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I’ve always liked going out, dancing, listening to music, socializing, partying, and generally having a good time with other people. However, I will do everything in my power to avoid waiting in a public, outdoor line. In my 20s, my biggest line-related concern was finding a person of authority to confirm the purpose of the line. Now, it’s being approached by an eager surveillant with a camera or mini mic. Doesn’t matter whether their intention is to capture clout or package artificial scarcity as content, I find being filmed on line [in a queue] online [for internet consumption] mortifying.

Allegedly, young people nowadays enjoy waiting in line – at least symbolically, rather than for a practical, utilitarian purpose. Humans have an innate desire for connection, meaning, and belonging. Are we not, after all, just lost souls swimming in a fishbowl trying to fill the void with deeply discounted sample sale designer clothes? In

“This is something that will never make sense to me” said one bystander, shaking his head. “People just love lining up for shit.”

If there is a line in New York City, someone will indeed join it, even if they don’t totally know why. Waiting in line is purposeful, at once a solitary and a collective act.

“I think it's less about lining up for clothes and more about desperately finding your ‘third space’ that makes you feel chill and cool”

The vibe shift around lines has been well-documented:
• The Cult of the Line: It’s Not About the Merch, The New York Times
• Gen Z’s weekend plans? Wait an hour for a $6 matcha in your most expensive hoodie, Los Angeles Times
• In L.A., sometimes waiting in line is the whole event, Los Angeles Times
• ​​Why Are People Waiting in So Many Lines? Retail Wire
• Gen Z's unique treat commitment, Axios

But lines are not about hype or a longing for analog experience. (If the latter was the case, people wouldn’t be craning their necks to stare down at their phones the entire time they are literally anywhere in public.) Physicality among a crowd makes you feel a sense of belonging, or at the very least, like you’re not completely alone. The problem is, waiting in line requires physical, but not mental presence. Articles constantly cite Gen Z’s longing for “community”, but it’s really a misnomer for socialization. Older generations consider public etiquette common sense, take social skills and order for granted, and vaguely blame “technology” for young peoples’ behavior despite having created – and profited from – a dopamine-driven culture. The brain seeking out quick hits actively degrades the mental presence required to have meaningful interactions with others.1

“RIP social skills. Beginning of time-2020.” - Canceling last-minute as a means of “self care.” by

Emily Sundberg

During the pandemic, the societal perception of Gen Z was ‘kids making TikToks’, but members of the elder cohort were becoming adults. Massive life transitions and milestones like graduating college, getting jobs, finding their first apartments in NYC, etc. happened under circumstances which largely denied young people of firsthand adult learning experiences. As a result, despite being wired for connection, many young people didn’t develop the social dexterity required to navigate adulthood.2 This social gap has manifested in several ways:

1. The early 2020s used therapy-speak (“boundaries”), wellness buzzwords (“self care”), and identity plays (“introverted”) to normalize flaky, anti-social, individualistic behavior. Everyone claims to have social anxiety, but the truth is, they simply don’t know how to nicely, politely, or tactfully tell someone I just don’t really wanna hang out with you or I have better things to do or I don’t have better things to do, but I think I will and I’d rather do that.

2. “Small talk” has been demonized, to the detriment of our society. People who “hate small talk” are tacky, maladapted conversationalists devoid of curiosity. You are not supposed to have deep conversations with every single person you meet!!!! You are allowed to solely exchange pleasantries then leave!!!!!

3. Young people weren’t taught what existing norms and conventions are, so they ask the general public, on the internet, what is considered acceptable behavior. This has limitless reach, offering as much bad advice as good. Private, confrontational conversations are often more productive, but online virtue signaling under the guise of ‘accountability’ or ‘exposing’ someone’s bad behavior gets more attention. Petty drama, packaged as content, is highly rewarded by algorithms, therefore changing our offline behavior and interactions.

4. Social media has made everyone – relatively if not directly – accessible, indefinitely. You are not supposed to still be in touch with every single person you’ve ever met in your life. Feeling like you have to keep up with all of these people is overwhelming, as is the pressure of constantly performing for others.

5. Brands have bastardized the word “community”. (See: The Community Delusion by

   Nikita Walia
   .) Young people think they crave community because consumer demos and consumption patterns are now baked into our identities. But social mobilization around a product to serve the purpose of economic gain for a company is not community. Despite the crushing jaws of capitalism, human beings will always need each other more than they need to buy things.

6. I personally haven’t seen this out in the wild but think it’s an interesting point: Young people allegedly queue weird because they came of age in a time of social distancing. They don’t know what it’s like to order a drink at the bar in the midst of free-for-all chaos, defaulting to a single file line.

Lines are not new, and there was a time that I waited in line relatively often (usually shivering in a Forever 21 dress and Charlotte Russe stilettos). When I was in my early twenties, bouncers manufactured scarcity by keeping lines long outside of bars and clubs, while in reality, the inside was dead. Circa 2012, I had an idea for what was considered outlandish at the time by my peers. My billion-dollar missed opportunity was starting an app that showed live video footage from outside and inside of bars. Perhaps it would’ve been called ClubCam. Through cutting-edge live video feed technology, you’d be able to see the line outside and the vibe inside. Was it crowded? Were people dancing? Was my crush already there? Sure, public surveillance cameras were considered highly invasive, but I personally would’ve appreciated the convenience of checking my laptop (phones weren’t this advanced then) while pregaming and straightening my hair to make sure we had time to take pics before leaving the apartment. In a parallel universe, where I am a man, I pitch this idea to eager investors and join the ranks of the other Millennial big tech overlords who shaped culture forever. I’d be rich!!! But then I also suppose I wouldn’t want to actively have a hand in destroying our society. So I suppose it all worked out, right?

The closest thing to the ClubCam concept was a website called Party Earth. I have no idea how I found it and have never heard of anyone else who’s ever used it, but it was my bible as a fun-loving post-grad in Boston from 2012-2014. The now-defunct website provided reviews on bars, clubs, lounges, restaurants, and events across Boston, Chicago, Los Angeles, New York, San Francisco, and D.C. in the U.S. and 13 European cities across England, Spain, France, the Netherlands, Italy, and Germany. Party Earth described itself as “a global media and entertainment company that provides content on social experiences!” which sounds very ahead of the curve to me!

On Party Earth, ratings, advice, and recommendations were provided by fictional partygoer archetypes: Lucas the sporty one (blue), Adriana the bougie one (purple), Jonah the chill one (green), and Emma the frugal one (yellow). They “represent a broad range of people and play an integral part in helping you decide where to go and what to do. These reviewers are intended to represent you – or different facets of you.” Lucas, Adriana, Jonah, and Emma rate each place from zero to four stars based on how well it meets their particular interests and standards. Their guidelines, in order of descending stars: Do whatever you can to check this place out, You’ll really like it, You’ll have a decent time, Go only as a last resort, and finally, Avoid like the plague.

Traditionally masculine Lucas is the typical “guy’s guy”. He’s a fratty, rowdy, beer-drinking bro by day and the flirty guy on the dance floor by night. Cosmopolitan Adriana is brunching at chic sidewalk cafés and shopping by day and going dancing at the hippest places – dressed to kill – by night. Jonah is laid back, quirky, and eclectic. He’s exploring the alt scene, chatting it up with locals, and straight up vibing. He’s mountain biking by day and listening to live music by night. Cultured Emma is the smart, funny, and budget-oriented “girl next door”. She’s doing yoga, visiting art museums, and hanging out in the park by day and finding the best margarita Happy Hour by night.

When looking back at Party Earth, there were so many bars I didn’t recognize at all. I guess they really were nights I wouldn’t remember with friends I wouldn’t forget. Still, there were a couple places that stay in my memory, for better or for worse: Down Ultra Lounge, filled with “sophisticated singles and fratty hard-bodies”; its upstairs neighbor Howl at the Moon, the dueling piano bar where “feisty old ladies drink kids under the table”; The Pour House, for people “low on cash – or just high on alcohol tolerance”, decorated with “a chaotic mélange of random stuff”; Wonder Bar, part cool hangout, part rowdy club; Deep Ellum, with a rock, indie, and alternative music playlist and TVs playing sci-fi movies on mute; The Brahmin, filled with “sexy singles ready to mingle” at “the only place in town with both crystal chandeliers and tater tots”; and of course, Ned Devine’s, Boston’s signature “amped-up party destination.” I even felt compelled to leave reviews myself (influencing!) that I didn’t realize existed until now:

Sometimes, I still think about ClubCam. It evokes the same excited, nervous, yearning feeling Charli XCX emotes in “Party 4 U” – Will the party be fun? Will the night be “worth it”? Will he be there? I very strongly identified with Adriana as an early 20s party girl, wearing a bodycon dress and 4” heels, drinking a vanilla vodka Diet Coke or blueberry vodka soda (depending on my mood), locking eyes with my right-now crush from across the dance floor, laughing with my friends, and hoping every night out would be life-changing. Now, I’m more Party Girl (1995): still wearing cute outfits, albeit less restricting, and enjoying falafel with hot sauce, a side order of baba ghanoush, and a seltzer at a reasonable hour.

It’s time to pass the baton. I had 80s Night in the early 2010s, and now 20-somethings can enjoy Y2K neostalgia and waiting in line. If only they had my ClubCam app. What’s truly uncanny is how young people now are more comfortable with 24/7 public video surveillance than they are socializing in bars and clubs. Could ClubCam soothe general anxiety about going out and foster IRL connections after critical years of formative socialization were spent in isolation? Did Party Earth walk so ClubCam could run? Was it simply too ahead of its time? Maybe it’s not too late to launch…

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