Ok, so what’s the big deal with kooks?
Why all the hate?
Is it really that big of a deal if somebody can’t surf?
And the answer to that question is a resounding, “No!”
It’s not a big deal if somebody can’t surf.
So ok, so what’s the big deal, then?
Well, here we go. Here we go, once again, attempting to lay out that which is obvious to those who know what’s up, to those who not only don’t know what’s up, but who also have a strong interest in never knowing what’s up, lest it impact their own little selfish agenda.
Kooks are a problem because they swarm those places where the waves are just a weency bit better than elsewhere, without having the minimal skill set to properly utilize those better waves. And then, beyond that, they place themselves directly in the way of those people who have busted their asses for years and years, bettering themselves and their surfing, disrupting what would have been good waves, well-ridden by competent surfers, and in the end, nobody gets to properly utilize the best waves around, and those waves get wasted as a result.
The kooks should be down the beach somewhere, riding waves more suited to their own reduced skill sets, working diligently to improve themselves, and then, only after they’ve finally developed their own set of proper surfing skills, should they start surfing better waves with the better surfers.
But the kooks don’t see it that way.
Not at all, in fact.
Perhaps an analogy might be somewhat instructive.
So ok, let’s try an analogy.
Let’s pretend there’s a group of buskers on a public street corner, and they’re pretty damn good at what they do. Maybe one of ‘em is playing harmonica. Maybe another one is playing drums on a set of plastic buckets. Maybe another one has a guitar.
Doesn’t really matter what they’re playing, what matters is that they’re really fucking good.
These guys are wailing. Really laying it down.
And they’ve been coming to the same street corner for years now.
Passers-by have come to expect to see and hear them when they’re strolling down the boulevard, and they like what they hear, and they toss their coins and bills into the tip bucket, and everybody’s happy.
No problem, right?
Until a group of kooks shows up and ruins it for everybody.
The kooks see the buskers, and the kooks see the appreciative crowd, and the kooks see that the buskers are having a blast with what they’re doing, and the kooks want to have some fun too.
Ok, so far, no problem.
Everybody wants to have fun.
And everybody should be allowed to have fun.
Except that the kooks, in their laziness and short-sighted ignorance, have found a sure-fire way to fuck it up for everybody.
The kooks don’t really understand how the fun is being had, you see, and instead of trying to figure out how fun actually works, they fall into monkey-see-monkey-do mode, and maladroitly attempt to copy the same things that the people who are having fun are doing without first putting in the requisite time and effort to get proficient at it, thinking that they’ll have some of this good fun too.
And so, as selfish idiots with an overblown sense of personal entitlement, the kooks just sit down right next to the buskers, and take out a bunch of cooking pots, plastic squeeze-horns, and a toy-store guitar with untuned strings, and start blazing away without any tune, any rhythm, or any proper skill at all, as loud as they possibly can.
The faces on the passers-by grow dark, the buskers immediately stop playing, and everybody looks at the kooks with angry expressions and asks them, “What the fuck, guys, what the fuck do you think you’re doing?”
And the kooks stop and tell each other they’re really playing good today, give each other some more encouraging cheer-leader grins, a couple of “WhooHooo’s” and smugly inform everybody that they’re out having fun jamming on the street corner.
One kook says to the other, “The best musician is the one who’s having the most fun,” and all of the kooks erupt in a chorus of “WhooHoooo’s” and big TV-preacher smiles to prove beyond the shadow of any doubt just exactly who the best musicians are on this street corner.
When questioned by one of the buskers as to exactly why they decided to sit down right next to them, the kooks all become highly indignant and with voices dripping with condescension they inform the buskers that, “This is a public street, duh, and we’re allowed to sit anywhere we want to in public. We’ve got rights, duh!”
And so, because they’re lazy, because they’re lacking in any talent, because they think they’ve got rights, and because murder is frowned upon by the local authorities, the kooks have successfully fucked it up for everybody.
They steadfastly refuse to depart, the buskers ripping-good music can no longer be heard over the din, and all of the passers-by drift away.
In the end, what was once a pretty cool street corner, filled with joyful sounds and genuinely happy people, has become a lonesome source of harsh dissonance that is avoided by everyone except for the group of kooks who, in their zeal to prove they’re the best musicians because they’re having the most fun, doggedly soldier on, passing “WhooHoooo’s” back and forth amongst themselves, displaying as much false happiness as they possibly can, persistently refusing to confront the cold facts of the matter, which are that they have spoiled the whole thing for everybody, including themselves.
The buskers have moved on to another street corner, and the cycle will begin anew, and the kooks will never take the least responsibility for any of their actions.
It is the way of kooks, after all, and they are so stupid and selfish, that they do not even know they’re stupid and selfish.
But in the end, over the course of time, they inevitably become their own punishment, in ways both manifold and subtle as the falsehoods of their lives grow and multiply, and it is not for us to worry after them.
They are to be brushed aside, in similar manner as they attempt to brush us aside.
They are beneath our contempt.