On March 25, Variety's Michael Schneider reported that Ian Somerhalder, who played the overly-tweased stipple-bearded Boone on Lost, had been tapped to co-star in an ABC pilot called The Vampire Diaries. According to Variety, the show "centers on a woman who falls for two vampire brothers—one good and one evil."

Add this to the list that includes the just purchased script by Marc Haimes for Elevator Men, which The Hollywood Reporter's Jay A. Fernandez described as "a less romanticized look at the human-vampire interactions"; last week's U.K. release of the delicately named Lesbian Vampire Killers; and the soon-to-be released adaptation of Bret Easton Ellis' The Informers.

But wait, there's more. A lot more. How about Tim Burton and Johnny Depp's planned adaptation of Dark Shadows, which ran on TV from 1966 to 1971; the second season of HBO's True Blood (itself based on a series of novels by Charlaine Harris); and of course, New Moon, the highly anticipated (by your 15-year-old cousin) sequel to Twilight, which grossed  $191,397,304 at the box office last year.

Since those films are drawn from kids' books (if you're really prepared to argue that these books aren't just for kids, you might want to take a cold, hard look at yourself in the mirror at Forever 21 or Abercrombie & Fitch and admit you're taking this Rejuvenile, Up With Grups extended adolescence thing a little too far—being a grownup is scary, but not so much that it's acceptable to read and act and dress and text and twitter like a teenager), we can expect several more movies in this cycle with Eclipse, Breaking Dawn, Midmorning, Noon, Just After Noon, Tea Time, A Little Before Supper, 10:23 p.m. and Geez, It's Almost Midnight on the horizon.

As we speak, some enterprising hack is probably pitching a vampire sitcom called My Wife Suck, about an uptight regular guy who marries a hot—but bloodthirsty—lady vampire. ("It's Dharma & Greg meets The Munsters!")

Enough. Time to drive a stake in the heart of this trend. From now on, there can be no more vampires in pop culture. If we're honest, there hasn't been anything truly scary about vampires since 1987 when Bill Paxton ate the scenery (and several of his costars) in Near Dark, and the outré psychosexual subtext of drinking blood (you know, "blood lust" and all) has been overextended since before Anne Rice interviewed her first vampire in 1977.

It's time to develop a replacement for this surfeit of bloodsuckers who have lately come to seem so sallow, so drained of their precious life force. (Have you seen Twilight's Robert Pattinson on the cover of GQ this month? He looks as burned out as Jeff Spicoli hitting his own head with a shoe in Fast Times at Ridgemont High.)

Vampires are selling so high right now that we're at serious risk of the bubble bursting: Who can forget the great Faeries boom and bust of the late '90s? It's bloody well time for a new quasi-supernatural being to come to the forefront of the culture.

And no, that being is not a zombie, no matter how many books Mel Brooks' son puts out, how cleverly someone appropriates a Jane Austen classic, or how many big budget Will Smith movies the culture industry foists on us. (Not to mention all those "zombie banks" in the news.)

Honestly, does anyone really like zombies? Is there anyone out there who doesn't want to punch a zombie in its rotten mouth? Zombies are so stupid, so devoid of any identifiable traits, so boring in their monomaniacal pursuit of braaaaaiiiins! (fine, you want brains—shut up, already), that the thought of reading about those idiots or watching them drag their gimpy legs across a movie screen (much less tuning in to a sitcom featuring an uptight regular guy who marries a hot—but necrotic—lady zombie) makes me want to put a bullet in my own head.

Here are some suggestions to replace vampires (and those goddamn zombies) in the pop consciousness of young people and older people who should really stop considering themselves part of the pop consciousness of young people. (Seriously: Pull up your pants.)

Freaks

Sure, HBO failed to make Carnivàle into a hit on the level of The Sopranos (or even K Street), and Comedy Central's Freak Show failed to have as many seasons as Drawn Together, but there's a lot to be mined in the old midway. What better way to dramatize the awkwardness of adolescence (our bodies going all screwy, hair sprouting all over, those damn lobster-claws and tails) than through the distorted funhouse mirror of the carnival freak?

Start with Katherine Dunn's 1989 novel Geek Love, which Warner Brothers has the rights to and which has drawn interest from Terry Gilliam, Tim Burton and others. Since Hollywood is remake crazy, how about a new version of Tod Browning's Freaks? That thing is still creepy 77 years after its release. ("One of us, one of us!")

Of course, you'd have to remove the whiff of Victoriana and the tacit judgment or condemnation of the deformed or differently abled ("freak" is a pretty harsh term), but maybe freaks can be recast as X-Men and writers and filmmakers can play up the triumphant exceptionalism implied in the title of Daniel P. Mannix's book We Who Are Not As Others. Freaks shouldn't be seen as objects of our derision: They should be objects of our awe. As Olympia Binewski, the narrator of Ms. Dunn's book, declares, "A true freak cannot be made. A true freak must be born." (You hear that, stupid zombie-bite victims who turn into even stupider zombies?)

Vikings

Here's a chance for culture creators to really get in on the ground floor of the next-next. What better way to make sense of the just-ended era of rapacity and literal plunder than by dramatizing these bands of berserker brothers? Think of it as a chance for American Psychoesque satires (Scandinavian Psycho?) and big budget Braveheart type epics. If only Orson Welles were alive to do the voice-over. (Really, who remembers Erik, The Viking? Tim Robbins probably hopes you don't.)

This month's L'it Boy Wells Tower kicks it off with a story about Vikings in his new collection, Everything Ravaged, Everything Burned. According to Slate's Juliet Lapidos, the story centers around "marauding Vikings who attack a neighboring island without provocation. Although Harald, the narrator, feels he has outgrown the whole rape-and-pillage game."

Mr. Towers' publisher has even commissioned an animated short by Chris Roth based on the story to entice readers. (Mr. Tower also has a story that involves a carnival.)

Then there are the rumblings about Kenneth Branagh's adaption of the comic book Thor, which may star True Blood's towheaded vampire prince Alexander Skarsgård. (What, Thor wasn't a Viking, you say? Are you proud of yourself for knowing that?) One downside of Viking-related projects is a lack of diversity in casting, but, hey, what about a hilarious Moor-Viking buddy film?

Bigfoots (Bigfeet?)

Sasquatches have been percolating up through the culture since Tenacious D sang an ode to the big fella in 1999, McSweeney's published a journal by the name of Yeti Researcher in 2005, and a year later The New Yorker ran Tony Earley's short story "The Cryptozoologist".

As 30 Rock's recent Harry and the Henderson's riff showed, everyone has an inner bigfoot. And what are bigfeet if not cousins of the wild things from Where the Wild Things Are? (C'mon, work with me here!) With the right positioning, these guys could be big ... ger.

Consider this just a partial list. The world is full of amazing, improbable creatures (Krampuses! Golems! Log Cabin Republicans!) just waiting for their turn to replace vampires at bookstores, multiplexes, and on TV.

It's daybreak for you and your sons. Time to get your pale, bony asses back to Transylvania—and take your moronic zombie buddies with you. Be careful not trip over any stakes, suckers.

In a Sept. 5 Q&A to talk about his new football book, broadcaster John Madden is quoted using "gonna" four times.

That was equaled Aug. 21 in a short feature called Trailer Trash, which rates and reviews movie trailers:

"Doesn't matter what this movie is about -- we're gonna see it. Doesn't matter if it's the worst film ever made -- we're gonna see it. Doesn't matter if the movie consists of nothing more than back-to-back shots of Jack Black's backside. Gonna see it. Because this is 'Tenacious D,' and it's gonna rock the house."

There were also instances that seemed less gratuitous:

Woooooosh! Glug-glug-glug-glug.

The rushing gurgle of a fully loaded commode warbled over the phone line from Los Angeles. Jack Black and Kyle Gass, the self-proclaimed "hot, young, sexy, rocking geniuses" who make up the heavy metal-folk duo known as Tenacious D (and who will be performing "back-to-back cardiac" shows at the Bowery Ballroom on April 18 and 19), were comparing weights. For the second time in an hour, Jack had flushed the toilet.

"Ky-uhl," said Jack.

"Jesus, see a doctor, dude," said Kyle.

This wasn't just potty talk. This was big. After eking out an existence on the fringes of rockdom and Hollywood since 1989, Messrs. Black and Gass, comedic actors by trade, have recently experienced an accelerated stretch of good fortune: Their shortlived HBO series, Tenacious D , chronicling the exploits of two guitar-slinging open-mic-night losers (i.e. them), achieved cult-status with only three half-hour episodes in spring 1999. Then Jack hit it big playing Barry, John Cusack's rageaholic assistant record store clerk in High Fidelity, and signed a million-dollar deal to star in the comedy Saving Silverman later this year. And Kyle snagged a small but memorable role in Stillwater , Cameron Crowe's upcoming film about the 70's rock scene. They're even scheming a Tenacious D movie. But in the D cosmology, a far more historic moment had just transpired.

"Holy shit, Kage, I'm 218!" screamed Jack.

"What? Way to go!" replied Kyle.

"Given, I just took a steamy dumpages. But I'm also holding the phone."

"I was 216 this morning," said Kyle.

"Ohhhh, you got me, you bastard," Jack said. He actually sounded dejected. "Kyle recently overtook me in the battle of the bulge."

So, what is it about fat guys and humor?

"Well, there's a connection there because fat people are filling a void, and that void is also fed by people laughing at them," said Jack. "So, why are they funny often? Because people are pointing and laughing at them from a very early age, saying, 'Look at the fat-ty.' And the only way they can turn that into a plus is to say, 'Yeah man, look at how fuckin' crazy fatty I am, though!'" Pause. "And you can fuckin' print that in your fuckin' psychological journal."

This is what you get when you encounter Tenacious D: raw honesty. Emphasis on the raw. In person, on TV, or on the phone, Kyle Gass and Jack Black–a.k.a. K.G. and J.B., a.k.a. Kage and Jables–do not front. Jack, the explosive half of the pair, vacillates between a calm stoner drone and the volatile ravings of man who has lost his Thorazine prescription. Kyle is the straight man, calm and subtle. They satirize everything: the rock industry, the "alternative" scene, heavy metal anthems and cheesy folk balladry from the 70's, Hollywood, television and themselves. They write complex songs full of intricate melodies and harmonies, not just three-chord bashfests, and they thrive on imbecilic humor. Does it ever get confusing?

"Pretty much all the time," Kyle said.

"I don't know what the hell we are," Jack said.

Last year, the D played the House of Blues at Mandalay Bay Resort in Las Vegas as part of a concert series called the Miller Genuine Draft Blind Date Contest. They'd performed in Vegas before, opening for Beck, so they weren't fazed. But now they were opening for Stone Temple Pilots in front of a crowd of about 1,500 drunk and horny post-adolescents.

Jack: "Obviously, these people are going, [switches to moron voice], 'Man. Haw . I won the fuckin' contest! Who's it gonna be? Dude, I bet it's gonna be Korn. Maybe it'll be Limp Bizkit.' [Switches back.] Or whoever they're hopin' for. Who knows? None of them are hoping it's the D. All of 'em are expecting someone huge. And, um, before the curtains were done opening, there was a chorus of boos. A chorus! So loud, the booing, I could hardly hear myself singing. And then the shower of beer started. They were throwing beer. And then cups. And then ice . And then it was like: You know what? We can't stop ."

Kyle said he tried to scope out anyone who might be "down with the D" in the throng. He found one guy, but it turned out he was just making weird hand gestures and calling them fags.

"There were people on shoulders screaming at us about how much they hated us and how lame we were," Jack said. "And people were getting thrown out for being too mean, even though it really seemed as if it was all planned so they could have fun hating someone . We finished. And we were fired."

Still, they soldier on. They refer to their upcoming Bowery Ballroom appearances as a "fiery hoop" they have to jump through to get the attention of the record industry. And, as always, they seem to get their inspiration to "reign supreme"–another major tenet of the D cosmology–from their own asses. The world revolves around Tenacious D's collective ass.

"It's like, the song literally plops out of our asses," Jack said.

"Not often," said Kyle. "Certainly not often enough."

"No, usually it's a stinky shit," Jack admitted. "But once in a while, a golden egg plops out, and it's like: 'I can't believe this came out our asses.'"

"As much as I think there's maybe some craft involved," said Kyle, "no, apparently not. I'm wrong. There is no craft. Poop it out."

–Jay Stow e

Flushing Beauty

It was 9:46 P.M., April 17, in the middle of the sixth. Shea Stadium was as quiet and gloomy as a hospital. Sure, the Mets were up 2-1, but the sky was black, the wind was cold and the baseball was perfunctory. On the concrete ramp outside section 7 in the upper deck, four fans gathered to smoke cigarettes. One of them hocked a loogie onto the roof of the ticket office below. A crumpled brown plastic Cracker Jacks bag blew end over end, down the ramp. In one way, there beneath the blue rampway lights, the Cracker Jacks bag attained the kind of transcendence of that damn white plastic bag in American Beauty . But then again, in another, more accurate way, it didn't.

For the four smokers, and for the 27,787 other souls who had bothered to show up, the electric nights of last fall's playoff run seemed like something out of another century–which of course they are.

This Mets team is off to a horrible start. The other day they lost to the Phillies- the Phillies –the team with the previously more horrible start than even their own. The pitching is erratic, the hitting is nonexistent. Rickey Henderson is pissed off, free agent compromise Todd Zeile is flailing over at first base, and outfielder Darryl Hamilton is already on injured reserve, mulling retirement. Something must have happened to the team over there in Japan: they became the same old Mets again.

Back at Shea, it was the bottom of the sixth and Met shortstop Rey Ordonez had just struck out. The boos welled up from the crowd. Two batters later, Jon Nunnally, acquired from the Boston Red Sox over the summer, struck out, too, and another surge of boos filled the upper deck.

Geez, it's only April, and it already feels like Milwaukee around here. The apple in the outfield is dented. What you have in Flushing in April is an average team playing in a lousy stadium on cold night after cold night.

But what the hell, let's go Mets.

–William Berlind