As I leave and breathe, infertility look who has crawled out between the floorboards of willfully forgotten history!
It’s the Zima Dude!
I know a number of folks who actually dug whatever the hell Zima’s “refreshing alcoholic beverage” was supposed to be, info and have no reason to dismiss their fondness as a form of nostagia-induced derangement. The libationary qualities of product matter less to me than the manufacturer’s extensive efforts to position it as the Official Hooch of the X Generation.
It was tragic enough witnessing every little trend and scene I held dear get colonized and commercially laminated by the rapacious forces of the marketplace. Johnny Rotten yawling out jingles for Mountain Dew? Boston University jocks exerting their clumsy violence in the Landsowne Street mosh pits? Horrible, but managable.
What I couldn’t stomach was the reflected image which Madison Avenue shone back at my generation, as exemplified by our friend up there.
“This is how we see you and think how you would like to see yourself — as a stubbly and rodential facsimile of a human being assembled from discarded pieces of that Spin Doctors guy and the faux Westerberg dude who stalked Allison during the early seasons of Melrose Place. Party on, bro! And drink responsibly!”
Recommended listening: A little bit Sisyphus, a little bit Tantalus.