -- the tailored suits, the hand-made shoes, the expensive watch and cufflinks, shirts custom-made-Egyptian-Cotton-double-stitched-Oxford-Collars-From-Barney's -- because if you want to play the part, you have to look the part, and that goes for your comportment, mannerisms and speech, too.
And ten years later, those assholes who laughed at me were sitting in my office after a merger. They had remained where they were, and I was now a Vice President...and they now worked for me.
Having left Wall Street and gone on to do my own thing, I no longer need, nor want, to go through the whole pretentious dance of appearances and conformity. I don't have to. So, I don't wear custom suits, anymore. I don't use proper diction and pronunciation, if I don't want to, and drop into Brooklynese whenever I fucking feel like it, and tough titty if you don't like it, Chad, Jeremy, or whatever faggot name your cow-milking, corn-shucking, goat-blowing whore of a mother gave you.
I'm authentic.
You're a pretentious piece of shit.
And I make at least five times what you do, Francine.
Looking at the blasted heath that was once the Greatest City on Earth and seeing what your influence has reduced it to, I want you to know...no matter where you live, now matter how expensive your rent is, no matter how many restaurants from the Zagat's Guide you've visited, no matter how much you really, really, really want to be one of us, even should you manage to complete the Times crossword puzzle all on your lonesome, you never will be. You're not good enough to be one of us. You still have the stench of the barnyard and the sanitized-after-every-circle-jerk prep school clinging to you. You will never be more than a parasite living vicariously on the energy of your host, bragging about how cool you are to people who are just as un-cool and un-hip as you, and just as stupid, because they don't recognize it either.
You can follow all the latest trends you want; wear the latest fashions; pretend to enjoy all the latest fads; read every goddamned waste of print in the Times Weekend Review; be seen in all the newest "smart" and "hip" places The Village Voice tells you about, keep finding new-and-more-obnoxious parts of your body to pierce, and you will NEVER be cosmopolitan, never be cool, never be a New Yorker.
That just happens to be where you live (so long as we tolerate you). It isn't in your soul.
I find it hilarious that the scions of people who who usually cry that "my type" considers them "Flyover Country" unsophisticated, deplorable, bitter-clinger-y hicks (although I don't think I ever did until I came into contact with some. There's a reason why stereotypes persist), think they can treat me that way and not see the screaming hypocrisy in it. Worse, they FEEL ENTITLED TO DO SO.
One "Bridge and Tunnel Boy" is still worth 100 of you. Minimum. And when we're all gone, your worst nightmare will finally come to pass -- you'll be left in a city full of scary brown people who all want you dead, and who hate you even more than they hate me, because you gentrified the ghettos and put them on the street. They haven't rioted -- yet -- because there's still an Old Guard here, and we respect each other, because they're Old Guard, too.
When we're all gone, you'll find yourself fleeing into the night, with wet panties, never to return, because you haven't the fiber of toughness that we do, and all the virtue signalling and fake kow-towing to "Multiculturalism" will not save you. You don't know how to live in a multicultural world, having grown up in Smallpox Gulch (Population fluctuates depending on whether the town whore is or isn't pregnant this week), the burg that's whiter than a lightbulb, where civilization has barely penetrated.
They didn't teach you how to deal with that in Fatbottom Corners (Population: too inbred to matter) or Beer-an'-Boobs State, did they?
You should have stayed home, Son. You're probably the next body to wash up in the Hudson and then East Woody Buttfuck (Population, fuck it) won't look so bad to you, anymore, will it?
That Exodus cannot begin soon enough for me.
* Stroller Bitch (n): a young mother-by-way-of-surrogate who wheels her progeny around in the perambulator equivalent of a Volvo or an Ambrams tank, with a cell phone stuck in one ear and another Stroller Bitch screeching in the other, both children shrink-wrapped for a quick jaunt outside because neither is vaccinated, oblivious to the fact that they are running over feet, ankles, and Achilles Tendons with their Power-mowers with Cheerios lodged in the cushions, and not caring a fuck. It's only when THEY are inconvenienced, like having to negotiate a narrowed sidewalk, or being forced to become a single-file caravan, that they suddenly realize others exist... but only to annoy THEM.
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