In my mid-twenties I was a desk jockey.
Clerking in libraries, supporting a small family, I wore khaki pants and comfortable shoes. I had a dental plan. I shaved regularly. I lived for casual Fridays. The public bus was my faithful steed.
I sat in well-worn, pink leatherette seats, headphones in, eyes-closed, my head-bobbing listlessly during lightless winter mornings, stop after stop. The same coffee, idle conversation, routine ruled. Nine blurry hours later, I'd be enroute home, when November nights began at four. I'd read, have a nap, waking in a panic with just enough time to ring the bell for my stop.
Clerking in libraries, supporting a small family, I wore khaki pants and comfortable shoes. I had a dental plan. I shaved regularly. I lived for casual Fridays. The public bus was my faithful steed.
I sat in well-worn, pink leatherette seats, headphones in, eyes-closed, my head-bobbing listlessly during lightless winter mornings, stop after stop. The same coffee, idle conversation, routine ruled. Nine blurry hours later, I'd be enroute home, when November nights began at four. I'd read, have a nap, waking in a panic with just enough time to ring the bell for my stop.
I was quietly going mad.
Around the same time of this clerical gulag, I watched Romero's "Night of the Living Dead". There it was. My new obsession, a distraction from the mundane. To me this film intimated that I wasn't crazy and my zombification was truly taking hold. Within a year, I watched as many zombie films as possible. My growing collection of bathroom readers would be the source of friendly jabs. There would be a lot of eye-rolling if I made comparisons.
The zombie-genre would not be fully accepted into the mainstream for another decade, and I was all too happy to be in a small fringe circle of fanatics. When living-dead-love did finally break into pop-culture, it exploded wide open, sinking its teeth firmly into the brains of Joe Public. I was gutted. It was as though my favourite indie-band had suddenly become popular overnight, its fans unappreciative to their 'true art'. The market flooded with tacky swag. A television series had now become water-cooler worthy.
Now that I had to share, I wondered if people would truly appreciate the genre as I did. I'm not convinced. You see, to the true aficionado, the source of the infection is inconsequential. The comparisons to 9-5ers seemed obvious. We are the living dead, slow moving moaners, limping in packs, brain-starved, riding on buses, punching time-cards and caffeinating to get through groundhog day. Simple.
Survivors of the zombie apocalypse face another set of challenges. Clearly, the first problem is avoiding the infected. Not only do the survivors have to worry about getting bitten (becoming a zombie), but also being killed outright. At the time, I aligned myself with them.
The real problem survivors face is each other. Invariably, someone becomes power hungry and internal problems begin. Romero in his brilliance and low-frequency captured the human condition. Packaged in a kitschy film genre, it often goes unnoticed. Are we a zombie? If not, what kind of survivor do we want to be?
I'm beating a dead horse, over-stretching analogies.
I drove past a man in his 80's this morning. From the bus stop, and dressed in full military regalia he lifted his cane and gave me a smile. I gave him a nod.
A nod? Instantly sheepish, I kept driving, my plastic poppy was to be my only tribute today.
Patting my own back sometimes, this ignorant egoist, believes he's living a life of self-actualization, free from the living dead, the mundane. As though I'm here on my own steam.
Idiotic.
Sixty years ago, there was a threat of a real zombie apocalypse. That docile octogenarian in my neighbourhood? He probably took a bullet for the right to have a clerks job, public transit, and all the other things I once ran from like the plague. He takes the bus.
Would I have the guts to don the uniform and pick up a rifle today? It's a moot point. I'm too old to join so the decision is not mine to make. How convenient for me. My daughter however is a mere five years away from being able to enlist. Frightening.
I should have got out of my damn car and said thank you properly.
The zombie-genre would not be fully accepted into the mainstream for another decade, and I was all too happy to be in a small fringe circle of fanatics. When living-dead-love did finally break into pop-culture, it exploded wide open, sinking its teeth firmly into the brains of Joe Public. I was gutted. It was as though my favourite indie-band had suddenly become popular overnight, its fans unappreciative to their 'true art'. The market flooded with tacky swag. A television series had now become water-cooler worthy.
Now that I had to share, I wondered if people would truly appreciate the genre as I did. I'm not convinced. You see, to the true aficionado, the source of the infection is inconsequential. The comparisons to 9-5ers seemed obvious. We are the living dead, slow moving moaners, limping in packs, brain-starved, riding on buses, punching time-cards and caffeinating to get through groundhog day. Simple.
Survivors of the zombie apocalypse face another set of challenges. Clearly, the first problem is avoiding the infected. Not only do the survivors have to worry about getting bitten (becoming a zombie), but also being killed outright. At the time, I aligned myself with them.
The real problem survivors face is each other. Invariably, someone becomes power hungry and internal problems begin. Romero in his brilliance and low-frequency captured the human condition. Packaged in a kitschy film genre, it often goes unnoticed. Are we a zombie? If not, what kind of survivor do we want to be?
I'm beating a dead horse, over-stretching analogies.
I drove past a man in his 80's this morning. From the bus stop, and dressed in full military regalia he lifted his cane and gave me a smile. I gave him a nod.
A nod? Instantly sheepish, I kept driving, my plastic poppy was to be my only tribute today.
Patting my own back sometimes, this ignorant egoist, believes he's living a life of self-actualization, free from the living dead, the mundane. As though I'm here on my own steam.
Sixty years ago, there was a threat of a real zombie apocalypse. That docile octogenarian in my neighbourhood? He probably took a bullet for the right to have a clerks job, public transit, and all the other things I once ran from like the plague. He takes the bus.
Would I have the guts to don the uniform and pick up a rifle today? It's a moot point. I'm too old to join so the decision is not mine to make. How convenient for me. My daughter however is a mere five years away from being able to enlist. Frightening.
I should have got out of my damn car and said thank you properly.
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