When it comes to melancholy, no one does it better than a zombie. Shambling through the streets, a hollow mockery of their former selves, sadly appealing for the company of others, only to kill anyone who comes near by eating their brains, and the whole process starts all over again.
Well, Jazz Fans, let me just say for the record– I get it. I know what it is now, for the first time, to wander the streets aimlessly, searching for something I know I’ll never find, but searching anyway. I understand the need, the emptiness, and the sore feet, and when the zombie moans, it strikes a chord inside of me that echoes the loss, the hopeless despair. Oh, J-Bo.
She’s out there, folks. In harm’s way. As usual, but less usual-er than usual, because now she’s up against the living, and though they’re easier to kill, they’re a bit faster and better armed than zombies. And everywhere I go, each way I turn, I’m reminded of her absence– the empty chair behind the sound board; the empty coffee pot; the empty petty cash drawer; What the fuck, J-Bo?!
Let’s bring ‘em home, folks. Let’s get our beloved boys and girls, and J-Bo, out of the bullet’s path, and back into the zombie’s path where they belong. To think of our fighting men and women out there on the line, actually fighting, is too horrible to comprehend. These kids are the flower of our generation, and too precious to waste. Let’s bring ‘em home– until the next time something comes up that’s more important than their lives. Then, yeah, by all means. USA! USA!
… and the whole process starts all over again.