The Littlest Winslow

The Walking Dead premiered this week and from a ratings perspective, the outlook is good. Very good.  The third season premiere attracted 10.9 million viewers (a mind-blowing number for cable!), defending its title as the most successful basic cable drama of all time in the adult demo. But dammit, it’s time to spit some truth on this zombie craze.

The Walking Dead tells the tale of Rick Grimes, his family, and a slew of survivors of a blood-splattering, intestine-eating zombie apocalypse. The show is an adaptation of a monthly black and white comic book series, created by Robert Kirkman, who also serves as an Executive Producer on the show. Although the show captures some of the meat of the books, I still feel like the true guts of the story remain largely uneaten.

When the show first hit our living rooms, it was a huge victory for the Horror genre. A television show about zombies was being produced and was actually going to air! The books had a steady fan base, zombies were the new rising trend, and Kirkman and effects master Greg Nicotero were both signed on. Epic win! Although I enjoy The Walking Dead enough, I still can’t get over the fact that the show isn’t living up to its full potential. Sure, the zombies look great, the blood and gore is spot on, but much of the characterization of our beloved survivors is gone. I’m not loving the cast (Laurie Holden’s Andrea is my favorite, yet I fight the urge to fast forward every time Sarah Wayne Callies opens her mouth), or the adaptations of who these characters are. It’s very telling when comic book art can present more emotion than actors and actresses on screen, but in this case, the book’s art and writing really do win out.

It’s also no surprise that Season 2 had pacing problems. We searched for Sophia for what seemed like an eternity, and even when words were exchanged, the series really wasn’t saying much – about society, or about the lives and relationships of these people we’re peering in on. It doesn’t feel cohesive. The only true emotional punch this show delivered was the shocking discovery that Sophia was a zombie, hidden inside Herschel’s barn. Once we got over the awesomeness of zombies on TV, viewers waited a full season and a half before getting a shocking, real, emotional payoff.

Season three’s premiere episode got “back to its roots” of killing zombies. Though I love some delicious violence, this running, gun toting, and stab-y goodness begins to lose its effectiveness when the characters behind it aren’t as strong as they could be…and should be. Because of this, the tension has dissipated. The show really needs to tighten up and dig deep inside of these characters in order to highlight the traits that readers of the book know and love. There’s still so much more potential hidden in this narrative than what we’ve been presented with.

Perhaps my standards are too high. Maybe shows like Mad Men, Homeland and Dexter have raised my expectations. Or maybe there’s just too much competition in TV nowadays. Let’s face it – Rick Grimes is no Don Draper. Although I still watch The Walking Dead, I don’t crave it like I do when the gang from Sterling Cooper Draper Price returns. And being such a Horror fan at heart, I really wish I did.

Welcome to the first column of a brand spankin’ new series I’m calling: Alienating My Audience! It’s where I’ll discuss something that you probably like, but I most definitely loathe. As a writer, it’s just more fun sometimes to bash something you hate than to praise something you love! Maybe that’s why so many critics are utter douchebags. Well, here’s to continuing that tradition of douchebaggery! Feel free to tell me what an asshole I am in the comments section below, but try to keep the gloves above the belt, alright people? It’s all in good fun!

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When it comes to music, there really is no accounting for taste.

This became quite clear to me one day as I enjoyed a delicious latte outdoors at one of my favorite local coffee joints. With a riveting biography in hand, I kicked back with my feet up on the chair next to me, drinking my favorite during-work-hours beverage – patio to myself, king of the castle. That is, until my worst nightmare came barreling down the driveway – a towering beast of a truck, with a hugeass lift and ginorm’ monster wheels that screamed: “I HAVE A SMALL PENIS!” Frankly, I don’t even know what kind of truck it was because I was disgusted with the vile spewing out of its windows.

It was that damn “Chatahoochie” song by Alan Jackson.

Before my nemesis arrived on the scene, the coffee shack in question was cranking a quite pleasurable Sirius station. The Kooks, The Noisettes, Incubus and more were floating out from the house speakers and adding joy to my temporary Zen bubble: happy sun, good vibes, caffeine. Not only was “Chatahoochie” priming to destroy my happytime lunch hour, but there was no escaping it. The driver had his “music” cranked up to 11. I let my sunglasses fall. Not enough so that they fell off face, but just enough so that I could extend an icy stare down to the driver of this noise machine. Because if there’s one thing I hate more than anything else in this world, it’s Country music.

Country music is a leech to our society. It’s shallow, depressing, and fosters a community for cowboy hats, straw chewin’, and idiotic slang. ‘Hillbilly Chic’ is not in this year, people. Or any year, for that matter. Why? Because Country music is God’s punishment for Adam and Eve’s sins. It is the evil incarnate hiding in Pandora’s Box. And it needs to be stopped.

It’s not that I’m a music snob or anything (well, sometimes), it’s just that Country music is so, so nauseating! It’s safe, Western, hick bullshit that makes me want to light someone’s cowboy boots on fire while stomping on a Kenny Chesney Greatest Hits CD. Rarely does it push boundaries, musical limitations, or stir up controversy. It’s just all shotguns and tractors and barbecue sauce stained t-shirts! Vomit.

Though this post may seem shallow in itself, I do admit to being a fan of a few Country artists, but for very specific reasons: The Dixie Chicks, for their killer harmonization and masterful plucking (multi-instrumentalists, for the win. Always); Miranda Lambert, for her feisty, take-no-bullshit attitude; and I enjoy the Country twang of Neko Case’s solo material – her awesomeness cannot be described in less than a bajillion words. I respect music and artists where I see fit, but as for the Chesney’s, Paisley’s, and Alan Jackson’s of the world? You can keep ‘em, pard-ner.

Country fans everywhere, I implore you: Seek out some new tunes. Dip your toes into some garage rock, check out an indie club in your town, hell, even listen to some smart Pop. If Country is your only outlet, I do not tip my hat to you. Do not pass go. Do not collect $200. Because let’s be serious: There is far greater and more meaningful music out there yearning to be explored.