The Opinionator On... The Guy Who Cuts In Front Of You At The Open Bar
Last week I went to the opening of a benefit photography show in a giant Chelsea party garage. The invitation had said "open bar," but when I got there I discovered that there was, in fact, only one bar for a crowd of maybe a thousand people. So immediately I joined the hundred or so people who thought it more important to line up for free liquor than to go greet friends or look at the photographs.
Except we weren't a line; we were a clump. You know what open bars are like: everybody pretending to socialize while aggressively scrutinizing the bartenders, who are taking too much time searching for cranberry juice, uncorking a bottles, or explaining to some jerk on a cell phone why there's no Jack, or if there is, why there's no more ice; everybody kinda mincing and squeezing forward, while those already served struggle outward with their drinks; everybody kinda hyper-aware of everybody else's position and trying to look cooperative, even if unwilling to give anybody else a fucking inch.
I was badly in need of a vodka-- actually, three of them, which I planned to pour into one glass, as is my practice at parties like this. And I was encouraged when the chick in front of me suddenly swore and bailed. I had claimed a few square millimeters of her space by shifting my weight forward onto my left leg, when this guy outa nowhere butted ahead of me. I was gonna let it go, but then he parlayed his lateral insinuation into a full-blockage stance, directly in front of me. Now I'm standing there with the back of this guy's "so shabby it's supposed to be cool" brown corduroy jacket in my face. I couldn't even see the bartenders. Plus, the guy looked like a model, which I found extra-annoying.
While considering what to do, I smiled my vacant "Isn't this a great, big fabulous party?" smile-- although some primitive part of me needed to push this fucker the hell out of my way. If it had been a normal party, I suppose I would have fumed for a few minutes and then, if I things didn't speed up, charged off to another bar. But there was only one bar here, and I was stuck.
Stuck, that is, until I realized there were some Platform stickers in my pocket. Have you seen Platform's current stickers? (We'll send you some, if you ask for them by email.) They're orange circles with a multi-dimensional black-and-white "P" in the center, and they're big. How great one of these stickers might look on this guy's back left shoulder, I thought. Surrepticiously I reached into my pocket, withdrew a sticker, discreetly cracked and peeled off the backing, and palmed the thing, while continuing to look around, smiling. Then, with military precision, I executed a half-turn to the left, as if to wave to a friend across the room, bumping the guy gently, then apologizing with a friendly "Sorry!" and a manly pat on the shoulder. When I withdrew my hand, the sticker was right where I wanted it.
Later, I saw the guy circulating, talking with friends. The sticker was still on his shoulder. Fucking jerk, I thought. Did I feel proud? No way. Vindicated? Not particularly. No, by that time, I'd sipped most of my triple and was enjoying was how easy it was to turn a highly-paid pretty boy into a billboard for my company. What other strategic stickering opportunities might this party hold, I wondered....
Except we weren't a line; we were a clump. You know what open bars are like: everybody pretending to socialize while aggressively scrutinizing the bartenders, who are taking too much time searching for cranberry juice, uncorking a bottles, or explaining to some jerk on a cell phone why there's no Jack, or if there is, why there's no more ice; everybody kinda mincing and squeezing forward, while those already served struggle outward with their drinks; everybody kinda hyper-aware of everybody else's position and trying to look cooperative, even if unwilling to give anybody else a fucking inch.
I was badly in need of a vodka-- actually, three of them, which I planned to pour into one glass, as is my practice at parties like this. And I was encouraged when the chick in front of me suddenly swore and bailed. I had claimed a few square millimeters of her space by shifting my weight forward onto my left leg, when this guy outa nowhere butted ahead of me. I was gonna let it go, but then he parlayed his lateral insinuation into a full-blockage stance, directly in front of me. Now I'm standing there with the back of this guy's "so shabby it's supposed to be cool" brown corduroy jacket in my face. I couldn't even see the bartenders. Plus, the guy looked like a model, which I found extra-annoying.
While considering what to do, I smiled my vacant "Isn't this a great, big fabulous party?" smile-- although some primitive part of me needed to push this fucker the hell out of my way. If it had been a normal party, I suppose I would have fumed for a few minutes and then, if I things didn't speed up, charged off to another bar. But there was only one bar here, and I was stuck.
Stuck, that is, until I realized there were some Platform stickers in my pocket. Have you seen Platform's current stickers? (We'll send you some, if you ask for them by email.) They're orange circles with a multi-dimensional black-and-white "P" in the center, and they're big. How great one of these stickers might look on this guy's back left shoulder, I thought. Surrepticiously I reached into my pocket, withdrew a sticker, discreetly cracked and peeled off the backing, and palmed the thing, while continuing to look around, smiling. Then, with military precision, I executed a half-turn to the left, as if to wave to a friend across the room, bumping the guy gently, then apologizing with a friendly "Sorry!" and a manly pat on the shoulder. When I withdrew my hand, the sticker was right where I wanted it.
Later, I saw the guy circulating, talking with friends. The sticker was still on his shoulder. Fucking jerk, I thought. Did I feel proud? No way. Vindicated? Not particularly. No, by that time, I'd sipped most of my triple and was enjoying was how easy it was to turn a highly-paid pretty boy into a billboard for my company. What other strategic stickering opportunities might this party hold, I wondered....
posted by Lucia Toledo at 8:50 AM
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