It's easy to hurl abuse at those awards ceremonies like the

Host: The bar was dim, the kind of place where shadows lived longer than people did. The air hung heavy with smoke, and the low hum of a jazz guitar bled from an old speaker in the corner. Outside, rain whispered against the windows, a soft applause that no one paid attention to.

Host: Jack sat in the far booth, a half-empty glass of whiskey before him. His tie was loosened, his collar open. Across from him, Jeeny swirled her wine, the deep red catching the faint light like a secret.

Host: On the television behind the bar, the sound was off — but the images of smiling faces in tuxedos, golden statues, and shimmering gowns told the story well enough. The Oscars were on.

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “Jeff Beck once said, ‘It’s easy to hurl abuse at those awards ceremonies like the Oscars and all that, which we tend to do. We tend to vent our anger at things which we feel are unjust or undeserving. But when you’re the recipient, it makes it a lot different.’”

Jack: (snorts softly) “Yeah, the old tune. We mock the circus until the spotlight hits us — then suddenly it’s sacred.”

Jeeny: “Isn’t that what he meant? How the world changes when it finally looks at you?”

Jack: “No. It’s hypocrisy, Jeeny. That’s what he meant. People love to pretend they’re above the game — until the game decides they’ve won. Then all that moral outrage disappears.”

Host: He leaned back, eyes narrowing toward the screen. The camera caught an actor in tears, clutching his trophy like salvation. The crowd clapped. Glitter fell. Somewhere, a saxophone sighed in the background.

Jeeny: “Maybe it’s not hypocrisy. Maybe it’s perspective. You don’t really understand what something means until you’re inside it. That’s not dishonesty — that’s being human.”

Jack: “Human? It’s vanity wrapped in velvet. Look at them — half the people on that stage spent their lives sneering at others for selling out, and now they’re thanking God, their agent, and their therapist for a golden doll. It’s theater pretending to be truth.”

Jeeny: “But isn’t life always a bit of theater, Jack? You think any of us are pure? You think we don’t crave recognition? Maybe awards don’t change people — maybe they just reveal what was already there.”

Host: The bartender wiped down the counter, the glass squeaking softly. A faint smell of whiskey and citrus lingered in the air. Jack lifted his drink and stared at it like it held an argument.

Jack: “I’ve seen good people get crushed trying to be recognized. Writers, musicians, engineers — you name it. They get passed over a hundred times, and when someone else wins, they say the system’s corrupt. Then one day, they win, and suddenly the system’s fine. That’s not revelation. That’s ego dressed as humility.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe it’s gratitude. Maybe when you finally get chosen — after years of being invisible — the anger softens. Not because the world got fairer, but because you understand the weight of being seen.”

Host: Her voice was calm, but her eyes burned with quiet conviction. The light from the TV flickered across her face — blue, gold, and shadow, all mixing like moods.

Jack: “So you’re saying injustice becomes tolerable once you’re the exception?”

Jeeny: “No. I’m saying empathy changes when it has a mirror. When you’re the one up there, you realize how fragile all of it is. The applause, the validation, the love — it’s all borrowed. So maybe you stop judging so harshly.”

Host: Jack set his glass down hard, the sound a sharp punctuation in the quiet room. His voice lowered, deep and rough, like gravel underfoot.

Jack: “That sounds poetic, but it’s a dangerous excuse. We can’t keep forgiving hypocrisy just because we understand it. The world’s built on double standards already — politics, art, business. We say one thing when we lose and another when we win.”

Jeeny: “But isn’t that what makes us human — the contradiction? Look at Jeff Beck himself. He spent years criticizing the industry, but when he finally got recognized, he didn’t deny it meant something. He just admitted the truth: it feels different when it’s you. That’s honesty, Jack, not hypocrisy.”

Host: For a moment, silence. The rain outside grew heavier, its rhythm filling the pauses between their words. The TV flickered again — a montage of faces smiling, crying, waving.

Jack: “You ever notice how no one remembers who didn’t win? That’s the cruelty of it. Recognition defines worth — for a night. Then the world moves on. It’s a trick of light, Jeeny. You think it’s validation, but it’s just attention.”

Jeeny: “Maybe attention isn’t the enemy. Maybe it’s what keeps us alive in a world that doesn’t see us. People don’t make art for trophies — they make it to be witnessed. The award is just proof someone, somewhere, noticed.”

Host: Her words hit like a quiet truth. Jack stared at her, his grey eyes softening, a ghost of something vulnerable flickering beneath the skepticism.

Jack: “You ever get that kind of attention? The kind that makes you question what you’re worth without it?”

Jeeny: (smiling sadly) “I think everyone has. You spend your life waiting to be chosen — by a job, a lover, an audience — and when it happens, it doesn’t feel like victory. It feels like relief. Like maybe, for once, you were right about yourself.”

Host: The music from the speaker changed — slow, haunting, a blues riff that filled the spaces between breath and memory.

Jack: “So you think it’s okay to want it — the recognition, the stage, the applause?”

Jeeny: “I think it’s okay to be honest about it. To stop pretending we’re above wanting to be seen. Maybe the mistake isn’t desiring it — maybe it’s shaming ourselves for doing so.”

Host: He looked down at his hands, the knuckles rough, the skin scarred from years of work. Then, almost to himself, he murmured —

Jack: “I used to play guitar. Never for crowds. Just… for noise. When I was younger, I thought talent was its own reward. That if you were good, it didn’t matter who noticed. But it does. It always does.”

Jeeny: “See? That’s the thing Beck was talking about. The same man who mocked the stage could still understand the ache of standing on it. Because deep down, we all want to matter — even if we pretend not to.”

Host: The rain began to ease, tapering off into a faint drizzle. The bartender turned off the TV. The golden faces disappeared, replaced by their reflections in the darkened glass — two figures, small and tired, yet somehow realer than the ones on screen.

Jack: “You know, maybe we’re all hypocrites. Maybe that’s fine. Maybe the trick isn’t to avoid the hypocrisy — just to recognize it when it comes for us.”

Jeeny: “And to be kind when it does. Because someday, we’ll all be on the other side of the applause — wondering what it meant.”

Host: They sat in silence for a while. Outside, the city breathed — its streets slick with light, its people still chasing something invisible and necessary.

Host: Jack finished his drink, the ice clinking softly.

Jack: “You ever think about what you’d say if you won something like that? An award, I mean.”

Jeeny: “Yeah. I’d probably thank the people who didn’t believe in me. They taught me more than anyone else.”

Jack: (smirks) “And I’d probably thank no one. Just stare into the mic and say, ‘You were right, it does feel different.’”

Jeeny: (laughs) “See? Even your cynicism has hope hidden inside it.”

Host: The lights in the bar dimmed lower. The rain stopped completely. Outside, a cab rolled past, leaving ripples in the puddles.

Host: The two sat there, quiet now, the conversation settling into something softer — not agreement, but understanding.

Host: Because in the end, every award, every applause, every glance of recognition — it’s not about the gold, or the stage, or even justice. It’s about the fragile miracle of being seen, if only for a moment.

Host: And as Jack and Jeeny rose to leave, the neon sign above the door flickered once — gold, then dark — as if the universe itself were bowing, one last time, before the curtain closed.