Night Of The Living (Brain) Dead: The Gift
I used to be a serious gore hound. I attribute this to my mother’s habit of playing racketball when I was a wee little one. When she went to the health club to clobber some balls I was entrusted to the care of the club’s owners. I was given all the Tab I could drink and luxuriated on the shag rug in their office while watching horror movies. LOTS of horror movies.
That said, there is some snuffy stuff I simply cannot bear to watch anymore. Zombie movies mostly. This came to pass after I wrote a college term paper about George Romero’s “Dead” trilogy, primarily Dawn Of The Dead. At 21 (or was it 22?) years of age I finally figured out what the previous movie was really about. I have a healthy appreciation for Mr. Romero’s social commentary but the fact of the matter is it hits too close to home. My home: Greenpoint.
After a wonderful dinner last night with some very charming, intelligent and above all witty cat-loving (T)expats in DUMBO I encountered the above slew of idiots as I exited the Greenpoint Avenue stop of the G. Instead of running away I stood my ground and filmed them. Amusingly enough they didn’t seem to notice me or they (in their infinite naval-gazing, search for Bedford Avenue* or intoxication) didn’t care.
One chap did a bump of coke, another while too blotto to walk— even with a cane— somehow managed to contact someone on his i-Phone and write a memo to himself via the condensation on a parked B61 bus. Afterward most ambled over to McDonalds (one of the few restaurants open late hereabouts— god have mercy on the underpaid souls who had to serve them because they won’t) to get some kibble before going home. Where did these hipster zombies come from you ask? Studio B, in all likelihood.
Those of you who beg to differ with my hipster/zombie analogy please (re)view the Dawn of The Dead Trailer and my YouTube footage and explain the difference via comments. If you choose to take the mundane, yet prevalent Internet stand of “this is the city what do expect” and/or the “you’re just old/ugly/fat/under-fucked” argument I humbly request that you post an additional essay about where you plan to be in ten years including a step-by-step plan as to how you are going to get there.
*One chick shouted (to no one in particular):
Can we get to Bedford Avenue on the G?
If I was a truly evil human being I would have given her the following advice:
Yes, take the G to Bedford-Nostrand.
But I’m not and I didn’t.