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Great Ben, just great.
Now North Korea’s got the bomb. I blame you. And here I am, about to spend a whole week in New York City, which is awful for pretty much every kind of threat of attack, especially zombie. Basically, you don’t wanna be trapped in Time Square when Zack starts scratching at your door.
Enough about that though. I feel weird writing you today for a couple reasons. One, I dropped the blog-ball on Friday for the first time, leaving you vacant, helpless on the other end of this keyboard, no doubt crying all over your macbook pro, backlit keys glittering behind the tears. Second, I just saw your ass YESTERDAY, when you were banging down my door demanding liquor and guitar hero, me still in my apron just dusting off the last of my Captain and Tennille collection. You’re such a monster. I was going to add “when you’re drunk,” but that’s only half the story. Then I was gonna say “when you’re sober,” but that joke is played like a junk drawer kazoo.
Speaking of, I’m getting into some different music since there’s only so many times I can listen to What A Fool Believes, apparently. I downloaded (don’t tell!) some dub music. Pete and I were gonna be in a band one time called Dub Ass, but it never solidified. Nothing ever does. Anyhow, since you’re a philistine, I’ll tell you that dub music is a weird outgrowth of reggae, but this time, they’ve got their fingers ALL OVER the loop and reverb and sample and feedback buttons. So it sounds like reggae’s ghost. Or maybe what would happen if Bob Marley and his crew were trapped in an escape pod for like ten years. The album that’s on now is by Scientist, and it’s called “Scientist Rids the World of the Evil Curse of the Vampires”. It’s smooth. But eerie. But also smooth. In an eerie way. There’s a song called “Plague of Zombies”.
This all feeds into my obsession with zombies this week, after reading WWZ. I need something to keep my mind limber before my inevitable complete breakdown while working on the O, which I’ve been told is an abbreviation for “orgasm,” but rest assured, Ben, that that isn’t what I’m talking about. And you, gentle ladies who intercept all my letters, if you’re reading this, if you exist outside my fragile madness, pull your minds from the gutter for just a minute and realize that it isn’t all about you. Okay? I’m serious.