Hip
: Once upon a time, I was hip: I was young… a gossip columnist… in San Francisco (when it was hip)… single… no gray hair…
Now I just visit hip.
Tonight, I visited the Soho House, the cool du jour.
Before I went in, I wandered about the former meat district, now a meet district.
Here comes a guy on a Segway damned near run down by one cab and then the next, and I side with the cabs. Too hip to bear. The Birkenstock of transport. I want to shout at the guy: Get a horse! Get a pair of Nikes! Get a cab!
I go into the Soho house and peoplewatch. Over there are Edie Falco (looking better than she ever gets to on TV) and Stanley Tucci. Celebrity quota filled.
Over at that table are single women replaced by single women: Sex and the City plus or minus 10 years.
I watch people pass by and play a new game: Pick the Brit. One guy near me looks like Mr. Bean; too easy.
I’m surrounded by hip. The problem is, I don’t care about hip anymore. Used to. Don’t now. I no longer aspire to it. Lileks is my model: Heartland, not hip.
