I am sick of hearing about zombies in the context of a coming invasion. I am sick of the zombie apocalypse being cited as some possible, even inevitable upcoming event. I am sick of this, because zombies are already here. They walk among us.
I know this because I see them all the time. I see zombies in restaurants. I see them driving cars. I see them walking down the street. Chances are you do too, although you may not even realize it.
The stereotypical zombie of Hollywood B-movie lore is an angry creature, seething, drooling and stumbling about, intent on devouring a victim's gray matter. The fictitious zombie is difficult to kill, possesses an insatiable appetite, and does not stop - it just keeps on coming, coming for your brain.
Not surprisingly Hollywood got it wrong - all except for the drooling and stumbling part. Real-life zombies look like regular people; just like you and me. They are completely harmless, unless they happen to be behind the wheel of an automobile. The notion that zombies crave other peoples' brains is just plain silly. In fact, the less brains a zombie has at his or her disposal, the better.
Zombies are easy to spot. Simply look for someone with a smart phone or tablet in public. There you will see the signature symptoms of zombie-ism: drooling, glassy unfocused eyes, and a total and utter disconnect to the outside world. Some zombies even wear headphones, and can be observed grunting and gesticulating to an imaginary beat - kind of like their awkward Hollywood counterparts.
My wife and I saw a zombie just the other night when we were out for our weekly date night. This particular zombie had taken the shape of a young woman. She was attractive, in that youthful college-aged sort of appeal. An adolescent male had taken pity on the poor creature, and was attempting to rid her of her curse by means of what appeared to be a date. They sat across from each other, just one table away. He was doing his level best to break the spell, utilizing a traditional anti-zombie method commonly referred to as a "conversation" (see also "talk," "dialogue," "discussion," or "chitchat" for further clarification).
I had to feel sorry for the guy. He was doing everything he knew, even throwing in some hand gestures and animated laughter - typical trump cards, in breaking the zombie curse. His efforts, albeit noble, were getting him nowhere. The zombie was not even discreet; her iPhone sat in full view, next to her dinner plate and inside the tableware. The screen, burning brighter than any light in the entire restaurant, was radiating its evil spell, feeding off her brain and diminishing her cognitive consciousness by the nanosecond. Even from a distance I could make out a blue banner. She was on Facebook. Clearly, hers was a lost cause. I wondered aloud, if the young man simply stood up and left, how long would it take her to realize he was gone?
I was actually a little surprised to see a zombie at such a fine establishment; the younger ones usually congregate in coffee shops and school hallways. Zombies are not, however, limited to such places. Adult zombies can always be found wandering about a Home Depot, Menards, Super Target, or any Walmart. I actually became infected while shopping at a big-box store. That's right - for a brief moment even I turned into a zombie:
I had prepared a shopping list (an itemized list is an essential tool for preventive zombie-ism) and was down to the last two items: a simple can of white spray paint, and a tube of adhesive caulk.
Nothing is ever simple at Menards.
My wife and I walked to the paint department and were suddenly lost in an ocean of color. All I needed was white, but wait - do I want gloss, semi-gloss, or matte? How about textured? Ooh, over there - metallic. Do I want self-priming? Rust-inhibiting? The egregious amount of choices, coupled with the hypnotic humming of industrial lighting and Taylor Swift in the background (it could have been Nicki Minaj - all Auto-Tune sounds the same to me), and I was infected. I stood for several minutes, staring off into space, before I realized my wife was trying to communicate.
I snapped out of it, but wait - I still needed a tube of adhesive caulk.
If one could get lost in the paint department, the hall of caulk was even worse. Once again I was sucked in: Do I want silicone? Acrylic? Siliconized acrylic? No - I just need simple adhesive caulk to go around a shower stall. But wait; here they have "industrial strength," is that better than "construction grade?" Over there is caulk that changes color. Do I want to paint this? I suddenly found myself picking up random tubes, not because I needed them, but because they were there, begging to be touched.
I lost track of time, and might have been lost forever had I not gazed into a mirror. I saw a creature with horrible posture and vacant, glassy-eyes. It's back was hunched, shoulders slouched, and mouth hung lazily open, as though on the verge of discharging excess saliva. I had turned into one of them, and literally shrieked aloud, "Why in God's name does this place have so much freaking caulk?"
I hurried toward the checkout lanes, ignoring the stares. From now on, I'm doing all my shopping at Ace Hardware.
- Dan Wegmueller of Monroe writes a column for the Times each Tuesday. He can be reached at dwegs@tds.net.
I know this because I see them all the time. I see zombies in restaurants. I see them driving cars. I see them walking down the street. Chances are you do too, although you may not even realize it.
The stereotypical zombie of Hollywood B-movie lore is an angry creature, seething, drooling and stumbling about, intent on devouring a victim's gray matter. The fictitious zombie is difficult to kill, possesses an insatiable appetite, and does not stop - it just keeps on coming, coming for your brain.
Not surprisingly Hollywood got it wrong - all except for the drooling and stumbling part. Real-life zombies look like regular people; just like you and me. They are completely harmless, unless they happen to be behind the wheel of an automobile. The notion that zombies crave other peoples' brains is just plain silly. In fact, the less brains a zombie has at his or her disposal, the better.
Zombies are easy to spot. Simply look for someone with a smart phone or tablet in public. There you will see the signature symptoms of zombie-ism: drooling, glassy unfocused eyes, and a total and utter disconnect to the outside world. Some zombies even wear headphones, and can be observed grunting and gesticulating to an imaginary beat - kind of like their awkward Hollywood counterparts.
My wife and I saw a zombie just the other night when we were out for our weekly date night. This particular zombie had taken the shape of a young woman. She was attractive, in that youthful college-aged sort of appeal. An adolescent male had taken pity on the poor creature, and was attempting to rid her of her curse by means of what appeared to be a date. They sat across from each other, just one table away. He was doing his level best to break the spell, utilizing a traditional anti-zombie method commonly referred to as a "conversation" (see also "talk," "dialogue," "discussion," or "chitchat" for further clarification).
I had to feel sorry for the guy. He was doing everything he knew, even throwing in some hand gestures and animated laughter - typical trump cards, in breaking the zombie curse. His efforts, albeit noble, were getting him nowhere. The zombie was not even discreet; her iPhone sat in full view, next to her dinner plate and inside the tableware. The screen, burning brighter than any light in the entire restaurant, was radiating its evil spell, feeding off her brain and diminishing her cognitive consciousness by the nanosecond. Even from a distance I could make out a blue banner. She was on Facebook. Clearly, hers was a lost cause. I wondered aloud, if the young man simply stood up and left, how long would it take her to realize he was gone?
I was actually a little surprised to see a zombie at such a fine establishment; the younger ones usually congregate in coffee shops and school hallways. Zombies are not, however, limited to such places. Adult zombies can always be found wandering about a Home Depot, Menards, Super Target, or any Walmart. I actually became infected while shopping at a big-box store. That's right - for a brief moment even I turned into a zombie:
I had prepared a shopping list (an itemized list is an essential tool for preventive zombie-ism) and was down to the last two items: a simple can of white spray paint, and a tube of adhesive caulk.
Nothing is ever simple at Menards.
My wife and I walked to the paint department and were suddenly lost in an ocean of color. All I needed was white, but wait - do I want gloss, semi-gloss, or matte? How about textured? Ooh, over there - metallic. Do I want self-priming? Rust-inhibiting? The egregious amount of choices, coupled with the hypnotic humming of industrial lighting and Taylor Swift in the background (it could have been Nicki Minaj - all Auto-Tune sounds the same to me), and I was infected. I stood for several minutes, staring off into space, before I realized my wife was trying to communicate.
I snapped out of it, but wait - I still needed a tube of adhesive caulk.
If one could get lost in the paint department, the hall of caulk was even worse. Once again I was sucked in: Do I want silicone? Acrylic? Siliconized acrylic? No - I just need simple adhesive caulk to go around a shower stall. But wait; here they have "industrial strength," is that better than "construction grade?" Over there is caulk that changes color. Do I want to paint this? I suddenly found myself picking up random tubes, not because I needed them, but because they were there, begging to be touched.
I lost track of time, and might have been lost forever had I not gazed into a mirror. I saw a creature with horrible posture and vacant, glassy-eyes. It's back was hunched, shoulders slouched, and mouth hung lazily open, as though on the verge of discharging excess saliva. I had turned into one of them, and literally shrieked aloud, "Why in God's name does this place have so much freaking caulk?"
I hurried toward the checkout lanes, ignoring the stares. From now on, I'm doing all my shopping at Ace Hardware.
- Dan Wegmueller of Monroe writes a column for the Times each Tuesday. He can be reached at dwegs@tds.net.
