Not Cool: The Hipster Elite and Their War on You (31 page)

That’s my list of the coolest people, places, and things on earth. I’m sure I left some out, which makes them even cooler. If I missed them, it’s probably because they want to be missed. That’s cool.

The desire to be cool derives from a desire to be liked. But also from a perceived lack of worth. Not being able to accept yourself as “cool” in your own right means you must be deemed cool by someone else who can say, “Yeah, he’s cool.” A person satisfied with who they are and what they do finds himself inherently resistant to the superficial pulls of the cool. Ideally, I don’t need to follow anyone or anything to bolster my ego. The moment you try to persuade me that “early adopters” are now wearing clams on their heads, I will beat the crap out of you with said clams.

It wasn’t always like this. As a young kid fresh out of college (back when Heather Locklear was hot), and toiling away at a small magazine in Arlington, Virginia, I found myself ignored and obscured—a twenty-two-year-old in the mailroom watching others get the accolades I felt I deserved (without, of course, ever doing anything for such accolades). This drove me to a mission for acceptance, which ultimately led me to the living room of the world’s most successful movie producer (at the time), a man who had just won an Oscar for Best Picture. After flying to Northern
California and purchasing a suit at the local Emporium at San Mateo’s Hillsdale Mall (thank you, Mom), and jumping on a flight to LA, I ended up at the doorstep of a famous producer to discuss a screenplay I had only begun to etch out in my scattered, inexperienced brain. Like all young men, I felt that whatever I had to say was meaningful, regardless of the lack of real-world suffering I’d experienced. I talked a lot more than I acted.

I secured the meeting through a college friend whose father was the producer’s lawyer. When I showed up that afternoon at a sprawling home somewhere in LA, I was met by a maid of small stature and led into a sunken living room, where I would then wait for “Arnold” to appear shortly (he was bathing, in the afternoon). As I walked into the room, my peripheral vision caught the sight of a servant, holding a tray of drinks. I quickly looked away, as not to awkwardly stare, and took my seat on a couch in front of me. Pretending to ignore him, I could not stop thinking about him. Here I was, with an opportunity to discuss a screenplay with the most powerful man in Hollywood, something I was sure this young man standing behind me had come to LA to do as well. No one comes to LA to become a butler (unless you’re British). And here he was standing, having to endure some lucky punk who got a break through a friend. He must have hated my guts. I could feel his stare heating up the back of my neck.

Already a tad nervous, I hated that my one and only opportunity to present my dream would be watched by this “someone.” It drove me nuts. All I could think about was the butler listening to me, and judging me. Smirking. I knew that, if I were in his shoes, I would do the same thing. I had planned a presentation, but it was evaporating into a mental jumble. I really hated this guy, and I was starting to hate myself, through him.

When Arnold came down, we made some small talk and he
began asking questions. I was already an emotional wreck. I could not focus; my mind was obsessed with the man behind me, assessing my uncool incompetence. This went on for minutes, but it felt like forever. Sensing my desperation, and that something
was
wrong, Arnold got up and said, “You wanna beer?” I said yes, and in time he would bring me a Löwenbräu. Or a Michelob. Either way, it was beer that no longer exists. Maybe I killed it. I don’t know. All I know is that I was dying.

After he left to retrieve the lager, I decided that the only way to salvage this disastrous meeting would be to stand up, turn around, and confront the man behind me. He was ruining me. He knew I was a fraud. An impostor. I waited a few moments, and gathered my courage, and stood up.

When I turned around, I found that he was a mannequin, a large dummy holding drinks. He wasn’t real. He was a fraud. He was
the
fraud. It reminded me of that feeling you had when you were a kid, at night, in bed, in your dark room, and you swear that you see a monster. You turn on the light, and it’s a jacket on a chair. You turn off the light and then minutes later you once again think it’s a monster.

Relief and embarrassment came in one big wave. I pulled myself together and sat back down. When Arnold returned, he was greeted by a new me. A better me, who knocked the meeting out of the park. Arnold gave me some encouraging advice and sent me on my merry way. I ended up writing the script. It was horrible, but he convinced me to quit my job and write full-time, which I needed to hear from someone other than my boss at work, who was trying to get rid of me.

The lesson: It is a mistake to worry about how others view you. “Other people” are like images created in your mind. It’s only your desire to appease or please or impress them that makes them
meaningful. (I refer specifically to peers you wish to impress. Not your family. If they’re impressed, you’ve done your job. And if they’re disgusted, you should listen.)

By pretending that the cool are mannequins, you can disarm the desire for cool and eliminate the need for acceptance. You reclaim your authority. You don’t need their observation or approval. You’re already observed by those who matter: your family, your friends, yourself. Don’t let the cool replace those things. Who needs it? You don’t. Really, you don’t. It won’t help you one bit.

We all have the feeling we are being watched, but by what? Our own conscience? Who knows? But we feel it. What we have to learn is that it is better to imagine being watched by something moral and good than by something whose criteria are amoral. Your ego will be fed, but nothing cool will provide that sustenance.

The idea for this book grew out of a speech I gave at the Ronald Reagan Presidential Library. I was supposed to be talking about my previous book,
The Joy of Hate
but ended up elaborating on the idea of what is cool and what isn’t. I realized that nearly every monologue or segment I’ve done on my two shows,
The Five
and
Red Eye
, is concerned with one thing that drives me nuts: Why are good things seen as bad, and why are bad things seen as good?

This book answers that question. Or at least tries to. It’s all about being cool.

You will find within this book, here and there, bits and pieces of that speech, along with other concepts and ideas I’ve hit on before in my shows, blogs, and essays. Some of the chapters started out as monologues, throwaway observations on shows, and drunken rants on street corners, and I’ve expanded on them here, hopefully with a modicum of success. If not, I blame Obama. If he is not impeached by the time this is published, I am leaving the country and moving to Texas.

This is where I thank everyone who helped me, in one way or another, with this book.

First, I thank you for taking the time to read this. It’s not a normal book, and I am not a normal person. And most certainly, none of us reading this are seen as cool by those who feel empowered to define the parameters. But we know better.

Of course, I thank Mary Choteborsky, my editor, for poring over this wine-stained manuscript (at this point, it’s as crispy as the Dead Sea Scrolls), along with the helpful, energetic staff at Crown, who put up with late-night meetings with a writer who demanded alcohol as a prerequisite for showing up.

I must also thank, in no particular order: Paul Mauro and his lovely wife, Joannie; Aric Webb; my agent Jay Mandel; Roger Ailes (he infused me with confidence—as did all the other wonderful folks at Fox News—but more important, Roger first gave me a chance, meaning he recognized early on that I wasn’t normal, and he embraced it); the gang at
The Five
; Andy Levy, Bill Schulz, and the rest of the miscreants who inhabit
Red Eye
; Jack Wright, who has to deal with my butt twice a day; and the loyal pals at
Breitbart.com
. I thank the ghost of Andrew Breitbart, who may or may not be helping me write this very sentence. Also—thanks to Woody Fraser, who saw the potential early on.

I owe a special thanks to Dana Perino. She is a dear friend, and puts up with my inanities daily, and for that she will be rewarded with two sentences here. I will not mention her dog. (Ah shit, I did.)

People who’ve inspired this book include a pile of Free Radicals who seem thoroughly uninterested in how they are perceived by the coolerati and would of course not care if they were thanked by me. They are, in no order: Penn Jillette, Andrew W.K., Skunk Baxter, Joe Escalante, Gary Sinise, King Buzzo,
Devin Townsend, Larry Gatlin, Ariel Pink, Gavin McInnes, Ann Coulter, Terry Schappert, Robert Davi, Andrew Elstner, Torche, Tom Fec (a.k.a. Tobacco), Fabio, John Rich, Mike Baker, Jim Norton, Rob Long, Tom Dreeson, Joe DeRosa, Nick DiPaolo, Dirk Benedict, Tom Shillue, Ginger Wildheart, Brandon Belt, Billy Zoom, Gregg Turkington, Tom Hazelmyer, the South. The list continues, perhaps, in the chapter toward the end of the book on Free Radicals, or my definition of truly cool people.

I would be remiss if I didn’t thank the restaurants where I wrote this pile of words. That would be Amarone (a delightful Italian restaurant in Hell’s Kitchen) and the West Side Steak-house (a terrific Midtown joint run by the affable Nick), and now this pretty awesome Austrian joint, Blaue Gans, run by a cool dude named Kurt. It would be safe to say that I wrote most of this while drinking. These places made sure I was fed.

And, of course, I thank my lovely wife, Elena, who saw very little of me on weekends and weeknights. (Something she might not have minded, but she was exceedingly patient with my deadline neurosis. I love her dearly.) My family deserves thanks, as I drifted in and out of conversations with them, always worried about unfinished chapters in between a two-show-a-day grind. They were stuck doing tougher things that I was able to escape. My mom deserves the most thanks, for sticking it out through a tough year and sticking with me.