Listening to Oingo Boingo always makes me feel a little wistful. We'd listen to it back in college in my friend's car, skipping classes to fight zombies. Chainsaw in one hand, bottle of bleach in the other, we were wild and good and clean, grown up kids on a mission. We'd skulk graveyards at midnight, laughing at the world while we prevented the apocalypse. Some of us used firepower and some of us used science, but friendship was what kept us together. Danny Elfman's irreverent funky gloom was our soundtrack.
Eventually, we all graduated and drifted apart. Got married, stayed wild, left the country, became professors or programmers or therapists or authors or whatever. We still keep in touch a little, but I get a little wistful when I hear Oingo Boingo.
I hope someone else took up zombie hunting when we stopped. Actually, we probably should have figured that out before we stopped. That was ten years ago; the zombies must be teeming now, ready to burst out and overrun the world.
