THE LIFE, WORK AND CHRONICLES OF JEFF KOYEN: REFORMED ITINERANT, OCCASIONAL WRITER AND FRIEND TO ALMOST ALL DOGS

Best Way to Spot a Dot-commer from Williamsburg:
Flip-flops out on a Friday night
Everyone tells you how scary brilliant you are when they see your latest Flash work, or hear how you negotiated the six figures and a signing bonus. Sure, you're working from home, that's great. Honest. Working from home is swell -- we've done it -- but our mother does it too. We're not terribly impressed by your big, big brain. It's New York City, dontchya know. There are a lot of us smart people around here, and thinking you're at the far right-end of the bell curve is embarrassingly post-collegiate.
The flip-flops are killing us. Well, that and your sense of entitlement. You on the L-train Bedford St. platform, standing with your homely smart-girl girlfriend, wearing flip-flops. Then, you're at the bar waiting for your table, cellphone-etc-etc-etc, basking in the glow of your accomplishment. Your privilege. This is your New York City. You've grabbed it by the horns, and by god you're winning! Well bully bully. But fucking flip-flops?
This isn't about not keeping up with the times. Fashion comes and goes, but our problem with your flip-flops is more than that. Because, see, we get it. We know what it's about. We hear your statement, and we think it's ridiculously contrived. No suit for me, man. No ties. Not even khakis and a woven leather belt. Fuck those working stiffs. Fuck the system. Fuck it all! I'm not even wearing real fucking shoes, man!
Catch us at the dayjob in a tie? Hell no. Suit? Funerals and weddings, friend. You won't find us wearing long pants between Memorial and Labor Days, and during that time, we're barefoot in the office more often than not. So we understand taking the haberdashery path less travelled. And, sure, we do feel pity for -- and more than just a little superiority over -- the suited assholes slogging back and forth on the PATH train.
Fuck "casual Fridays," dude. Every day is casual day! My work shouldn't be judged by how I'm dressed. Or what color my hair is. Or how many tattoos I've got. My pop wore a suit every day for 134 years, and he's still wearing one in his coffin. Not me! I ain't no chump. I'm not even wearing real fucking shoes, man!
We can't wait to see all your inflated worth -- both fiscal and the self- kind -- collapse like the hollow compliment it is. The web economy's going down, fuckers, and our New York City -- the one we knew when we got here -- is gonna treat you like yesterday's whore du jour. You'll be wearing flip-flops because it'll be the only footwear you can afford after a good day begging for our change.