An elegy for my enjoyment of zombie movies...

I must be getting near the end of my Netflix queue, because they just sent me Dawn of the Dead. I’m not sure why I even asked for it in the first place. For those of you not familiar with this cinema chestnut, it’s about a world where dead bodies dig their way out of their graves and shuffle around looking for living people to eat. The story concerns four people who hole up in a shopping mall and their travails as a horde of glassy-eyed extras in cheap grey makeup attempt to dine on them. Far be it from me to argue that there isn’t drama in such subject matter. I mean, a world besieged by heartless, soulless creatures who will stop at nothing to devour warm human flesh? That’s the kind of plot that deserves to be right up there with all the fundamentals: boy-meets-girl, the coming of age saga, the plucky underdog beating all the odds.

But still, zombie movies no longer do it for me. Yes, I spent my entire teenage years watching them, but the joy is gone now. Back in the day, I used to think, “Yeah! Awesome! That zombie’s head totally blew up!”. Nowadays, however, I just think, “Yuck. I wish they’d stop blowing zombie heads up. And this acting is really bad.”

Have I grown up or gotten lame? If it’s zombie movies today, what treasured aspect of my youth will I be discarding tomorrow? Will it be the music of Morrissey? Will it be jalapeno-flavored potato chips? Will it be tasteless jokes about my balls? It’s scary to think. Really, really scary. After all, I want to be making tasteless jokes about my balls when the grim reaper comes to get me.

My birthday is coming up in a few days, and I can’t help thinking about things like this.