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The unforgiving sun of super-stardom set on Cool Runningz almost as quickly as it rose. It materialized like a fiery phoenix, burning through the summer-wear racks at the local Village Discount. Color-coded outfits that would've flung Boys II Men onto their tone-rich ears. Green, purple and hunter's orange striped shorts that dropped to our calves, and lightweight hoodies to match. We were hot on the trail of a Spin cover and we knew it. So we got to the business at hand, documentation.
Our first gig was also the first nail in our coffin (we share one y'all, three-wide). We boarded the L train and rolled out west to Sidekicks, a karaoke bar on the outskirts of Chicago. We met our first fan in transit. We didn't catch his name, but he seemed inclined to change ours. Once we helped him realize that we were indeed a nubile, young boy-band, on our way to fellate destiny, he suggested we be called "Next Stop," as that was where he was getting off. Undaunted, we made our way to the karaoke bar. Sadly, just like Van Gogh, and Ron Reagan after him, Cool Runningz was born to be misunderstood and cast into the gutter. Sidekicks wanted to play no part in our maturation into a rough-and-tumble, song-and-dance squadron. Fucking jerks. They denied us access to their stage and prerecorded pop jams because, as the bouncer said, holding Splish Splashes' Colorado driver's license, "His ID is the wrong color." We had no choice but to lob hella-fresh obscenities his way and shuffle back toward the L.
Destiny, it seemed, was to remain limp and un-fondled, and the world was to stay the dark and shattered place we'd found it. We cannot blame Sidekicks (although we will continue to blame that soulless piece of shit guarding their door) or the world for our rapid disintegration. Maybe we weren't ready for the high highs and the low lows of the boy-band roller-coaster. Or maybe–and I like to think that this is the case–the world wasn't ready for the flaming bobsled ride that would have been, Cool Runningz.
