Not Ready for Cool School

Old Wahoo took the Moose to Car City Records the other day to try to sell some old CDs.

That was a mistake, because Old Wahoo's ego took a hit as he did not quite fit the cool quotient.

Car City Records looks like a record store should - dusty and musty with tons of CDs and vinyl records stashed in cardboard boxes. Nothing fancy, but plenty of street cred.

Old Wahoo, of course, lacks street cred, and there's nothing more loser-like than rolling up to the record store in our Town and Country van. I waltz in with the 2-year-old in one hand and a stack of CDs in an old soup box in the other. I look around and see and hear nothing. Not even crickets.

Finally, I spy the clerk - a late 20s guy with a receding mullet and pale skin except for the black circles under his eyes - sitting in the corner, trying either to ignore or hide from me. His attitude doesn't dissuade me, though. I walk over and ask him if they buy used CDs.

"Yes, but the young country on the top isn't a good sign," he said with as little emotion as possible.

I tried to shrug off the rebuke.

"You mean you don't want to buy my Taylor Swift CDs?" 

I laugh.

No reaction.

After a moment, he speaks again. "It's just not our audience," he said flatly.

I recognize the obvious. I don't fit in there. Never have, never will.

That's fine, I guess, though deep down I wish I was hip, that I was cool, that this guy wanted to buy my sweet "Storm Front" disc by Billy Joel.

I always think my kids still think I'm cool, and I guess I hope they think I always am.

But there will be a day, if it's not already here, when they think I am anything but cool.

That's OK. 'Cause I'm not.

And it didn't need a trip to Car City Classics to figure that out.