justnick's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Long time no see. Here's hoping you're up for \"wordy and pretentious!\" Since I was nine years old, I've only ever wanted one thing out of life, and it makes me wonder. Is it passion, or is it obsession? Is life like the faiy tales, or is it like a psychological manual? Where's the line between patience and denial, you know? Is the Wile E Coyote-esque singleminded pursuit of one goal admirable persistence or neurotic insecurity? Am I determined, or am I running in thin air, yet to look down and realise I'm falling? I might have taken the Looney Tunes metaphor a tad too far there. But you know what I'm saying. Oh, and another thing: it has come to my attention that the walking dead have taken over pop culture. I do not approve. The fairer sex, linked to the moon as they are, have their vampire obsession. And as for us fellas, we seem to be innundated with the shambling zombie hordes. As far as I'm concerned, it is, all of it, pornography for cowards. The vampires for those who desire unnatural romance of the masturbatory variety (the irony is not lost on me. OK fine, hypocrisy). The kind that, were it not for Robert Pattinson, would have Fabio astride an alabaster stallion on the cover. The zombies, on the other hand, exist for those who cannot separate their varieties of testosterone: that which makes us want to kill mating rivals, and that which makes us want to spread our infernal seed. Again, perhaps a tad harsh. I, for instance, loved Zombie Land. A great deal. But it knows what it is. It is unabashed, unbridled big guns, funny people, and pretty girls. It makes no claims to artistry. These films that claim to be telling a grand tale of (vampire) love or post-apocalyptic (zombie) dystopianism, are just missing the fundamental truth of the situation: zombie stories were created so we could make stories about killing hundreds of people with improvised weaponry without all the messy morality issues, and vampire books were written so victorian perverts could write books about men sneaking into ladies' rooms and shtupping them without the Tudors getting all up in their grills. They are there to indulge our instincts to kill and mate without ending up in jail. They are not art, romance, or revelatory tales of fear. ...ahem. ...well, I'll say it. To quote Tina Fey, "You just don't like anybody, do you?" 4:55 a.m. - 2009-10-21 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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