The Jimmy Failla Sun Times Tribune Post Dispatch – 3/8/10

I know a lot of you (3 people) must be wondering where the hell I’ve been the past week well the good news is I’m alive. Barely. Ya see I’m 33 and I have a baby which sounds pretty ordinary until you realize what 33 with a baby makes me a prime candidate for the one of the leading male killers in the united states today. No I’m not talking about smoking or drunk driving I’m talking about THE MINI-VAN. The big MV. No ones cool ever recovers from the big MV.

I know some of you might be reading this and saying to yourself, hey wait a minute I drive a mini van and I’m cool. Well the good news is you are, providing you own a TIME MACHINE. Get in your mini van and go back to the 1600’s and you’ll be like the guy who put small pox in it’s place. People will be blown away. But get in a minivan and go anywhere in 2010 and chicks will flea your presence quicker than you can say third row of seating with removable head rests.

Don’t get me wrong, I realize I’m not cool anymore. You pretty much make peace with that when you go in to pickup your cab in the morning and there’s a Uguanden guy whose been in the country a half hour that’s also doing the gig. Earlier than that, really. Basically your cool expires the first time anyone calls you sir. Sir is like coolness kryptonite. You could be walking down the street with a wad of dough, a 9 foot tall Brazilian super model, and a Maybach waiting to take you to a three way with the models twin sister and if somebody calls you sir you may not even have time to process it but the damage is done. Once a sir gets shot into the universe on your behalf its like society gets an rss feed from a universal database updating your coolness. It’s all downhill Mr. Super model shagger, take it from a pro.

I was called sir about 3 years ago by a nineteen year old girl I was checking out at Carolines before a show. I was sitting at the bar having an amstel light feeling ok. A hot girl comes by with those boots that go so high they basically turn into a turtle neck. My first instinct is of course to notice. I mean shit I’m married but I’m not dead, is what I told myself. And then she made a hard u-turn and walks right towards me. At that point I’m like well Jimbo, what can I say you still got it. Fast foward thirty seconds later when she’s just asked “Sir” if he knows where they can go to smoke a cigarette and I’ve just told her. Now I’m saying to myself well Jimbo, you’ve still got it, those directions to the smoking area!!!!

I laughed and laughed. For one I deserved it for checking out women with a wedding ring on tight and two I had no idea how badly I needed it. Waving goodbye to your cool is the most liberating thing a guy can do. It’s like a free pass to cut every style and appearance corner imaginable. There’s no more pressure. No one expects anything from you. Your part of the forgotten bunch. That three hundred million or so group of people that are free to assault drive throughs, buy McMansions, get fat, force our kids to do something athletic year round and complain about the popular music of the day. Basically, when you wave goodbye to your cool you wave goodbye to giving a shit.

Now, having said all that, there is a difference between knowing your not cool and broadcasting it to the world and that’s where me an the mini van go our separate, four thousand pound ways. Philosophically anyway. I’ve got a wife, a baby, and a golden retriever to contend with so I must stand vigilant. At any point those creature comforts can swallow me whole. Keep running, JIM, YOU UNCOOL SLOB YOU.