Zombie Convention

Torture. There was this show on TV last night. On a bunch of channels simultaneously. I was morbidly fascinated - drawn to the spectacle, kind of like a car wreck, I guess.

I could only take it in small doses, I flipped from Clint Eastwood playing Dirty Harry, running around San Francisco kicking the shit out of crazed, bandana-wearing hippies, and this other thing.

And really the two narratives kind of coalesced. There was some grand narrative of fact and fiction and more fiction un-spooling before my naive, in the bubble, un-believing, Liberal Eyes.

Somehow George Romero was controlling the vertical and horizontal. Think - Night of the Living Dead, Dawn of the Dead, Day of the Dead, Tales from the Darkside, Land of the Dead, Diary of the Dead, Creepshow, etc.

Desiccated living corpses, brain-dead zombies stalked the air-waves, zombies with strange names like: Guliani, Thompson, Romney. And following them was the Stepford-like, self-proclaimed, "hot chick." She looked and sounded alive. But in a strangely clueless, 1950's sitcom sort of way.

What a strange show. And the mantra, it was unbelievable, kind sent a shocking chill of incomprehension coursing through my entire Liberal Body, the mantra rose from the teeming masses, the true believers (who are those people?), I almost can't repeat the mantra, but I must, yes, it was spooky, other-worldly, beyond the living and the dead - "DRILL BABY DRILL, DRILL BABY DRILL..."