“True story boys. True story…”

As he said this, a room-full of 20-some boys rolled their eyes. Some chuckled. Everyone was scared to make too much of a scene, though. The man that stood before them was the man. He embodied everything that it meant to be at St. John’s Jesuit: strong, independant, unwavering and above all else…a man. He was the football coach, the health teacher, the patriarchial figure of a high school dynasty and an icon to generations that walked in those doors as children, and proudly stepped out as men. He was St. John’s.

Now the curious thing was that his humour, and the real secret to this man, was almost completely lost on his students. Like a joke that you get after you leave the party, this man’s persona was one that you got after you were old enough to appreciate it. Sure, the 15 year olds would catch a glimpse of a smile or a chuckle skate across his stern face here and there. But mostly they knew him as the authority figure. The rebellious ones pretended they saw through it. But what none of us really saw until we were older, was just how much of a joking grandfather this man was. He knew what a bunch of meatheads we were, gangly and prideful. He had seen hundreds come before us with the same cocky swagger. He played the role of disciplinarian and played it well. But underneath, he was just like your grandfather and really cared for us all.

It’s hard to believe that I’m ten years removed from the first time I stepped foot in the Commons at St. John’s. Sometimes I feel so far removed from that period in my life, that it’s almost dreamlike, those four years spent moving from boyhood to manhood. This past Monday, it all came rushing back.

Today, men across the country will likely wipe an invisible tear from their eye. Mr. Beier passed away this week, and with him went the childhood memories of many. They say that in watching someone we care about die, we lose a part of ourself. I know with Ryan (who’s ten-year anniversary is today), this certainly is true. But with the passing on of someone we were midly fond of, someone not close but rather a partial cornerstone in our upbringing, this passing might be more difficult. I cannot measure the impact of my loss with him no longer here. I trusted that his iconic presence was infinite, extending through the cosmic timeline. As long as my memory of St. John’s existed, so would Mr. Beier. Not so, apparently. And now, losing him makes me question my own mortality even more so.

So on this day, December 9, 2004, I remove my cap (so as not to get a J.U.G.) for a man that will forever be a foundational figure in my high school years. I’m sure he’s Upstairs with Ryan, smiling and laughing at us all. He can be Heaven’s compassionate badass, trying to convince Nate, Dave, Tim, Derrick, Jason and Josh that there really is a 5-mile Turkey Trot. We’ll miss you Fred. We miss all of you that left too soon. You’re all forever engrained in our memories.

True story boys. True story.

Whomever stole “cool”…I’d like them to give it back. And not after it’s been used, thank you.

So I’m reading this book, right? It’s the bestest, most rockingist, fantastico thing I’ve read in years. It doesn’t insult me by talking down to me, nor does it puff out it’s chest and speak in an elevated, falsified fashion. It appeals to my intellect and my imagination at the same time. It helps me weave a thread through American cultural history that I’m always yearning to find. But as I read it, I’m saddened by the one question left unanswered (well, to be fair, Leland might get to it eventually, I’ve not finished the book).

Hippness, what’s cool, is so pervasively American…and is still a part of today’s world in countless ways. But the cold hand of marketing has violated Hip in such a gross fashion that to me it seems it’s not quite what it used to be. Hip is elusive, above all that, but aware. Hip is The Lost Generation of writers (ex-patriat Americans) such as Hemingway and Pound. Hip is the Duke Ellington and the jazz masters. From the smokey brooding of Humphrey Bogart to the slang language of first-generation slaves, Hip is underground…and as soon as it’s existence is discovered, it morphs into something else to maintain it’s status. (really the book does an amazing job of shedding light on the multitude of definitions) But nowadays marketing and the media are constantly trying to pimp Hip, exploit it to make a buck. And well, that just ain’t cool.

I guess for me it all ties in with music and art and creativity in general. The creative spirit is something so fragile, so precious and magical that to violate the unspoken sanctity of it is blashphemy. Since hip runs from the limelight, and the lime searchlight is constantly on the lookout for what to exploit next, hip is constantly moving now. Nirvana goes from underground gem to a bastardized supergroup of movement poster boys less than 3 years. The result? The true genius dies off (in this case, literally) and the bloated imposters move in. It happened with hip hop, pulp detective novels in the 30s, film noir and countless other artistic movements.

Is it right to wish for this trend to die off? Would allowing hip to flourish and grow defeat the actual, inherent ingredient that makes it what it is? I guess I’m just overly sensitive to allowing the creative to blossom in someone. I loathe anything that stands in the way of personal growth of any kind, be it spiritual, creative, intellectual or otherwise.

Again, such a tremendous topic is bumped around and reduced by my mindless and incoherent rambling to pure goop. Oh well, read the book and you’ll understand.

All the cool people are doing it.