Anyway, that's not important right now. The important thing is: remember Monday Shitlists? Oh, come on, sure you do. They were the sporadically amusing feature that appeared every Monday in this space about a year ago where I would ask you, the slacking-at-work Skullbucket reader, to tell me your thoughts on the worst of everything. It brought everyone who read it to that special place where hatred, anger and laughter meet. I did about a dozen of them until I got bored and ran out of ideas. But boy, weren't they fun? Let's all pretend they were.
Anyway, I got to thinking about this one last night while researching a freelance pitch I'm working on. The piece is called "Platonic Rock", and posits the absurd theory that there are certain irreducible ideals, perfect forms, of rock songs, floating around in the ether waiting for us to make imperfect duplicates of them. In aid of researching the piece, I re-read Kurt Anderson's first book, The Real Thing. Written when he was still in his early 20s, fresh out of Harvard and not yet the editing kingpin, best-selling novelist, or founder of Spy magazine, it basically fronts the same idea: that for all sorts of ideas, objects and concepts, from monarchs to beers to childhood traumas, certain particular examples serve as an ideal, a perfection of type, an example to which all inquiries should be directed. And in his chapter "fun that isn't", he names exclusive discotheques as his sine qua non of miserable enjoyment. (Hey, it was 1980, people still went to discos.)
Now, this isn't a Monday Shitlist, because it's not Monday and this isn't a shitlist. But surely we can not only one-up Kurt Anderson, but top ourselves from the last go-round. As usual, I'll keep my opinions largely to myself, so you won't have to hear about how much I hate camping, strip clubs and ether frolics, but what about you? What is, as I put it once before in my commitment to only steal from the best, is a supposedly fun thing you'll never do again?
NOTE: If you participated last time and this time you post the same thing you did then, you are lower than Dennis Prager's self-knowledge.