What passes for cool is ultimately a matter of subjective aesthetics, but this afternoon I saw something that usurped the very notion of cool, beheaded it and videoed the heinous act with cool's own handy*, then ate the balls of Brother Cool while sewing the uterus of Sister Cool into a pouch for an official Daughtry Oval Crest Belt Buckle. What I witnessed was massively other, the aftermath of an explosion of wanton critical misjudgment. (In other words, possibly mega-cool?)
This clown got on to the Number 9 tram wearing a glitter-encrusted, faux-NBA logo shirt (with the slogan "National Pussy Association" spelled out in slivers of serif fiagree), and perhaps the most unspeakably (un)cool jeans in the annals of sartorial dichotomy.
The CP reckons he was Russian, and although I have no reason to question her assumption, I would bet the rhinestone farm that he was a German kid from the next neighboorhood over...
Ultimately, this gives me hope for a future populated by half-sentient distant cousins unconcerned with either context or even basic meaning.
Sonic Youth always had it wrong - confusion isn't sex. Far from it.
It's an unmemorable meander through the shoelace isle...
*Deutsch slang for cellphone.