My granddaughter dressed herself for camp the other day in tube socks and a unicorn tiara. And I thought: “Is there anyone cooler than a 4 year old who just doesn’t care?”

Because the essence of cool – its oozy nitrogenous base – is not caring. Little kids are great at not caring. The rest of us worry too much.

Here’s the culprit: A functional society is based on the well-being of the group, not the individual, which is instilled in us from the moment we sign up for pre-school, soccer or church camp.

Yet, really epic cool – Jagger’s swagger or Sandler’s smirk – is all about individual expression, which comes from not being conventional. That’s so rare. And really quite brave, I suppose (I’m too conventional to know).

Look, I know that’s a lot to digest. But I get these rushes of suburban revelation, and I feel obligated to share. They’re not for everyone, obviously. So, fortunately, I have you.

Thank you.

Here’s the thing about being a writer: If you ponder the love lives of poodles – are they picky? are they tender? – you might be a writer.

If you wonder why your saliva suddenly tastes a little salty, and what that means about your pistachio intake, you might be a writer.

If most of your dreams are nightmares, you might be a writer.

If not, you’re probably not a writer. Congrats, you’re safe. Count your blessings and carry on.

Of course, towering over all other literary types: the sportswriter.

I used to be one. Gave it up for Lent, but I still get my salty sportswriter impulses, my urges to weigh in on these Dodgers, for instance, or the Clippers, who are turning into an NBA old folks home.

What fun!

There have been some truly magnificent sportswriters over the years. A guy by the name of Red Smith, another guy named Jim Murray. Frank DeFord. Tom Verducci. My pal Plaschke for sure.

They were screwy, seething, semi-functional human beings. And their words danced across the sports page.

I’m more of a carp. I live on scraps, muck, mosquito larva. I became a sportswriter when I realized that everything I said had a ketchup squirt of sarcasm to it.

Or, as I dub them: snarkasms.

Case in point: I spotted Dodger chief executive Stan Kasten at the ballyard recently. He was all grim faced and put upon, being out among the fans as he was (that’s really no place for royalty, Stanley).

Fellow exec Lon Rosen looked even more miserable, like some kid just stole his scooter.

I read the other day that Rosen doesn’t think Dodger games are too loud and frantic.

As you know, baseball once purred like a farmhouse cat. There was the murmur of the crowd between pitches, the churchly moan of the old town organ. Once in a while, some kid whistled a little loud.

Now baseball sounds like a frat party where someone is lighting off sticks of dynamite.

Oh well. I suppose there’s a reason the Dodgers draw 4 million fans each year, right? Maybe they enjoy all the strobes and atomic bombs.

Maybe this is America, circa 2025.

I prefer baseball as a sedative; now it’s a stimulant … a meth. At one point in every Dodger game, I can feel my soul trying to flee my bod.

“What happened to all the purists?” the lovely and patient older daughter asked the other night.

Great question. Food is too fussy. Concerts too glam. New sedans too larded with indecipherable tech.

Give me basic any day. Give me dogs, as I proselytized last week … goldens, beagles, mutts.

“We don’t deserve dogs,” noted my pal Druck.

Yeah, but we sure do need them.

We also need newborns, like my new grandkid, Mookie: No tattoos. No nose rings. At least so far.

We also need music stripped of pretense. Harry Chapin. John Sebastian. Paul Simon.

Similarly, we need real baseball back, soulful and sublime: the thwack of the catcher’s mitt; the cry of the vendor hawking cotton candy.

Spotted a funny story the other day about a California woman who was mistakenly listed as the return address for Amazon products, so her driveway was soon overflowing with items she didn’t order.

Is that the new American Dream or what?

My American Dream? A cold beer in my left hand, two Dodger Dogs in my right.

And the murmur of Dodger fans – among the best in baseball – spotting the first signs of a late-inning rally.

Baseball at its cool, oozy best.

 

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