What is cool?
That’s not the hopeless inquiry of a man at the stage of life where most of your cultural icons are exposed as paedophiles.
But, what is it?
Who decides it? There’s no annual committee of sullen indoor-sun-glasses-wearers, passing lazy judgment between deep, rueful drags on cigarettes.
If there is, I’m not cool enough for the offensively last-minute invite. No doubt the kind of event so exclusive the location is sky-written in mirror-image Aramaic across an overcast night. Held in a disused something or other, on a trackless tundra, so remote, those few that do arrive, die on arrival. That’s cool. Isn’t it?
Some lucky mo-fos are just born cool. Ambling into everyone’s pants with their raspy voices, self-restoring hair and a natural flair for saying motherfucker. Others are nasal, with an easterly kink and settle for dorky abbreviations.
There’s no one formula for cool, except at school, that is:
That kind of institutional cool fades with the wake-up call of the last school bell.
My coolness, and therefore, life, peaked at university. So long ago my social standing was gauged by Facebook likes. I also banked up cred in another obsolete currency, writing - and a currency no longer even in circulation, writing for Vice. Today that holds as much hipness and relevance as a 1912 cruise ship entertainer.
Millions watched me dress up as a Christmas elf, snort ketamine and wrap presents for the public on the internet*. That career-ending-before-beginning move left me real hot property on campus, but less so on the job market.
So, just like the dim prom king, my coolness burned up on impact with the real world.
Even a job that alleviates the dread of question 2 in every adult introduction - doesn’t make you cool. Name the coolest accountant, you know*? Not even mob accountants are cool.
Anyway, as a 33 or 34-year-old, who cares about being cool? Anyone not immediately sure of their age shouldn’t have a stake in coolness.
Damn, if he ain’t the baddest sum'bitch on the school run. Leant against the nursery gates, balding his way through a match-lit Marlborough in a pair of Raybans. It has become apparent the only cool attributes I’m aware of are: sunglasses and smoking. Leaning, as well, leaning is still cool, right? God, I haven’t leant in years.
There is nothing more venomously uncool than the props of the ageing. A rapper can have as many murder-doodles scritched on their face, as people they’ve scratched off the face of the earth. Still, every time my mum calls *googles cool rapper tattoos* 21 Savauge “a real cool dudey,” his rep depreciates by an aggravated assault or so.
The fun is leaning into the quaking force of your cringe. Today, I’m about as cool as a cucumber - and I’m at ease. Hopefully, I’ll be able to make my kids wince with the harrowing thought that I was cool once, when I was young, when it mattered, or, at least, seemed to.
*I do know a charismatic, book-cooking motorbike-riding old Italian accountant, but I won’t name him.
If you liked this… check out:
The True Meaning of Generosity
The Side Effects of a Glow-up
5 Stages of Balding
Our New Dad
Sex by Numbers
Times I got Fire 1 - The Bakery
Man, I love your writing and this piece, once again, had me laughing out loud. I can see you writing books that instantly wind up in City Lights bookstore in San Francisco. You are way too your for the beat generation, but I think you're creating a modern mock cool that's in a class of its own. As I read "2 Cool for School," I thought about my own totally nerd existance until 8th grade when one of our shop teachers, Mr. Haas decided to direct a production of "Oklahoma," and my singing voice, which is still pretty good, knocked him out and I got to be a cool cowboy playing Will Parker and kissing Ado Annie in one of those bend her down and lock lips holds. Suddenly, the nerd disappeared. Bless your heart for writing this and remind me of that memory.
“his rep depreciates by an aggravated assault or so” 😂😂😂