UNCOOL AND THE GANG

The way to the dirty-plate bin at Anna’s Taqueria was blocked by four beefy alternatypes in earrings, spiky hair, denim and their thirties. Even if the physical barrier wasn’t there, I still would have been stopped dead by their conversation.

“I hear Limp Bizkit has a new album out,” one said, fiddling with the drink machine.

I winced.

“Sting’s coming out with one,” another said, depositing his plate.

I cringed.

“I hear they’re touring with Three Doors Down,” a third said, standing behind the rest, waiting.

I gaped.

“It’s going to be awesome. It’s going to be huge,” one of them said mildly as they filed past me.

I stood helplessly for a moment trying to process what I’d heard, but nothing seemed to fit. There was no irony in these people, no satire. They were in appreciative earnest during their limp through the pantheon of music’s runner-ups and smug underachievers. I was certain the Vanilla Ice revival would be mentioned next, and that if I followed them I might overhear references to Styx, Poison and Ratt.

But I deposited my plate and went running for the other exit.