“‘Meme.’ That wasn’t her name, she was just incredibly fucking selfish.”

Zhubin was kind enough to name me inter-successor to this meme, and I was so happy to be mentioned in someone’s blog other than mine, I just had to bite.
The rules to the Caesar’s Bath meme are as follows, for those of you who have been living under an inter-rock: Behold, the Caesar’s Bath meme! List five things that people in your circle of friends or peer group are wild about, but you can’t really understand the fuss over. To use the words of Caesar (from History of the World Part I), “Nice. Nice. Not thrilling…but nice.”
I’d also like to point out that I *am* refraining from wasting listing one of my five trends as “Memes,” because as the delightful Rick pointed out a few weekends ago, irony and self-referential humor is totally out, and cheerful honesty is the new irony.
So here we go.

  • Bright Eyes — Now, I’ll be the first to admit that “Movement of a Hand” is one of my top ten favorite songs, and when I heard that Conor had a vertiable mountain of songs he’s been composing since he was in the womb and his mother had to hold a wee microphone up to her uterus to catch the clever, scathing lyrics and haunting melodies strummed on his own damn umbilical cord, I was pretty excited.
    But I just can’t get into it. I want to, because liking Bright Eyes may be the last vestige of hip, youthful taste in music I have, save for catching myself humming a Killers song the other day, then celebrating my born-again hipness by listening to two hours of japanese pop music and Sondheim musicals.
    But no, Conor sings almost all his other sappy songs like he just got out of bed after a night of screaming and doing shots of sandpaper. Also, in his “interviews” he’s not only a dick, but a scripted dick. If you’re going to pretend to hate the world, try taking some acting classes.

  • Friendster/MySpace/Facebook — Okay, I’m down with Livejournal, and sure, MSNwhatever and Xanga, but I do not understand the purpose of any of these friend-finder sites. I joined Friendster a while back, and after being added to the friends lists of the few computer savvy people I knew in college, then being added by people who I assume I passed once on the lawn but probably couldn’t pick them out of a lineup of kitchen appliances, I lost track of why I joined in the first place.
    I seriously don’t get how people are so addicted to checking it everyday, posting on the bulletin boards, meeting new people just to hang out, then giving them a shoutout testemonial.
    But there’s not usually an accompanying blog and rarely any interesting facts given about the person in question, so you basically have to trust the friends’ advice. To me, this is like moving to a foreign country and walking around with an entourage and a t-shirt professing how cool you are, but never actually doing anything to prove it.

  • Performance Art — I guess I don’t fully understand what performance art is. I just watched a video of some guy drowning himself in the name of performance art.
    If you watch it, you’ll see that this guy is a pretentious little fuck, and it’s a shame he was resuscitated, but as I was watching this, I wondered what his point was.
    Isn’t performance art supposed to have some redeeming social value, causing us all to look inward and re-evaluate societal norms? This is just some idiot who filmed himself in a bathtub.
    It’s like Jackass, without the delightful humor of Johnny, Bam, and Steve-O.
    Also, I hate Andy Kaufman. I can piss off a bunch of people, too. Does that make me a misunderstood genius comedian in my own time? Summon R.E.M. to write a song about me! I can’t believe they put a man on the moon either, Michael Stipe!

  • Directors with the last name “Anderson” — Yeah, I’m gonna get in trouble for this one.
    I’m talking about Mr. Wes and Mr. P.T., and their questionable movies in question: “Bottle Rocket,” “Rushmore,” “The Royal Tenenbaums,” “The Life Aquatic with Steve Zissou,” “Boogie Nights,” “Magnolia,” Punch-Drunk Love.”
    Hated, hated, hated/fell asleep, didn’t see but certainly would have hated, hated, wanted to kill self hated so much, single-handedly made me lose all respect for Adam Sandler.
    My damn uncle was *IN* “Bottle Rocket,” and I still hated it! Except for his scene, of course, wherein I think the writing was overshadowed by the brilliant acting and the amazing way he was able to convey that he had a super awesome neice.

  • Beer — Guys, I wish I liked it. Guiness is the only thing I can stand, and that’s because it just tastes like a loaf of bread.
    Everything else tastes like it’s stabbing my tongue with sour wheat stalks. And for people who just drink it for the alcohol content, isn’t it cheaper to do, like, three shots of any liquor?
    Bam, bam, bam, hands free for the rest of the night, no ping pong balls falling into it after rolling around a dirty frat floor, no kegs to tap, no roofies — unless you’re into that kind of thing.
    But as a sippin’ drink? Seriously, I go out to dinner with my friends and they order a perfectly good cheeseburger and ruin it with some stale wheat juice that gets hot after about four sips.
    I’ll take my diet coke, and bid you good morrow, sir!

I get to name the next people I hope will read this entry without me emailing this link to them and clearing my throat loudly, so I pass the torch onto the Damn Dirty Hippie, Matthew A. Little, and anyone who’s alive over at SDO.

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