Why I Would Rather be a Zombie than a Vampire

There has been a recent resurgence – or rather, reanimation – of zombies and vampires in the entertainment industry.

They are probably the two most popular monsters and both have long and ever-changing histories in the arts and entertainment business, but these beasts have had new life breathed into them by popular modern adaptations. There are the Resident Evil and 28 Days Later film franchises and 30 Days of Night, the teeny-bopper book series sensation Twilight, countless video games like Dead Rising and Left 4 Dead…the list goes on.

In light of this, someone asked me which I would rather be: a zombie or a vampire. I didn’t hesitate to say vampire. The modern literary vampire is known to be intelligent, suave and sophisticated, well dressed and even sexy. Think Brad Pitt in Interview with the Vampire or any of Anne Rice’s other characters. Vampires are immortal yet they walk among the living like normal citizens despite being undead.

On the other side of the horror see-saw, zombies are portrayed as stupid – even when they can run fast enough to chase your moving car – dirty and decaying corpses who groan and shriek, making it impossible for them to blend into the world of the living. Instead of being solitary figures like vampires, zombies travel in packs and are often aligned with the loss of individuality, cults and communism. And I think most people would agree that while the sensuous blood sucking of vampires is sexy, the voracious flesh eating of zombies is just gluttonous and grotesque.

So vampire seemed like the obvious choice. But when I gave the question a little more thought, I realized I was selling zombies short.

What fun is being immortal when everyone you would ever know and love would die? And as much as I appreciate a higher intellect, after living for centuries I have a feeling the novelty might start to wear off. Perhaps zombies aren’t burdened by idiocy, but liberated by obliviousness. After a couple hundred years I don’t think I would mind putting complex theories aside in favour of getting in line to mindlessly chase some people through suburbia or a mall.

Now it’s time to get to the core of this debate. Brains aside, and on to brawn. In a fight between a zombie and a vampire, I am quite confident the zombie would win, no contest. First, the two monsters can be considered equals in the sense that they both possess the ability to transform their victims into one of them. And yes, the vampire could suck the zombie’s blood, but since a zombie is dead its blood probably wouldn’t provide the vampire with the necessary nutrition, rendering this attack ineffective. However, the zombie could eat the vampire. This could result in the creation of a zombie-vampire hybrid because the zombie would ingest the vampire’s blood and, if we are to believe Bram Stoker, would subsequently become immortal.

So I ask you: Would you rather abide by social constructs – except for the odd time you need to feed – and spend your nights in an uncomfortable wooden box for eternity, or would you rather throw restraint to the wind and run around like you’re a kid again, eating what ever you want, including vampires?

That’s what I thought.

Pass this to the front

Dear Forehead,

I want you. On the first day of class I noticed you: your distinguished brow, your brown leather shoes and briefcase, your button-up shirt and well-fitting jeans, and most notably your stereotypically cute face. I don't often hear your voice but when I do I imagine what it would sound like asking me how I like my eggs. I like them scrambled. I can picture us sitting all day in a coffee shop (probably Starbucks), pretentiously dressed and having pretentious conversations about loving Le Corbusier and hating Bentham. I would adjust your tie, like a loving 1950s housewife, and you would give me that sly smile and kiss my cheek.

I like that you appear to be somewhat of a loner, or rather an individualist, as you don't fraternize with the other men in the class. We could be that couple that goes to parties or the mall and privately criticizes everyone less stellar than us. We would exchange knowing glances and sarcastic snickers and when we walk around people will think "My, that's a stylish couple..." and will wish they were us.

Thanks for holding the door open for me. The dress I wore today was for you, so I hope you liked it. And I hope one day we can become the ultimate elitist couple. Our sex life, combined intellect and attractiveness will put Brad and Angelina to shame. But we won't have as many kids. That's ridiculous.

Yours for the taking,
Nicole

P.S. I have a sneaking suspicion you would look sexy with some hobo-scruff.

Do they bring out a yeti?

While having a conversation with a friend tonight, this completely unrelated question came to me:

What happens with zoos during the winter?

It might seem stupid but I'd never thought about it before and it was totally blowing my mind. According to this site, zoos are a rockin' place during these chilly months. They try to house enough animals that don't hibernate to keep people coming, make skating rinks, put on light shows, and do shows and animal performances in theatres. I don't see why I would go to a zoo to ice skate unless I would get to skate with some some penguins or polar bears.

Let's Go For a Ride

A man who looks like Bill Murray is wearing a turquoise toque. A woman almost steps in front of the bus. Two men bond over having the same cane. They clink their canes together in a toast. A man crossing the street is almost hit by the bus as it tries to make a tight left. A grey plastic bag falls to the floor spilling menthols and an energy drink. The essentials. A mother and daughter board.

The mother is dressed in black velour track pants, a taupe racing stripe graces each leg, a gray West-Coast Chopper t-shirt and bright red jacket spotted with NASCAR patches. Her skin looks nicotine stained and overwhelmed by freckles. But her face is a shadow beneath her death blond hair, over-moussed and over-sprayed in an attempt to turn back the clock.

The daughter looks to be about three or four years old. Like little girls do, she’s wearing a monochromatic purple outfit topped with a dirty lavender winter coat. She has thin, whispy blond hair and perfectly flushed skin. But her eyes are her mother’s eyes, heavy-lidded and sadly turning down at the outer-corners.

The two exchanged few words. The mother sat stoically. But the girl gazed about with that sad looking face, absentmindedly touching her hand to her mouth, hesitantly pinching her bottom lip in a gesture I know too well.

Smoker Lady

While walking to my friendly neighbourhood bus stop yesterday, I jetted past a man and woman (probably in their 50s) who were taking their sweet times trudging through the snow. Shortly after taking refuge from the cutting wind in the bus shelter the slow-mos joined me and promptly whipped out a cigarette to share. Though the man was standing just outside the shelter entrance, the woman was standing inside.  Now, I don't care how cold it is, or what's falling from the sky... If you're going to smoke then get the fuck out of the bus shelter. 

Congratulations, Smoker Lady.

You're On Notice.

After some emphatic coughing, I considered the woman may not be able to hear me clearly as her dirty mauve coat hood was pulled up and pulled tight. Obviously she was just plain rude and inconsiderate. 

I abruptly stomped over to her, grumbled an attitude-laden "excuse me" when I realized she wasn't going to clear the entrance, and stomped outside. They seemed fairly oblivious.  I don't know if she noticed, but I shot her my very condescending "you disgust me" face, and wished I could have brought myself to speak up.

She's a saucy girl

For anyone who isn't aware, Journalism is a highly romanticized career. 

I think when I imagine myself as a journalist I'm picturing the roar, boom and glamour of 1920s and 40s America, with the flappers and the cool hats that have little cards in them printed with the word "Press" and young dirty boys selling papers on the corner. I have a little notebook and glasses. I'm ruthless and fast-talking, a cigarette comfortably tucked into the corner of my mouth. I think I got a lot of that from Citizen Kane...

In reality, journalism is sitting at your desk typing away, making phone call after phone call, and trying to make deadline. It's a lot of work for very little pay off. And a lot of people don't call you back. That being said, I will not send out thanks and good vibes to everyone who has called me back. All this, and I'm only doing an internship for the paper's Special Sections. This isn't even news journalism.

I think I'm beginning to learn that journalism may have seduced me into an abusive relationship that I'm afraid to extract myself from. I think what I want to be is a writer. Let's not kid ourselves; most people don't care who wrote the articles when they browse through the paper. I'm a little selfish. I want to work to be about me too. I want the stories to be mine. I want the style to be distinctly mine. 

And so, if I can break out, maybe I'll try to go back to my past love, Creative Non-Fiction. The affair was brief and intense, but oh so sweet.