"I wish to travel through time," the old man said, sitting on his stoop.
"That's easy. Just keep sitting there and you'll do it without much trouble." The dapper-looking man stood leaning on his cane, the obvious 'I-have-lots-of-stops-to-make-today' pose. He seemed to be resisting the urge to check his watch. "You may even make it all the way to tomorrow in but a few hours."
A snort of impatience escaped the old man's nose. "You know that's not what I meant, sir, and to pretend you didn't is a waste of time for the both of us."
"Ah, but there's where you're wrong, Mister Creely." The dapper-looking man's smile could have stretched across the street and blocked traffic. "Time is only a concern for those who can't move around it, and that is a talent which I possess. A talent which, if I'm not mistaken, is what caused you to contact me in the first place."
"So you do know how to get around time." Mister Creely looked smug. "I knew you did, even if you wouldn't come right out and say so over the phone."
"Of course not! Phones are not to be trusted with this sort of information." The dapper-looking man's smile stretched even wider, though it was clear from a slight twitch that he clearly felt as if he'd lost the last exchange. "Nor, I should add, are front lawns especially the best area to have this sort of conversation."
"Too bad. I've heard all about you, so I'll thank you to stay exactly where you are while we conduct our business." This statement was punctuated by a glint of gunmetal in Creely's hand. The blanket over his legs concealed the rest.
This provoked laughter from the dapper-looking man. "Very good, very good! It wouldn't do you any good if I intended to do you harm, but I'm glad to see that you're the clever sort of fellow who knows to do his homework nonetheless. Well then, I'm all ears, Mister Creely. What do you propose to offer me in return for my secrets?"
26 October 2009
25 October 2009
Strange Happenings
I have, of late, become rather discontented with Barry Macsweeny. We didn't get along from the get-go, and I find his poetry trite and boring. It is small wonder to me that his book is out of print, because he sucks. But what use is my opinion? You won't have to read him unless you happen to be taking postmodern poetics as well, which you aren't. Probably.
But I am, and it has made me hate the man. Well, not the man, but certainly I don't like his poetry very much. There's no playing around in it! It's all the same sort of images and themes we've seen before, or maybe I'm just getting cynical. Which is possible. Of course.
And now I am in a strange place, brain-wise. I find myself reading him and thinking that I want to be reading something else, something that isn't Macsweeny's poetry. So I turn to my shelf, and consider it closely, and (instead of a novel) I take down a collection of Bernstein's poetry I got from the library and haven't had the chance to read, and I think what the fuck just happened here?
I wanted a break from work, so I pulled down a book of poetry? I am reading this poetry for pleasure, rather than to feed any sort of research, or because I have to, or anything so strange as that. I pulled the book down because I enjoy reading Charles 'motherfucking' Bernstein and no other reason.
At some point, I became
incredibly
fucking
pretentious.
But I am, and it has made me hate the man. Well, not the man, but certainly I don't like his poetry very much. There's no playing around in it! It's all the same sort of images and themes we've seen before, or maybe I'm just getting cynical. Which is possible. Of course.
And now I am in a strange place, brain-wise. I find myself reading him and thinking that I want to be reading something else, something that isn't Macsweeny's poetry. So I turn to my shelf, and consider it closely, and (instead of a novel) I take down a collection of Bernstein's poetry I got from the library and haven't had the chance to read, and I think what the fuck just happened here?
I wanted a break from work, so I pulled down a book of poetry? I am reading this poetry for pleasure, rather than to feed any sort of research, or because I have to, or anything so strange as that. I pulled the book down because I enjoy reading Charles 'motherfucking' Bernstein and no other reason.
At some point, I became
incredibly
fucking
pretentious.
22 October 2009
Oh Come ON.
It's been some time now, and I hate that fact. I hate the fact that things can only be kept going while I'm more or less depressed or bored or exhausted. Why do I have to be good at complaining but absolutely lousy at explaining why things are awesome and, I should add, are likely to remain awesome for the foreseeable future?
The hell of it is, I love a happy ending. I want everyone to get at least one story that ends happily, but for whatever reason every time I end happily I have this voice saying "it didn't last, you know. Snow White got old or her people realized how brutal she'd been to the previous queen and threw her out on her ass; the prince got poisoned by a bad bit of fish and died, and life was nasty, brutish, and short. Which is an outright lie, of course. The bit of me that enjoys writing, that secretly hopes that something happens in 2012 (not the end of the world, but I'm quite partial to the thought that magic will return and we'll have wizards and dragons again) and is generally happy in the world wants to tell a story, goddammit, and it will probably never get the chance because I come up with happy endings when I'm happy, and when I'm happy I tend not to be able to write.
Until today, which finds me not thrilled but certainly less angry than usual, making a post about not being able to write. Writing about writer's block. Confessing, here and now, that I need very badly to stop reading so much poetry because every time I do I get the urge to try writing it again.
I'm not a fan of the poems I write. I resist the urge whenever possible, but the Language poets seem to have their hooks in me, if only because I cannot help but like the idea of just throwing words together because they sound neat rather than because of any great meaning they may have. That's the sort of thing that makes me think strange thoughts, and having never (at least not in recent memory) written anything that rhymes consistently or at all it's got me rather intrigued. We'll see what happens, but I warn you that it could all come to nothing. In fact; it probably will come to nothing, and that ain't just the cynicism talking. That's good old fashioned common sense.
Fucking Charles Bernstein and his Klupzy Girls.
The hell of it is, I love a happy ending. I want everyone to get at least one story that ends happily, but for whatever reason every time I end happily I have this voice saying "it didn't last, you know. Snow White got old or her people realized how brutal she'd been to the previous queen and threw her out on her ass; the prince got poisoned by a bad bit of fish and died, and life was nasty, brutish, and short. Which is an outright lie, of course. The bit of me that enjoys writing, that secretly hopes that something happens in 2012 (not the end of the world, but I'm quite partial to the thought that magic will return and we'll have wizards and dragons again) and is generally happy in the world wants to tell a story, goddammit, and it will probably never get the chance because I come up with happy endings when I'm happy, and when I'm happy I tend not to be able to write.
Until today, which finds me not thrilled but certainly less angry than usual, making a post about not being able to write. Writing about writer's block. Confessing, here and now, that I need very badly to stop reading so much poetry because every time I do I get the urge to try writing it again.
I'm not a fan of the poems I write. I resist the urge whenever possible, but the Language poets seem to have their hooks in me, if only because I cannot help but like the idea of just throwing words together because they sound neat rather than because of any great meaning they may have. That's the sort of thing that makes me think strange thoughts, and having never (at least not in recent memory) written anything that rhymes consistently or at all it's got me rather intrigued. We'll see what happens, but I warn you that it could all come to nothing. In fact; it probably will come to nothing, and that ain't just the cynicism talking. That's good old fashioned common sense.
Fucking Charles Bernstein and his Klupzy Girls.
08 October 2009
It's shit, right?
"Love," he says, deep into his drink by this point and just about ready to get philosophical, "is a lot like shit."
"Bravo," remarks his drinking companion dryly, unimpressed by this seemingly cynical statement. "I doubt very much, my friend, that what you have just said can go any further than a slightly more vulgar way of saying that old standby 'love stinks.'"
"That is precisely, my good man, where you are completely fucking wrong." He takes a moment now to stifle a belch just in case there are any ladies present and continues, occasionally pausing to sip from a glass of something or other, he can't really remember anymore what it is. "Both shit and love can come upon you suddenly, or slowly. You may spend all day with a slow need to shit building, or you can eat the wrong thing and have to shit immediately. Likewise, love is something that can take its time building up, or in some cases it can be almost instantaneous. It depends on the person, and the circumstances."
"And the spiciness of the dish, of course." A wag calls out from the small crowd that has gathered, shortly before realizing that he really should have thought of a better joke to make than that.
"Perhaps so," the speaker says with a beatific smile that lets the wag know that he could embarrass him right now, but will choose not to do so out of the depths of his merciful nature, "but there is more to it than this."
"Pray tell, enlighten us then." The speaker's drinking companion smiles with a trace of humor. "Let's see how far you can take this ridiculous simile."
The speaker smiles again, and wags a finger at his friend. "A challenge that I shall rise to, though it be laughably easy. For love, sir, like shit, can be very messy as well. Not in the literal sense, I suppose, though it can involve its fair share of property damage when it goes ill, but it is a very complex thing for some, and can, like a bad shit, make one feel as if death would be a mercy."
A hush has descended over the crowd now, as each listener privately recalled such a moment in their own lives that had in fact perfectly proven the speaker's point. There was also a break as the speaker realized he'd been holding an empty glass for the last few minutes and made an assault on the bar to remedy the situation. His empty glass having been exchanged for a full one, he weaved his way back through the maze of tables and patrons and sat down, fully aware of the expectant looks of those seated nearby, and fully committed to milking it for as long as possible.
"So," he finally says with a smile, after he has taken a few long draughts, "shit, and love. You may find that forcing the issue with either love or shit will only cause unnecessary strain and even physical pain. You may get out alive, of course—and it may even all work out in the end for you despite your rash haste—but you'll know deep down that it could have been better than it was, and that will eventually make everything that you've done seem foolish and eat away at whatever enjoyment you get like a sinister canker. A good shit will happen with very little physical effort, just like love will develop quite naturally (provided, of course, one doesn't do anything stupid). Sometimes one must admit that one must give up and merely get off the toilet while things develop a little further."
Even the speaker's drinking companion is slightly impressed now, leaning closer and even occasionally raising an eyebrow to show surprise at a particular point. The speaker himself is feeling slightly confused as to where he is getting these ideas, they seem to flow from some hidden part of his mind that has, he assumes, always known these things to be true and only now had the opportunity to spread the world. Idly he wonders if perhaps this is how the great philosophers felt when they gave their talks.
"We all act differently when it comes to our shit. Some will trumpet their successes, urging people to come in and observe what they have wrought with only their digestive system and some food. Others cannot bear the thought of it being widely known they shit at all, and will in fact endeavor to cultivate an image of being a shitless being, waiting until in the privacy of their home to do the deed. And so it is with love: some choose to show their love to the world, and others deny they have ever felt the emotion. But know this: Everyone shits, and everyone loves."
The entire bar erupts into spontaneous applause, men and women embrace, and a few people stand up and stride into the bathrooms with a new sense of purpose. The speaker's companion rolls his eyes and nudges his companion. "Well, I suppose I must confess to being impressed. Did you have that speech planned beforehand, by any chance?"
"Nah," the speaker says, having come down from the initial rush of excitement that comes from being wildly applauded by a room full of strangers (well, mostly strangers). "I pulled the whole thing out of my ass."
Somewhere, a drummer feels the urge to do a rimshot, and doesn't know why.
"Bravo," remarks his drinking companion dryly, unimpressed by this seemingly cynical statement. "I doubt very much, my friend, that what you have just said can go any further than a slightly more vulgar way of saying that old standby 'love stinks.'"
"That is precisely, my good man, where you are completely fucking wrong." He takes a moment now to stifle a belch just in case there are any ladies present and continues, occasionally pausing to sip from a glass of something or other, he can't really remember anymore what it is. "Both shit and love can come upon you suddenly, or slowly. You may spend all day with a slow need to shit building, or you can eat the wrong thing and have to shit immediately. Likewise, love is something that can take its time building up, or in some cases it can be almost instantaneous. It depends on the person, and the circumstances."
"And the spiciness of the dish, of course." A wag calls out from the small crowd that has gathered, shortly before realizing that he really should have thought of a better joke to make than that.
"Perhaps so," the speaker says with a beatific smile that lets the wag know that he could embarrass him right now, but will choose not to do so out of the depths of his merciful nature, "but there is more to it than this."
"Pray tell, enlighten us then." The speaker's drinking companion smiles with a trace of humor. "Let's see how far you can take this ridiculous simile."
The speaker smiles again, and wags a finger at his friend. "A challenge that I shall rise to, though it be laughably easy. For love, sir, like shit, can be very messy as well. Not in the literal sense, I suppose, though it can involve its fair share of property damage when it goes ill, but it is a very complex thing for some, and can, like a bad shit, make one feel as if death would be a mercy."
A hush has descended over the crowd now, as each listener privately recalled such a moment in their own lives that had in fact perfectly proven the speaker's point. There was also a break as the speaker realized he'd been holding an empty glass for the last few minutes and made an assault on the bar to remedy the situation. His empty glass having been exchanged for a full one, he weaved his way back through the maze of tables and patrons and sat down, fully aware of the expectant looks of those seated nearby, and fully committed to milking it for as long as possible.
"So," he finally says with a smile, after he has taken a few long draughts, "shit, and love. You may find that forcing the issue with either love or shit will only cause unnecessary strain and even physical pain. You may get out alive, of course—and it may even all work out in the end for you despite your rash haste—but you'll know deep down that it could have been better than it was, and that will eventually make everything that you've done seem foolish and eat away at whatever enjoyment you get like a sinister canker. A good shit will happen with very little physical effort, just like love will develop quite naturally (provided, of course, one doesn't do anything stupid). Sometimes one must admit that one must give up and merely get off the toilet while things develop a little further."
Even the speaker's drinking companion is slightly impressed now, leaning closer and even occasionally raising an eyebrow to show surprise at a particular point. The speaker himself is feeling slightly confused as to where he is getting these ideas, they seem to flow from some hidden part of his mind that has, he assumes, always known these things to be true and only now had the opportunity to spread the world. Idly he wonders if perhaps this is how the great philosophers felt when they gave their talks.
"We all act differently when it comes to our shit. Some will trumpet their successes, urging people to come in and observe what they have wrought with only their digestive system and some food. Others cannot bear the thought of it being widely known they shit at all, and will in fact endeavor to cultivate an image of being a shitless being, waiting until in the privacy of their home to do the deed. And so it is with love: some choose to show their love to the world, and others deny they have ever felt the emotion. But know this: Everyone shits, and everyone loves."
The entire bar erupts into spontaneous applause, men and women embrace, and a few people stand up and stride into the bathrooms with a new sense of purpose. The speaker's companion rolls his eyes and nudges his companion. "Well, I suppose I must confess to being impressed. Did you have that speech planned beforehand, by any chance?"
"Nah," the speaker says, having come down from the initial rush of excitement that comes from being wildly applauded by a room full of strangers (well, mostly strangers). "I pulled the whole thing out of my ass."
Somewhere, a drummer feels the urge to do a rimshot, and doesn't know why.
03 October 2009
Owie.
A sort of stumbling, lurching feeling that starts in the chest and dives downward, burrowing through lungs, stomach, intestines, hips, knees, feet, leaving you wanting to collapse, fall in a heap on the floor (throw out your arms to catch yourself, maybe land on your knees bowing as if before an altar) but no. No you aren't going to be the one to fall first, have some goddamned dignity for once in your life, thrust a fist into your own stomach or dig your nails into your palms and feel your head knit itself back together into a meaningful order (or meaningful anarchy, thoughts that were rushing outward turn and rush inward, reaching critical mass as another wave seems to come from the left, sending your head spinning stumble sideways into a wall, throw a hand out to wave off offers of assistance, "I'm okay, it's okay, don't worry about me"). Breathe heavily through your teeth and force yourself to stand at attention like some half-assed soldier, try shaking your head back and forth experimentally just to check balance, concentrate on one foot in front of the other.
Neck's gotten uncomfortably hot, blood pounding a little too fast, breath coming in gasps now loosen your collar and keep moving, you don't have far to go here just gotta make it upstairs to the medicine cabinet and then you'll be able to collapse, dissolve into spasms and sweat if you so choose but honestly you'll do a lot better if you
Someone mentions calling a doctor, the critical thing to do is stop them from bringing that into this, you know damn well they can't do anything but use a needle instead of a pill and either way you can't afford it, because needles are scary and fuck that. Get through the door, grab the pill, take it, collapse against a wall, and there you are.
We have now reached your destination. Enjoy the ride, such as it is.
Neck's gotten uncomfortably hot, blood pounding a little too fast, breath coming in gasps now loosen your collar and keep moving, you don't have far to go here just gotta make it upstairs to the medicine cabinet and then you'll be able to collapse, dissolve into spasms and sweat if you so choose but honestly you'll do a lot better if you
Someone mentions calling a doctor, the critical thing to do is stop them from bringing that into this, you know damn well they can't do anything but use a needle instead of a pill and either way you can't afford it, because needles are scary and fuck that. Get through the door, grab the pill, take it, collapse against a wall, and there you are.
We have now reached your destination. Enjoy the ride, such as it is.
26 September 2009
Starting and Ending
It begins with water on a shore. It is not a lake, it is not a river, it is not an ocean. The sea, perhaps; something like the uncomfortable middle child of bodies of water, unable to be fresh water but unable to call itself an ocean unless in its dreams. This sea is relatively calm, breakers hitting the shoreline again and again, making something for its own amusement. Rocks are worn away by the water and time; the footprints of the sea.
The shoreline more than anything else is what fascinates the man standing on the rocks. The sea is vast and blue, building into waves and being generally predictable, yes. And the rocks, they're predictable too: he can see the vast patterns that time and tides have left behind clearly before him. Yet while he can watch the sea move, it is not as surprising as the rocks, which do not seem like things that are supposed to move having clearly moved nonetheless. They have lost weight, they have rolled and tumbled in some spots, and in others they have never rolled but have been worn into new shapes, the exposed bones of the world being picked over by the vulture that is the rise and fall of the tides to wear down into pebbles and sand and things smaller than that. He too has some of these rocks with him, they have cut his leg when he slipped, leaving a bit of themselves in return for a blood sacrifice to some ancient creature long slumbering.
The man rubs his leg reflexively, succeeding only in spreading the blood around and in general making the whole thing look worse than it actually is. It itches where the skin has already started to knit itself back together, the bleeding having long since stopped. The tide has started to come back in, and it seems to him that if he does not wish to be stranded, he should turn around and head back. At the same time, he can see more of the rocks before him, beckoning him forward, telling him that he can stand at the very edge of the continent and stare across the sea to the land beyond, if only he will stop worrying about the tides and walk with care, with reverence—for the seashore has been around for a long time and it has grown to expect a certain amount of respect from those who would walk upon it and challenge the sea.
Doubt is etched on his face, the indecision as clear as day. It seems to him that it is a rare thing to stand where few have stood; to know that the world would show no sign of his passing but would remember, at least privately, that he had stood on a rock's surface that would be worn away and never stood on again. But he has his responsibilities, and he was supposed to be at dinner soon, and should the sea sneak up on him it is certain that people will miss him.
But the rock's call is strong, stronger than his worries, and as he takes yet another step toward the endless ocean, as he totters on what feels like the edge of the world, land and civilization behind him and the sea before him, he smiles. Time, for once, decides to be just a little more leisurely. The sea is not cowed by that smile, and its responsibilities are greater than any the man has, but just the same it comes in just a little more slowly than it should, to give him time to pick his way across the land (carefully, and with the slightest of limps), back to where the bones of the earth cease to jut and instead lay flat, as if to say that having crossed the jagged rock, he has earned the respect of the ground and shall be borne safely to his destination.
The shoreline more than anything else is what fascinates the man standing on the rocks. The sea is vast and blue, building into waves and being generally predictable, yes. And the rocks, they're predictable too: he can see the vast patterns that time and tides have left behind clearly before him. Yet while he can watch the sea move, it is not as surprising as the rocks, which do not seem like things that are supposed to move having clearly moved nonetheless. They have lost weight, they have rolled and tumbled in some spots, and in others they have never rolled but have been worn into new shapes, the exposed bones of the world being picked over by the vulture that is the rise and fall of the tides to wear down into pebbles and sand and things smaller than that. He too has some of these rocks with him, they have cut his leg when he slipped, leaving a bit of themselves in return for a blood sacrifice to some ancient creature long slumbering.
The man rubs his leg reflexively, succeeding only in spreading the blood around and in general making the whole thing look worse than it actually is. It itches where the skin has already started to knit itself back together, the bleeding having long since stopped. The tide has started to come back in, and it seems to him that if he does not wish to be stranded, he should turn around and head back. At the same time, he can see more of the rocks before him, beckoning him forward, telling him that he can stand at the very edge of the continent and stare across the sea to the land beyond, if only he will stop worrying about the tides and walk with care, with reverence—for the seashore has been around for a long time and it has grown to expect a certain amount of respect from those who would walk upon it and challenge the sea.
Doubt is etched on his face, the indecision as clear as day. It seems to him that it is a rare thing to stand where few have stood; to know that the world would show no sign of his passing but would remember, at least privately, that he had stood on a rock's surface that would be worn away and never stood on again. But he has his responsibilities, and he was supposed to be at dinner soon, and should the sea sneak up on him it is certain that people will miss him.
But the rock's call is strong, stronger than his worries, and as he takes yet another step toward the endless ocean, as he totters on what feels like the edge of the world, land and civilization behind him and the sea before him, he smiles. Time, for once, decides to be just a little more leisurely. The sea is not cowed by that smile, and its responsibilities are greater than any the man has, but just the same it comes in just a little more slowly than it should, to give him time to pick his way across the land (carefully, and with the slightest of limps), back to where the bones of the earth cease to jut and instead lay flat, as if to say that having crossed the jagged rock, he has earned the respect of the ground and shall be borne safely to his destination.
17 September 2009
Zombies, in Theory
I have a big confession to make.
I don't really like zombie films all that much. The few zombie films I do like are either patently ridiculous (Army of Darkness, for example, which stretches the definition of what makes a zombie in the first place and what makes a reanimated skeletal army... at what point do you lose just enough flesh to be considered "skeleton warrior" instead of zombie anyway?) or contain zombies that are barely zombies at all (28 Days Later's zombies were not 'true' zombies because they didn't reanimate the dead, they just made you FUCKING CRAZY AND ANGRY). I would venture to say the only 'true' zombie film I've watched and enjoyed was Sean of the Dead, and I only watched that because of Simon Pegg's presence and the bit where they throw the Batman soundtrack at a zombie.
In short, I like zombies in theory but not so much in practice; or at least not in cinematic practice. I can read about zombies in books, or look at comics of them, and some of my favorite games involve the killing of zombies—but put a zombie on the silver screen and I'm likely to tune out completely. I appear to have a very low threshold of icky things, and dudes chewing on other dudes is apparently where I draw the line. Zombie movies are almost too real for me, or maybe I just get tired of watching people get bitten and torn apart by ravening hordes of undead. It doesn't help that most zombie movies are fucking boring, either.
I mean let's face it: the vast majority of zombie movies fall into one of two categories: AHH THE DEAD ARE RISING WHAT DO WE DO OH NO THE HIGH PRESSURE SITUATION HAS CAUSED US TO TURN ON ONE ANOTHER or WE ARE THE MILITARY AND WILL SOLVE THIS PROBLEM OH WAIT NO WE WERE NOT PREPARED THIS HIGH PRESSURE SITUATION HAS CAUSED US TO TURN ON ONE ANOTHER. You can only see that so many times before it gets old (and very few people can really do it as well as Romero's Night of the Living Dead, which did the first one and did it well enough that it really doesn't bear re-doing over and over again). I still remember trying to watch... I think it was Day of the Living Dead or something. I don't remember clearly, just that this guy who I knew kept telling me it was a great zombie movie and I should see it.
So here I am, a dude who enjoys hunting zombies in Resident Evil even though it makes me wet myself in terror from time to time, and adores Left 4 Dead even though I no longer have the ability to play it, and who did a lot (and I mean a lot) of running around in Urban Dead before I forgot my login information (in fact, I will probably roll up a new Urban Dead account now that it's on my mind).
I am following the development of DoubleBear's ZRPG with the sort of rabid attention that normal people reserve for the development of their own children, and have already decided that if my computer cannot run it upon its release I will just have to get a new one, won't I? Because it's a zombie RPG that focuses on the actual survival part of the scenario and not just killing zombies (which is enjoyable but to take that extra survival element and add it to the proceedings is just... I mean come on, I'm a fucking English major specializing in postmodernism. Yes I do want you to put extra thought into the societal concerns of a zombie outbreak, please). I spend most of my free time fiddling around with my own zombie world, trying to think of the sort of things that Thomas Pynchon would put into his zombie books if he wrote them. But put me in front of a zombie movie and my immediate response will be either "fuck this movie" or "seriously I don't need to see that many livers and shit guys cut it out."
So I guess what I am trying to say is that when I see trailers for a movie like Zombieland, which is apparently all about killing zombies in creative/hilarious ways, I feel entirely too conflicted for my own good. On the one hand, it's about zombies! And killing them in creative/hilarious ways! On the other hand, I'm just not a zombie movie fan. I've tried.
But something deep down tells me that I'm going to wind up seeing that damned movie one way or another. Maybe it'll be pirated (I do not wish to spend time rotting in an English prison, however, so probably not), or maybe I'll rent it, or maybe I will actually drag my ass to a movie theatre and watch it on the screen. And more than likely, I'll be disappointed. But I'll go, because it's zombies, and I keep waiting for the zombie movie that actually holds my attention for more than like thirty minutes and doesn't do so because I have a man crush on Simon Pegg.
I don't really like zombie films all that much. The few zombie films I do like are either patently ridiculous (Army of Darkness, for example, which stretches the definition of what makes a zombie in the first place and what makes a reanimated skeletal army... at what point do you lose just enough flesh to be considered "skeleton warrior" instead of zombie anyway?) or contain zombies that are barely zombies at all (28 Days Later's zombies were not 'true' zombies because they didn't reanimate the dead, they just made you FUCKING CRAZY AND ANGRY). I would venture to say the only 'true' zombie film I've watched and enjoyed was Sean of the Dead, and I only watched that because of Simon Pegg's presence and the bit where they throw the Batman soundtrack at a zombie.
In short, I like zombies in theory but not so much in practice; or at least not in cinematic practice. I can read about zombies in books, or look at comics of them, and some of my favorite games involve the killing of zombies—but put a zombie on the silver screen and I'm likely to tune out completely. I appear to have a very low threshold of icky things, and dudes chewing on other dudes is apparently where I draw the line. Zombie movies are almost too real for me, or maybe I just get tired of watching people get bitten and torn apart by ravening hordes of undead. It doesn't help that most zombie movies are fucking boring, either.
I mean let's face it: the vast majority of zombie movies fall into one of two categories: AHH THE DEAD ARE RISING WHAT DO WE DO OH NO THE HIGH PRESSURE SITUATION HAS CAUSED US TO TURN ON ONE ANOTHER or WE ARE THE MILITARY AND WILL SOLVE THIS PROBLEM OH WAIT NO WE WERE NOT PREPARED THIS HIGH PRESSURE SITUATION HAS CAUSED US TO TURN ON ONE ANOTHER. You can only see that so many times before it gets old (and very few people can really do it as well as Romero's Night of the Living Dead, which did the first one and did it well enough that it really doesn't bear re-doing over and over again). I still remember trying to watch... I think it was Day of the Living Dead or something. I don't remember clearly, just that this guy who I knew kept telling me it was a great zombie movie and I should see it.
The dead started popping out of graves, and ate some young punk rockers who were fucking in the graveyard, and grabbed some poor bastard in an ambulance. By the end of that scene (which was probably like a half hour into the film) I turned the thing off. It wasn't that I was particularly disturbed; this was late 70s/early 80s film, after all, and the only thing disturbing were the haircuts. But the film was boring, and in such a visceral way that I almost would have rather been subjected to another viewing of Goodfellas (okay, let's not be too over the top. Half of Goodfellas, maybe) than endure another second of the film. Whenever I sit down to watch a zombie movie, it always winds up causing the same sort of visceral ennui, which is a paradoxical feeling I didn't know one could be capable of feeling.
So here I am, a dude who enjoys hunting zombies in Resident Evil even though it makes me wet myself in terror from time to time, and adores Left 4 Dead even though I no longer have the ability to play it, and who did a lot (and I mean a lot) of running around in Urban Dead before I forgot my login information (in fact, I will probably roll up a new Urban Dead account now that it's on my mind).
I am following the development of DoubleBear's ZRPG with the sort of rabid attention that normal people reserve for the development of their own children, and have already decided that if my computer cannot run it upon its release I will just have to get a new one, won't I? Because it's a zombie RPG that focuses on the actual survival part of the scenario and not just killing zombies (which is enjoyable but to take that extra survival element and add it to the proceedings is just... I mean come on, I'm a fucking English major specializing in postmodernism. Yes I do want you to put extra thought into the societal concerns of a zombie outbreak, please). I spend most of my free time fiddling around with my own zombie world, trying to think of the sort of things that Thomas Pynchon would put into his zombie books if he wrote them. But put me in front of a zombie movie and my immediate response will be either "fuck this movie" or "seriously I don't need to see that many livers and shit guys cut it out."
So I guess what I am trying to say is that when I see trailers for a movie like Zombieland, which is apparently all about killing zombies in creative/hilarious ways, I feel entirely too conflicted for my own good. On the one hand, it's about zombies! And killing them in creative/hilarious ways! On the other hand, I'm just not a zombie movie fan. I've tried.
But something deep down tells me that I'm going to wind up seeing that damned movie one way or another. Maybe it'll be pirated (I do not wish to spend time rotting in an English prison, however, so probably not), or maybe I'll rent it, or maybe I will actually drag my ass to a movie theatre and watch it on the screen. And more than likely, I'll be disappointed. But I'll go, because it's zombies, and I keep waiting for the zombie movie that actually holds my attention for more than like thirty minutes and doesn't do so because I have a man crush on Simon Pegg.
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