Every Industry Is An Airport Lounge Now

Submitted by QTR’s Fringe Finance

I’m sure some of you saw that recent op-ed about airport lounges.

It was written by David Mack for The New York Times. He laments the decline of airport lounges, recalling a grim experience at Orlando’s Club MCO: long waits, sad buffets, and weak drinks that hardly justify the hype.

Lounges used to feel special, a perk reserved for business travelers. Now they’re overcrowded, uninspired, yet somehow more coveted than ever—thanks to social media flexes and pricey credit card perks. Access has become so common that no one feels special anymore, even as airlines and banks keep building ever-fancier spaces while quietly raising fees to thin the crowds.

Far be it from me to agree with anything in The New York Times, but honestly? That piece nailed it. Airport lounges are a disaster. But here’s the thing: it’s not just lounges. It’s not just airlines. It’s not even just travel. It’s every. single. industry.

I’m not being hyperbolic. Everywhere you go, everything you do, every service you pay for—it feels like customer service simply no longer exists. And even worse, most places you go actually make you feel like an asshole for daring to be a customer in the first place. I catch myself constantly asking, “Why am I putting up with this shit?” right before looking down at the Cheez-Doodles or baseball cap I’ve somehow convinced myself I can’t live without.

Because here’s the ugly truth: service is dead. The only thing still alive is the endless, humiliating upsell and self-service. The drugstore, the bank, the dentist—it doesn’t matter. On a given day I interact with supposedly “best-in-class” businesses, and nearly every time I walk away feeling bent over a barrel. And this is when I’m choosing the premium option. The premium experience is still garbage.

Which is why, when I think about the future, I don’t see the next big opportunity as another buzzy app or sleek new product. It’s customer service. Full stop. Any company, in any industry, that actually treats its customers like human beings will have me throwing money at their doorstep. Charge me a premium, I don’t care. Just don’t interrogate me for my phone number every time I buy a bar of soap. Don’t act like handing you a credit card is some bizarre ritual you’ve never seen before. Pretend, at the very least, that you want my business.

Take something as simple as buying a pair of running shoes in Philadelphia. First, I can’t make it two blocks to the store without being ambushed by clipboard warriors trying to rope me into saving the whales, curing baldness, or whatever today’s cause-of-the-day is. Like Jim Carrey in Liar Liar said: “I just want to get from my car to the office without being confronted by the decay of western society.”

“Can I ask you a question?” they always begin, standing directly in my path. No, you f*cking can’t. Now get out of my way before I plow through you like Frank Gore running over a junior high linebacker.

When I finally reach the store, it takes 15 minutes to find an employee. When I do, I tell them what I want, and their response? “Why don’t you just buy it online? We’ve got more colors there.” I don’t know, maybe because I want to go for a run in an hour and would like shoes on my feet instead of in an Amazon box next Tuesday?

The associate eventually trudges into the back, gets me the shoes, and I head to checkout. I hand the cashier my credit card. She looks at me like I’ve just asked her to barter goats for spices.

“Can I have your name?” she asks. “No,” I reply. “You can have my money.”

Then comes the phone number. Then the email. Then a stool sample and the name of my favorite childhood pet. I decline. Finally, after this interrogation, I’ve spent $300 and she asks if I’d like a bag. Of course I want a f*cking bag.

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“That’s 25 cents,” she says. Excuse me? I just bought two shoeboxes the size of microwaves. What did you think I was going to do—balance them on my head down Walnut Street like I’m in a National Geographic special? Why can’t stores just build the damn bag into the price instead of insulting me at checkout? I’m not asking to be hand-fed grapes like Julius Caesar. I’m asking for a bag. Basic service. The stuff that used to be, you know, normal.

And God forbid I need to call anyone about anything. Changing an airline ticket? Calling my credit card company? Forget it. Every road leads to an automated voice system with the warmth of a Soviet switchboard. Look, I get it. It’s 2025. Most stuff can be handled online, and that’s great—I don’t want to talk to anyone if I don’t have to. But when I do need a human being—because no, chatbot Karen, you cannot solve this problem with a “help article”—there should be a way to reach one without descending into phone tree purgatory.

Then there’s the pièce de résistance: self-checkout. Bill Burr has a bit about stealing from self-checkout as payback for being conscripted into a job you never applied for. And honestly, he’s right. You’re not a customer anymore—you’re an unpaid employee scanning your own groceries while the one overworked human employee hovers like a prison guard, ready to pounce if you don’t place the cantaloupe in the “bagging area” fast enough. You’re damn right I’m stealing a bag. And I dare your lazy ass to chase me down Market Street to stop me.

So yes, customer service isn’t dying—it’s dead. Buried. Cremated. Scattered to the wind. What’s left is a charade where companies pretend to offer “premium experiences” while nickel-and-diming you, automating you into oblivion, and treating your desire for basic service like an outrageous demand.

The opportunity is there for any business bold enough to zig while everyone else zags. Charge me more, fine. But make me feel like a customer, not a nuisance. Make me feel like I’m buying something, not auditioning for an FBI background check. Because until that happens? We’re all just paying top dollar to be reminded—daily—of how little most corporations actually think of their customers.

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