The uncoolness of this is equivalent to hanging out with expert Texas Hold'em poker players and mentioning that you're really into Old Maid.
Or going to a car show and glancing indifferently at the Aston Martin DB6 Mach II and then fondling the riced-out Pinto.
Or taking a Larousse Gastronomique cooking class and sharing your recipe for Velveeta and bologna cups prepared lovingly in a toaster oven.
It is deeply, thoroughly, utterly Uncool.
All my wild flings with hot floppy-fringed men half my age, my bold experimentation with pharmaceuticals, the various unnatural things I perpetrated upon my defenseless hair, all the hanging out with and befriending wanton rockstars, all the traveling to awesome places, the clever bon mots, the amusing anecdotes, the appreciation for the elegant humour of executive transvestites, the kickass media collection that demonstrates excellent tastes but also implies hidden OCD tendencies best left unexplored, the exotic pets, the clothing made of unnatural fibres, the ability to start persistent memes on Teh Intarwebz, being a Poor Starving Artist (with the obligatory paint-spattered clothing and haunted eyes), and a hundred or more other things that apparently have earned me nearly unlimited Cool Points...they are for naught.
Context is cool.