It’s 10:52 PM on a Wednesday and they’re analyzing the dead. Don’t analyze the dead. Why? They’re dead. The dead and gone are dead and gone. We love, we relish, and we flourish when they remain in our hearts. As it should be. But what about the people who are still roaming this earth aimlessly, guzzling their Vodka as their symbols of superiority? There are class rings. There are jazz band (state champs) jackets. And there is Vodka. Each of which we wear as representations of our triumphs. So you got a class ring? Ya graduated high school. So you wear the jazz jacket? Mazel tov. You play that B flat bari sax, girl. And you jam. As for the Vodka-guzzling nomad in your poverty-stricken hometown? And by that I mean, EVERY character on The Simpsons? (At least the ones who walk out of Moe’s Tavern at 3 AM.) We’ve got a lot of people to worry about, especially those in the jazz jackets with the class rings and the ones at the other end of the spectrum…who wish they had those amenities! And especially those who analyze the dead.
It’s 11:03 PM on a Wednesday, and guess who’s analyzing the dead? My family. All encircling the kitchen table trying to dig deeper into the profundities that are so small I have to squint in my Ray-Bans to pass for a knowledgeable person in their conversation. Squint to look philosophical. Squint to look like Ira Glass. Squint to remember, to strain my eyes, to recall the absurdities in the food chain of interpersonal relations. Marcia and Debbie Ann. Or was it Debbie? Don’t worry. There’s a separate diagram for each. “Was he schitzy?” “There was something deep, I’m not sure what in Bernice’s relationship with Debbie.” “Louise needs professional help.”
Wait, Louise? How boring. But hey, at least we’re talking about the living!