This Week's Irrevelant Rant
by Mikel Jollet | 00.00.0000

I'm 27 years old and I can't dress myself for work. You see, I've always been a follower of that bed-headed cult of corduroy-clad slackers who peer ironically over the tops of Banana Republic Christmas boxes, mocking the tragic squareness of whichever family member saw the print knit sweater in the window at the mall, and thought of me.

Worn converse low-tops, old t-shirts that say things like "North Poughkeepsie Summer Basketball League", vintage collared work-shirts--such is the wardrobe of the young, patently non-conformist malcontent. In such threads, I'd always felt a little like I was breaking new ground. You know, thumbing my nose at the B-school crowd, givin' to it The Man as he sipped his latte, trying to avoid spilling a single drop on his well-creased Gap khakis. "Followers," I'd always thought. Sheep.

But I recently found out something that has forced me to reconsider all of it: that cool little thrift shop near my apartment in L.A., that Mecca of counter cultural arcana--the shop where I'd purchased the faux suede white leisure suit with matching hat and shoes--I found out that that thrift shop was a franchise. There was another one. In fact, there were twenty, all over the country. Which meant that not only was there another coyly-decorated kitscherama staffed by that fucking hot alterna-girl with the blue hair and nose ring somewhere in Greenwich Village, there was probably another guy like me -- walking down Avenue A in the same gray corduroy jacket that I bought last June -- listening to Built to Spill, eating a plate of Pad Thai, reading Portnoy's Complaint. This was wrong. I felt like a cuckold walking in on the acrimonious scene of a torrid summer affair. I was a farce, or worse yet, I was Part Of The Crowd. Sure, maybe the crowd smelled of clove cigarettes and Prozac (and that's always cool). But it was a crowd nonetheless. A social type. The very thing I'd been bucking my entire life.

And then it hit me: the New York Times, retro footwear, Steven Malkmus, sashimi, theonion.com, Ira Glass, anal sex, hummus--they were all in on it. All conspirators in this master plan, this scheme designed to draw me in, to plunder my sense of rebellion, to take advantage of my refined taste. It was as if Walt Disney had an evil twin--Earl Disney--that had created his own ironic theme park of independent film houses and literary coffee shops. But instead of Tomorrow Land or Adventure Land, there was Slackerland and Artistland, Gayland and Xanaxland. Instead of Goofy, Pluto and the Seven Dwarves, there were grad students, vegans, and Thom Yorke.

It's a Small World is a desert-themed water ride where Xed-out rave kids in neon jewelry hand out endless cups of drinking water to sweat-soaked tourists beneath immense inflatable plastic figurines. Strangely, it's the same song, only now it's sped up and played over the interminable thump of bass drums under a frenetic laser show while outside the popcorn carts staffed by dudes with shag mullets and ankle-tight black jeans showcase their endless supply of rare vinyl B-sides and pot brownies.

Space Mountain is a never-ending indie rock show where some band fronted by an aging guitar hero with a pot belly performs for the mussy-headed kids as they dart malicious glances around, fighting their contempt for the sell-outs on stage who were, "so much cooler before they signed with Matador." People stand around for days in the same lack-luster slouch dissecting the parade of troubadours who grace the stage, from Robert Pollard to Connor O'berst. They've seen 10,000 bands in ten weeks, spawning 100,000 conversations on guitar effects and song lyrics, and still no one can actually agree on the definition of the word "emo".

And so the whole park ends up being like some grand Orwellian fever dream where everybody walks around pretending to not care about how they look while secretly obsessing over achieving that delicate balance between "random" bedhead and "styled" bedhead, searching for a way out of the park which has begun to feel like some mid-20's slacker prison with green sneakers, only to run up against a few enormous lighted exit signs that say things like "get married" or "join a cult" or "get a real job"--while the one marked "enjoy success at shit you like to do" has a small note taped to the door reading "not in service".

So we stay because we have no choice, while Earl Disney and Stephen Malkmus get rich off our collective naïveté that we are somehow independent individuals who don't follow the crowd that does not follow crowds. And we love them for it because at least we can listen to Pavement instead of U2, and pride ourselves in understanding the distinction. I mean, you have to hang your hat somewhere (even if you bought it in a thrift store franchise), and once you choose a life for yourself there's just no looking back.

Well...I don't know, there's always law school.