Courting Cool

As a 70's era hooligan who blasted obnoxiuosness through the speakers, smoked cigarettes in the girls' room and learned all about the joys of flipping the bird at anyone wearing polyester, listening to disco, or otherwise deemed un-cool, the 1950's homogenization seemed worlds away, a museum exibit at best, a side-show attraction at worst, mocked for its conformity. What did we know, each of us down the line who wouldn't be caught in anything other than blue-jeans. It wasn't allowed if you wanted in the club.
The decade between us and them-the 60's- had loosened ideas, raised hem-lines and lengthened hair. It changed eveything in a big way. But our generation was the remnants of Pandora's Box opened and left with little more to rebel against except pimples and parents who plunged into nostalgia humming doo-wop on an 8-track. We thought we were so hip, set apart from the conservatism adults wallowed in, hip because we sewed patched of Mick Jagger's lips on the asses of our jeans. And to a point, we were, daring consequenses to slap away our freedom, send us to our rooms to think about what we had done (as we smoked cigarettes at the window). It was a progression towards growing away from the assurity of a bed to sleep in, a meal to wake up to, someone to go to if the house caught fire. We never thought the certanty of our cool would fade, that our superiority over repression, greased back in a D.A. or leashed inside a poodle-skirt, would sit next to each other for a beer one day, celebrate the audacity we both had for flipping the bird in three chords.
I think it only took growing into my hormones to see that angst is the same for every generation, that each decade has its own windmills to defeat, real dragons to tame and slap a saddle on for a ride after midnight, after sneaking out our windows.