In a half-century on the planet, I’ve seen two horror movies, and regretted them both. Every time Bambi’s mother gets shot, I shut my eyes. Whenever possible, I prefer not to invite violence, death, and gore into my dreams.
But like 15 million other Americans who watch the show “The Walking Dead,” I’m consumed with blood-splattered zombies these days. They wander around my consciousness, drooling blood and flesh, heaving legless torsos over piles of laundry. And unlike the mom in Time-Warner Cable’s brilliant Super Bowl ad, I don’t even try to expel them. How could I? They’re everywhere: kissing mortals in theaters, chasing down runners in 5Ks, hawking emergency procedures for the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention. What they say on “The Walking Dead” is true: We’re all infected.