The very word strikes fear in the heart of man, woman and child.
But to me, nothing could be sweeter. Except maybe Zombie Nazis!
Several weeks ago, Eric (a fellow gamer who shares my penchant for the undead), gave me a postcard featuring the cinematic genius of Tommy Wirkola. I subsequently lost it in the dark and somewhat crumbly depths of my backpack - second only to my hands as a place where things are placed to be lost indefinitely. It re-emerged rather suddenly this week only moments after finding out I had received not one, but TWO non-moving violations. Despite the affection I bear for my Hybrid (and the fact that it's paid off), I have had dark fantasies of late featuring a (hitherto) nameless crew taking said vehicle out into the wilderness of Jersey and torching it under the moonlight. John Gorka sings quite bitterly about a similar experience. But I digress.
Upon finding the postcard, I decided that I absolutely had to see it.
So I called up the troops, sans a Zombie-hating Frank (who I adore despite this tragic flaw) and ended up going with "Roger"*, owning to a less than thrilled response - or the coincidence of it being July 4.
In short, it was awesome. The humor was perfectly pitched - campy, awashed in brains (and, ironically intestines - which All Flesh would term as 'sweetmeats') and featuring a male character that even picky me could swoon over. I reference the character of Vegard (played by a brilliant eyed Lasse Valdal) who won me over when he used a fishing hook and line to suture his own neck wound - and actually bit a zombie back! I find that kind of adaptation rather awesome and important in preparing for the Zombopocalypse. I won't give too much away, but I really thought Roy and/or Hanna were going to make it. All of the characters were given lots of depth and at least one quality zombie ass-kicking and the story was actually rather believable. This doesn't usually matter in Zombie movies (the only genre I let slide on accuracy), but it definately added to the whole. I give it 9 Khans.
Afterwards, "Roger" plotted alignment shifts of my Cleric in DnD over burgers on University Place. I was plotting snagging a paramour for him (so he would stop hand-picking guys out the window for me, *sigh*), but was rebuffed on all counts. But I have high hopes for "Roger" in Cali. As I reminded him, no one knew who he was in California and I have a very strict don't ask, don't tell policy. Basically, I elucidate it as such: if you buy me a beer (or make me peanut butter cookies!), I don't ask and I don't tell.
In other words (since I've decided to bore everyone with prose tonight), I have been writing scads and scads of things. It's completely insane and counter-productive. Why am I so focused on the prospects of "A Zombie Love-story" (the working title)? Why have I been watching depressing period dramas on Netflix (I can actually half answer that with the name 'James McEvoy")? And why can't I get to sleep before 2am?
The imponderables in life. Good thing the apocalypse is nigh or I might actually have to answer them.
* Names have been changed to protect the very seriously guilty.