Country Buffet and the Rebirth Of Cool

Me and Paola have been cool for a minute now. But it's a different cool than you're thinking. No, not that fawned-over mestizaje of rained-in Luso-enlightenment and picked-a-part delta-Chi-town detachment that conceived the bossa nova on a tastefully upholstered snooker table. That's a wondrous theory and all, but you will seldom catch me touting a postcolonial fantasy after it reveals itself to be inconveniently untrue. We're cool like something else altogether. After a few weeks of unbroken routinized boredom, my mind is stuck on a frosty glass, cold harbor, segue stirred memory of the seventeenth time our Tuesday evening plans dissolved into something too temperate, too janky, and I'm good again. You cannot accuse us of not knowing each other.