Abstract anger is great for rhetorical carrying on. You can go on

Host: The bar was dim, the kind of place that collects smoke and stories in equal measure. Old jazz murmured from the corner, a slow, lazy trumpet tangled with piano keys, as if the instruments were reminiscing about a time when things still made sense. The neon sign outside flickered through the dusty window—“Open”—a lie and a promise at the same time.

Jack sat hunched over the counter, a glass of whiskey in hand, its amber light catching the edges of his face. Jeeny sat next to him, half-smiling, stirring her drink with a straw as though searching for meaning in its small whirlpool. Between them, on a folded napkin, she’d written down P. J. O’Rourke’s words in her tidy cursive:

“Abstract anger is great for rhetorical carrying on. You can go on endlessly about the post office, but it doesn’t mean you’re mad at your mailman.”

Jeeny: “It’s funny, isn’t it? The way he says it—half joke, half mirror. We’ve built whole societies on abstract anger. Whole identities, even.”

Jack: “Yeah. It’s safer to be mad at ideas than people. You can rage against ‘the system,’ and still shake your mailman’s hand in the morning.”

Host: The bartender, polishing a glass nearby, gave them that faint, knowing look—two thinkers trying to make philosophy out of whiskey. Outside, a car horn blared, distant but insistent, the city’s own punctuation mark.

Jeeny: “That’s the trap, though. Abstract anger feels righteous. It’s clean. It doesn’t demand anything from you—no change, no forgiveness, no empathy. Just noise.”

Jack: “And the noise feels like action. People love outrage because it gives them the illusion of doing something.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Anger without intimacy. Fire without heat.”

Jack: “Like a protest written in fog.”

Host: The bar lights dimmed slightly as another song began—Coltrane this time, smooth and haunted. The kind of tune that made silence more dangerous. Jack swirled his glass, watching the whiskey catch the light like a thought he couldn’t hold onto.

Jack: “You know what I think O’Rourke was getting at? That we’ve lost the courage to aim our anger where it belongs. We lash out at everything because we’re afraid to look at someone.”

Jeeny: “Or ourselves.”

Jack: “Especially ourselves.”

Jeeny: “It’s easier to curse the universe than to forgive a neighbor.”

Jack: “Or to admit the mailman’s just trying to deliver the message.”

Host: A small smile flickered across Jeeny’s lips—one part amusement, two parts melancholy.

Jeeny: “I remember reading once that anger is just pain with a megaphone. Maybe abstract anger is pain without an address.”

Jack: “That’s poetic. And dangerous. Because pain without an address never gets delivered—it just circles the block, growing louder.”

Host: The rain started outside, soft at first, then steadier, drumming gently against the glass. The bar took on that half-lit glow only rain can create—everything muted, but alive.

Jeeny: “Do you think abstract anger is useless, then?”

Jack: “Not useless. Just dishonest. It’s what we use to make pain sound intelligent. We can talk for hours about politics, the economy, art—but God forbid we admit we’re just lonely.”

Jeeny: “That’s the truth, isn’t it? We wear outrage like perfume—it covers the smell of fear.”

Jack: “And of guilt.”

Jeeny: “And of grief.”

Host: The bartender poured another glass without asking. The rhythm of the rain filled the silence between words, as if nature herself were trying to punctuate their thoughts.

Jack: “You know, I once got into a fight online—some thread about capitalism or something. I typed for hours. Felt like I was changing the world. Then I closed the laptop and realized I hadn’t said a damn thing that mattered.”

Jeeny: “Because no one on the other side could see your eyes.”

Jack: “Exactly. Abstract anger—no eyes, no ears, no heart. Just noise bouncing off walls.”

Host: The rain grew louder, the neon light pulsing against the window like a heartbeat. Jeeny leaned forward, her tone softer now.

Jeeny: “But don’t you think sometimes we need abstract anger? That it’s the first spark—the thing that wakes people up before they find the real fire?”

Jack: “Maybe. But too many people stop at the spark. They mistake shouting for building.”

Jeeny: “True. Revolution without empathy turns into rage without aim.”

Jack: “And that’s how the world ends—people screaming at the sky instead of listening to each other.”

Jeeny: “You make it sound hopeless.”

Jack: “Not hopeless. Just repetitive.”

Host: The bartender turned up the radio slightly—some late-night news, the sound of voices debating something neither of them could care to follow. Jeeny smiled faintly, as if the timing were scripted.

Jeeny: “There it is again. Everyone shouting into the void. Anger has become performance.”

Jack: “Yeah. It’s applause without resolution.”

Jeeny: “And the worst part is, it feels good. Anger releases us from the burden of humility.”

Jack: “Because humility demands you listen.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: Jack sighed and leaned back, the wood of the stool creaking beneath him. His eyes softened—not tired, but weary of misunderstanding.

Jack: “You know, maybe O’Rourke wasn’t mocking anger. Maybe he was warning us—if we keep confusing catharsis for courage, we’ll forget what real anger is for.”

Jeeny: “Which is?”

Jack: “Change. Not shouting. Not spectacle. Change.”

Jeeny: “The kind that starts with names, not systems.”

Jack: “Yes. Real anger has a target, a purpose, and an ending. Abstract anger just feeds itself.”

Host: The rain finally eased, leaving behind a soft hiss on the pavement. Jeeny set her empty glass down, her reflection glimmering faintly in the polished wood of the bar.

Jeeny: “You know, maybe that’s the difference between being angry at the post office and being angry at the mailman. The first lets you keep your dignity. The second forces you to risk compassion.”

Jack: “Because once you see the mailman’s face, you have to forgive him a little.”

Jeeny: “And forgiveness ruins the fun of outrage.”

Jack: “It ruins the illusion of control.”

Host: Jeeny turned toward the window, watching the raindrops slide down like quiet tears that never reached the ground. Her voice came softer now, but it carried the weight of something final.

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s what we need more of—not louder voices, but braver ones. People willing to say, I’m angry because I’m hurt, instead of hiding behind slogans.”

Jack: “That’s a harder story to tell.”

Jeeny: “The truest ones always are.”

Host: The neon light buzzed once more, then steadied. The rain stopped. The air inside the bar felt clearer, as if even the room had exhaled.

Jack stood, pulling his coat on, dropping a few bills on the counter. Jeeny followed, her scarf trailing lightly behind her like the last line of a poem.

Jack: “You know, maybe next time I’m angry, I’ll start smaller.”

Jeeny: “At what?”

Jack: “At myself. It’s usually where the truth hides.”

Jeeny: “Good. That’s where healing hides, too.”

Host: They stepped out into the cool night, the air alive with the scent of wet concrete and neon promise. The city was quiet again, as if listening.

And as they walked side by side through the shimmering streets, their reflections stretching long under the fading streetlights, the echo of O’Rourke’s truth lingered in the air—

We shout at the world because it’s safer than whispering to ourselves.
But real change doesn’t come from abstract anger.
It comes from the moment we finally ask,
“Who am I really mad at—and why?”