I got nothing against Justin Theroux. I loved him in Charlie’s Angels. The Leftovers is one of my favorite series of all time. He’s good in Zoolander. I liked him in that weird Jonah Hill/Emma Stone Netflix series, Maniac, that we’ve all completely forgotten about. He’s a good actor who chooses parts wisely.
A lot of people have also developed opinions on Theroux based on his personal life — he was married to Jennifer Aniston for a couple of years, and he hangs out with the guys from Queer Eye. Kate calls him a “That guy,” as in:
We all know “that guy.” You know, the one who either shows up to your party with a 6-pack of artisanal beer that he makes you elaborately store in your fridge instead of the cooler, and insists on a special mug because “it just tastes better this way” and yet somehow even though there’s 30 people at the party, the only two who manage to try any of the fancy beer is “that guy” and the age-inappropriate lady he’s talking to; or he shows up with nothing and a shrug and tells you he got busy but “he’ll make it up to you.” He never does.
“That guy” sounds exactly like the kind of person who opens a “dive bar” on the Lower East Side in Manhattan. And by “dive bar,” I mean, a place where a shot and a beer cost $12, which is the same price as a gin and tonic at “Ray’s.”
From The Post:
Ray’s has the cringe-inducing air of a brand desperate for cool points — think Target’s re-creation of CBGB — and even sent out a press release hailing it as “the Lower East Side’s diviest new dive bar.”
And Theroux, who opened the bar July 19 with restaurateur partners Jon Neidich, Taavo Somer and Carlos Quirarte, has no qualms using his Instagram — including one post featuring his dog, Kuma, on the pool table — to publicize his pub. That’s a really bizarre move for a “dive.”
Look: You don’t set out to create a dive bar. A “dive bar” is what happens when you can’t afford to maintain your “nice bar” because the PBR only costs $3. You don’t go in with “restaurateur partners” to create a “dive bar.” You mortgage your house and sell your sh*tty car to buy a dive bar and after 20 years, that dive bar is all that’s left of your hopes and dreams and you can’t even afford to fix it up and sell it. You’re just stuck with it, and the stools that stick to your ass and the black spots on the ceiling from water damage that you call “character.”
This is not a dive bar, because it’s well-lit enough that I can actually see Theoroux and there are no bloodstains on the floor. Also, that dog has probably had all its shots:
He’s got a good picture game, but the scotch tape is too obvious, and I don’t see any photos of ’70s game show hosts, members of the Brady Bunch, or a picture signed by a celebrity who is in prison now for crimes of a sexual nature.
Look at this: It’s like overpaying for “distressed jeans.”
Also, celebrities don’t go to dive bars, except for the one time I saw Anna Kendrick at a dive bar here in Portland, but no one bothered her because people who frequent dive bars have no idea who Anna Kendrick is because they’re too busy drinking and watching Bruins highlights to watch Pitch Perfect.
This is all wrong.
On the other hand, get back to me in 20 years, when Ray’s is the only thing that Justin Theroux has left in his life, when there’s dried puke on the floor, you have to hold down the handle to flush the toilet, and you can find Theroux every day slumped back in a booth with ripped fake leather drunk and slur-bragging to anyone that comes in that he used to be married that that lady from Friends. Then it’s a dive bar.
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