rejection is hot.
In The Trenches #002: January 6, 2026: Hiding Places & bloodsports at Union Pool
On a cloudy Tuesday night in January, I crowded into one of my favorite live venues to watch two great New York bands—only to royally fuck up and forget to grab a wristband 😒
That’s right—the good bouncer rejected my sorry ass just before bloodsports starting playing because I was too busy writing in the HOUR I should have been grabbing a free fucking wristband.
“Sorry, guys. We’re at capacity.”
“What if we RSVPed?” (For the record, I did this two weeks ago!)
“Doesn’t count. You need a wrist band.”
What. The. Fuck.
Walking back out to the patio, I groaned at my unwillingness to just ask someone about this thirty minutes before. So did the guys behind me, which led to a brief commiseration about missing a show that was fucking free. At least we didn’t lose any money, right?
Wrong! I lost out on a show I should have been able to see (and write about here) by the simple fact that I was there when the doors opened. Also, there was no clear direction by the staff to grab a wrist band early. Union Pool, you know I love you, but what gives? Fire codes, I guess!
Anyway, here is what I wrote instead of seeing two awesome bands I love. (Special s/o to Hiding Places for being so cool when I told them I was headed out for lack of a wristband!)
“Rejection is hot” says the subway ad, as if one of humanity’s greatest fears is some new fad.
I’m standing on the 5 Train, headed uptown towards Union Square to transfer to the L. As I look up towards the ceiling to avoid eye contact with strangers, those three words, written in a black, non-descript font, push their way into my unsuspecting corneas with a smirk not unlike a smug, Silicon Valley Bro.
The ad makes me roll my eyes for a second. I mean—duh? I’m all for meeting people in person and experiencing some much needed rejection therapy. Those are essential parts of life, no matter how you swing it. But hot? Rejection? Okay, who exactly are we advertising to here? What does this “meeno” app even do?
You’re not ready for this.
meeno is a “a relationship mentoring app powered by Generative AI” with a mission to “help people master the skill of social connection.”
This is the weird world of dating in the Year of our Lord, 2026. After years of being on the phone 24/7, spending our most formative years on the computer, and outsourcing careful mating rituals entirely to the apps, there are now Generative AI products that young, single Zoomers can to talk to in order to build their IRL social skills.
Honestly, I’m speechless. The dystopia is dystopia-ing.
I’m also glad to be outside, at a real bar, with real fucking people. I am about to bear witness to the strange and maladaptive rituals Zoomers collectively perform every time we interact with one another in-person, and THAT is a blessing.
So too is the sexual tension between you and the other person sitting in an empty East Williamsburg Sweetgreen. This is a scene Gen Z knows better than any other human being. It always goes like this: you avoid obvious staring and eye contact for fear of the acknowledgement you may find each other attractive and start talking and exchange numbers and maybe even see each other naked someday. Oh, the horror!
It’s funny the way people talk and write about Gen Z like we’re wild animals in need of further study. They are the faithful Jane Goodall, learning the behaviors of crazed chimpanzees in their cliques and frenzies. They are the Darwin sort, traipsing around the Earth in a boat, studying the trauma responses of a generation of rare, island-bound birds.
If only they could see us now, bar goers at a free weeknight show. What might they discover about these strange and skittish creatures? What might they learn about the ways we talk and use the silly words we invented in TikToks, Vines, and online chat rooms years ago?
This is what I think about when I’m out at a live show, observing my more social-able peers express themselves loudly, while I remain stoic and taciturn. The shared communal reason we’re all here is a valid one, but the execution isn’t always successful.
The only other loner here is the bearded Gen X man sitting on the bench across from me. He and I exchange glances, internally agreeing to poke wordless fun at our show-going compatriots. Sometimes, we end up talking well into the night. Other times, we stand near each other, shifting from foot-to-foot, saying nothing at all.
We are always here, cautiously enjoying the music and the atmosphere. We are quiet and painfully aware of our differences amongst a crowd of Berenstain bears. By that, I mean that young Brooklynites generally exist in an amorphous blob of acquaintances, friends, and found family, often seeing each other more often than I see my own mother. (Also, they were a lot of brown.)
See, when I write about these gatherings, the subtle humor I wish I could employ in conversation finally reveals itself. Can I socialize with my peers to save my life? No, but these simple expressions in my silly little notes app make me feel a little less like I’m dying inside. It reminds me that at least half of us here in the room probably feel like we’re dying inside.
Strangely, knowing this is more comforting than trying to flirt with a vague AI tool named “Sophia” claiming I stole her cappuccino.
I sit here wordlessly, waiting for someone to talk to me. As my presence at these things grows, I both long to and fear being known. I fear being seen as more than just a passing observer—a quiet, lonely woman in the back corner. That is the devil I know. I live in a perpetual ping-pong game, wondering always if I look as lame as I feel or if I scare people away with a single withering glance.
As an experiment in confidence building, I perform a typical male power stance. Sitting boldly with my legs wide open, I take up all the empty space. I hope it makes me look like I don’t give a fuck, even though I always very much give a fuck what the cool kids think. Ultimately, I feel (and look) like an asshole.
Desperate to have something in my hands, I grab a discounted cocktail-in-a-can to sip. Vodka lemonade fills my warring belly with a sensation I cannot describe. For one, I do not like vodka. It just happened to be the only GF option on the menu. Also, alcohol has never been a successful social lubricant, except on the extremely rare occasion I got schwasted enough to start talking to total strangers in the booth next to me.
None of this helps the pulsing fear of rejection at the back of my eyeballs. Neither does the cute futch bouncer telling me to leave or the hot guy at Sweetgreen walking past me five times to throw his trash away before leaving without a single hello.
So, no, I don’t think rejection is hot, unless you think someone crying silently on the subway ride home and stuffing themselves with GF Oreos while they watch I Love LA is hot.
If so, let me know! I’m doing a survey.
Hi, it’s Abby from a week later.
I am still sad (and a little bitter) I missed the show and instead wrote—whatever this is. But this is what it can be like trying to see a free DIY show in Brooklyn on a Tuesday. We really are out here in the soggy trenches, drinking vodka lemonades and theorizing about why dating fucking sucks now.
Please go and listen to Hiding Places and bloodsports when you get a chance. You will not regret it!
they make GF oreos?!
I think pretty soon, and I only mean this half jokingly, there will be an AI dating service that just pairs people up.
We are going back to the village matchmaker, except it's AI. And I think honestly, people will love this. Zero rejection. Guaranteed marriage. Well, men may like this, it kinda rolls back a century or so for women.
But hey, my wife's grandmother hand a third cousin for her before I came along so it really wasn't that long ago where social skills were not required for marriage.
"Being 40 and single is hot" 😂
Talking to AI to improve social skills!? I'm afraid this will make people more boring than they already are. Let's just fucking nuke ourselves now. 😵