The Death Of Cool
Several nights ago I was out on the main drag, having a few drinks as I observed various bar patrons knock back beers and shots while sucking at their cigarettes. Some of them I am acquainted with; many of them I’ve seen before. By nature I’m a bit of a lone wolf, so I tend to avoid becoming involved with the majority of “Hey, I’m drunk and you’re drunk so let’s talk for the sake of talking” sort of conversations. But suddenly the sentence fragment of a particularly loud, drunken girl entered my ears. What, exactly, she said is of less importance than the epiphany I had after hearing it. Her words implied something impossible. No. Really? This obnoxious lush and her table full of melancholy hipster friends actually think they’re cool? Surely fucking not. I had always assumed that such people have a very clear understanding of what extreme losers they are in every single way. Is that not why they lounge in dingy bars to kill their livers, numb their brains, and encourage lung cancer while either discussing the banal drama of people doing the same thing or reflecting on their similarly mundane experiences in similarly dark bars over similarly made drinks? Aren’t they attempting to be hip in order to conform to a certain movement that will in turn lend them the luxury of hiding what losers they are via sitting around with equally miserable people who’ve made that same choice? Aren’t wearing the right clothes, inhaling the proper cigarettes, drinking the special drinks, and listening to the “superior” music indicators of someone who meshes to popular culture because they themselves have no conception of what it means to truly be cool? Is cool not the ability to make a smooth impression with characteristics that defy the common path? Is cool dead? I believe so.