I was driving home from work the other day, was waiting at a traffic light, and up next to me pulls this – well, for lack of a better word – Crown Victoria. At least, I think it was – it was shaped like one, except for the 47″ tires, the swirly-like paint, and other than that, I dunno. I dunno because it was vibrating too hard to get a good look at it. It was vibrating too hard because evidently the driver (young guy, slouched down, hand kinda hanging over the steering wheel, baseball cap snugged down backwards on his grape) had a hearing problem, and had the stereo turned up so loud MY windows were shaking. I say stereo, but it might have been some kind of mob-fighting equipment, because all I could really hear/feel was some kind of “Booooooooom! Booooooooom!” at regular intervals, and struggling to be heard over that was this guy who was sing-songing about 9’s, b***ches, and better get out dat do’.
After giving this whole setup the fisheye, I was almost overwhelmed with the notion to walk over, tap on his window, and ask him if he really, truthfully, enjoyed that annoying shit, or was he just doing it because all his buds were doing it. But I didn’t – almost, but not quite. Instead I sat back and pondered, and eventually came to a conclusion:
That rather unfortunate young man ain’t one smidgen different than any of the rest of us.
How do I know that? Easy. He’s just doing what he knows, and what all the folks who came before him have done – imitating.
Cool – yeah? no?
I grew up in the 60’s, was a teen in the 70’s, and can tell you it was the same then. The hippie age was dying out by the time I hit my teens, but bellbottoms and denim were all the rage, fluffy hair on girls (with about half a can of hairspray to boot – any one of them could have gone up in flames just by looking at a lighter), long hair on guys, and platform soles. Was it because we all liked to look like a Saturday Night Fever crowd scene? Hope not. No, it was onaccountabecause we wanted to be cool, accepted, belong. No more, no less.
And of course, anyone can recall the same stuff, no matter what age. Fedoras, pin-stripe suits, disco, rock, wing-tips, cars jacked up in the ass, low-riders, denim (remember when bluejeans were only worn by farmers? I do), fuzzy dice, and the list goes on and on. It also includes language: cool, dude, bro, pencil you in, awesome, chill, rad, do lunch, lame, totally…how many times have you heard those? (You can ask Mom or Dad if you have to.) No? Okay, then…how about brain fart, muffin top, showmance, or fugly?
And now that I’ve sludged my way through to the wordy part of this soap-box-standing derby, let’s go to my current bane – the one word that I’ve come to hate above alllllll others.
Now, this part you’re going to hate me for, ’cause it’s gonna be like you just bought a 2005 Impala. Suddenly, you’re going to see all the 2005 Impalas that come within a mile of ya. Right?
Cast a curse at me whenever you like, but pay attention, and listen to how many times the “A” word is used nowadays. It’s epidemic, so it is. No one can say “you bet”, or “you’re right”, or “darned tootin'”, or “bet your ass” anymore. Why? ‘Cause “ab-so-fuckin’-lutely” is the cool word for today.
We can’t escape it. It’s in our blood, desiring to be accepted, brought in, wrapped around by the warm arms of societal standards.
Bump that – I’d rather be a writer, and concentrate on using as many different words from anyone else as is by God possible.