Free Not Cool: The Hipster Elite and Their War on You by Greg Gutfeld Page B

before leaving again Sunday night on a business trip because the tickets are cheaper then. There are rare instances when this behavior results in fame: See the Clydesdale horses. And war. It is why, when I think of awards shows, I reverse Woody Allen’s words, and say, “Maybe ninety percent of life is
not
showing up.”
    Yet, in today’s culture, it is necessary to have more and more awards shows. These shows proliferate like rabbits on Cialis, and we watch them hoping for screwups, or at least something that makes us feel better about ourselves. But there are no awards shows for “best soldier” or “best mom”—or hell, “most effective urologist.” Instead, they just get a coffee mug. Why does the army of the phony cool thirst so desperately for moments in which their activity is noted? Shouldn’t what they do for a living be all that they need? It’s the irony of the cool: Their bottomless pit of poor self-esteem demands a fire hose of complimentary speeches and trophies, or else they feel the very essence of this precious coolness fading. That’s the secret Achilles’ heel of the artificial cool: It’s unsustainable without constant ego gratification.Once you no longer hear someone saying your name, you cease to exist (see
Estevez, Emilio
, or
Bieber, Justin—in six years
).
    I hate to break it to you: You don’t exist if this is how you measure existence. If you build your life around moments in which you possess other people’s thoughts, you forget that those moments are temporary and vacuous. In a gawker’s brain, when they see a person they recognize from “the television,” it’s never “My God, I love Adam Levine.” It’s “Look, it’s that tattooed guy from that really shitty band!” Fame is not about liking someone—it’s about recognizing them. There’s a mile-wide difference there. When we see a recognizable face, we believe they are special and they believe they are special too. We think we know them, although to them, you are nothing. Or worse, someone from the Midwest who’s probably not a vegan.
    And part of being cool is being able to cultivate that stardom, then spend the rest of your life pretending to reject it. So you grow a beard, dress like a homeless person when shopping, or move to France (which I heartily endorse; please go).
    In the world of pop stardom, what is mistaken for rebellion? A mediocre artist who spouts political beliefs that most freshmen in high school could have come up with after huffing Glade. How about railing against the Man, condemning suburbia or the sameness of that dreary suburban life, or ragging on people with boring jobs or nonglamorous lives? That’s been a big, giant, clichéd part of pop culture. I hate it. Generally, what’s derided among the coolerati is a simple lifestyle that 99 percent of history’s humans would’ve killed for—and often did. What is derided is what keeps our horrible society together. You and me—we must mock this.
    That’s why I love heavy metal—it’s about creating something majestic and sincere, the opposite of what the hip do with strats and skinny jeans. It is a pretty selfless thing, I think. I don’tthink the Melvins or Devin Townsend or Mike Patton care a single whit if anyone likes them. They work for a living. And they love what they do. The award shows—where none of them ever appear—are for those other artists who question whether they are liked or whether what they do is truly work. In short, so-called cool people need to be told they are cool. The rest just do their thing every day and know it works because it makes sense in their heads—and if they’re lucky, make a living, feed their families, and hope the test comes back negative.

HOW MIKE AND CAROL CRUSHED THE FERAL
    For anyone born in the 1960s, all answers to life’s problems can be found in one place:
The Brady Bunch
. The beauty of this wonderfully silly but often perceptive series is that, although it lasted only four