Kids v. Cats.
You know who the Kids are. They’ve been hanging around the city since the beginning of time. They travel in packs and act and dress like the other Kids around them, inspiring varying levels of distaste in everyone, including themselves. They’re scarcely bearable to the other Kids who hang out with them, because those Kids are pissed that they hang out with someone just like them. In New York, you can be a skater Kid or a thug Kid or a hipster Kid, or a banker Kid, or an NYU Kid. The list goes on and on. It just depends on where you do your drinking.
It’s natural to find yourself fantasizing about beating the shit out of them, but don’t hate the Kids. You wouldn’t want one of them to hate you. They’re just impatient to define themselves. In the absence of an actual self, they seek to mimic snippets of other people to cull together a distinct identity. They’re young and inexperienced, but they pine for wisdom. They’re not wise enough to know that wisdom doesn’t come from scowling wistfully on sidewalks and being impressed with their own bookshelf. In New York for instance, where presentation is considered interchangeable with identity, they seek to project the image they desire for themselves. So they get their look on. They hang out in overcrowded bars with overpriced drinks. They move into neighborhoods that they’ve heard are cool and convince themselves they like it there. But don’t worry about them, they’re just having growing pains. They’ll stop thinking only about themselves eventually. Won’t they?
They just want to be Cats, because Cats don’t give a fuck. But it takes time to become a Cat. Or maybe it takes being French. There’s something about a Cat that’s just content. Maybe they just woke up one day and started living the dream. Maybe they were Kids once, too. I don’t know, I’m not a Cat. If I were I wouldn’t be writing this blog. We envy Cats, and we want whatever it is they have. That ease. Cats are effective that way. Like you’ll see a Cat showing mad chest-hair at a restaurant you didn’t ever want to be at until you saw that Cat sitting there with his hot woman looking like 100 bucks, drinking Michelob Ultra. All of a sudden you want a Michelob Ultra, too, and you’re like, “Damn, this Cat.”