“Cool” stuff. Part blissfully stimulating, part incandescently and homicidally infuriating. However I must disclaim, dear reader: do not, for one second, think that under this fragile umbrella of coolness resides the word “kooky”. Kooky is a word made up for things that might have been cool, only far too much time and thought has gone into making them cool, with special attention paid to making them look as if they’re not cool at all. Balls to cool. Don’t need it. I’m my own cool. I am in no way, shape or form trying to be cool. Perhaps I am alone in this notion (I may well be), but as far as I am concerned, kooky can really and truly fuck off.
Kookiness is everywhere. It permeates every fibre of popular culture, and constantly scratches every nerve ending in my brain, to the point at which I want to stab a member of Team Kooky in the neck with a pair of retro sunglasses. Of course, whilst myself merely a slave to the cool, one’s measure of kookiness is arbitrary. Perhaps its not kookiness, perhaps it is overlooked coolness on my part. More than likely, its too cool, and I don’t get it. However, there are no such misdiagnoses made when an image is crafted in kookiness; a willing and self-proclaiming kook. I’m “crazy”/“scatty”/“unique”. Ha. Sure, you are all of those things, but in just the right microscopic quantities to make you look as cool as possible, and in no way make you crazy or scatty or unique; which individually or in conjunction would infact make you look like a mental patient. Doesn’t kooky mean bizarre? I mean, you’re not bizarre are you? No, you aren’t a freakish outsider, don’t worry, you are safe as cool houses. Phew.
I love cool. We all do, and we’re suckers to ourselves if we don’t admit it. Kooky just isn’t cool, and whilst its superficial objective is to indeed be un-cool, all that needs doing is for the kook to take off its banner, and I can re-holster the Ray Bans.
Words to live by.