Fret Not Zombies

When a comet comes too close to our blue planet
Scientists aim scopes and eyes at sky hoping to scan it
In the inevitable cloud of cosmic micro-dust
Is a formula that unleashes zombie blood lust
For days after we rid ourselves of the scourge
We beergratulate each other for a successful purge
But, wait, just a mo, a sec, wait eine minuten
Maybe we should think before we start shootin
Zombies never hurt anyone, they are just uncouth
If we open our minds, we just might see the truth

For far, far too long humanity has engaged in a protracted and destructive vendetta toward zombies. We observe the zombies laboured peregrinations with steadfast mistrust largely due to our own conditioned response to the unfamiliar. We instantly access an excessively limited conclusion base with rapid, negative assessment. While the genuine vile can easily placate our fears with casual smarm, our collective disdain is reserved for zombies. We hear their weird cacophony “brains” and assume ill intent. Hollywood movies, which control so much of how we think, have long depicted zombies as completely malevolent, ghastly ghouls driven by nothing more than blood lust. Ladies and gentlemen, we have made a grave error.

Celebrated anthropologist Dr. Carver Epitaph, renown for his knowledge and large nose pores, wrote in a recent volume of the New England Journal of Anthropology and Cookware, that in the nether regions of Purgatory the language spoken is Aramaic. Those deferred to Purgatory are absorbed into a realm amid an ancient language and custom. Imagine, all of a sudden, a rogue comet comes into contact with Earth’s atmosphere with the inevitable consequence of Purgatory denizens traumatically returned to their corporeal haunts. Of course they will emerge from the earth. Upon exposure to elements, skin aggravation becomes painful. Zombies are not malicious, they are in pain.

The word ”brains” in Aramaic means goat. Anyone who has seen the passion of the Christ knows that (thanks Mel Gibson, we get you, and we thank you). When they cry “brains”, zombies are begging for goats. Goat’s milk is a noted topical soother for aggravated skin. Certainly, someone who has spent several years devoid of sun, buried underground in a dry environment can be forgiven for having skin aggravation. Surely we can be tolerant enough to understand that. Or can we? Dare we venture beyond limited perception and discover something actual? It is not our nature to do so. Until such time, until we can open our minds, until Hollywood better depicts the noble zombie, until Mel Gibson gets involved, until then zombies will bear the brunt of human scorn.

Sure, perhaps zombies, removed from terrestrial custom, could better express themselves on the corporeal plain, but can we not extend at least a standard level of tolerance toward them? We allow mistakes daily, do we expect perfection from zombies? Must a mistake lead to a zombie’s unqualified relegation? Have we ever asked if we can be of assistance to the roving zombie? No, we simply shoot and run. We must try understanding. Next time you see a zombie, ask it how its day is going. Comment on a popular local sports team. Suggest ways in which said team could be vastly improved. Comment on the weather. Reach out to zombies. Offer some goat’s milk. Suggest aloe. We can end the misunderstanding between man and zombie. Then there will be a new level of enlightenment. And the children will hold hands and sing hallelujah. Hollywood will then have to find a new villain. A more deserving villain, like mummies. Mummies, now there’s a scourge, what with their wasteful use of gauze. Have they not heard of Kyoto?

Hope and Music

Hope and MusicThe traffic is directed by the road, signs match the maps which guide the way. Symbols are the language of this steel and glass swirl formed by hand and concept. The business of man is conceptualization to rein in tomorrow. Office towers stand blocks from the ramshackle homes of the lost. Senseless and disabled from the evident unseen, nature has been rendered invisible by conceptualization. Nothing rhymes. Writers use the words ‘ebb and flow’ as easily as their predecessors would pen ‘once upon a time’. Ebb and flow give rise to notions of a rhythm we try so hard to find and want to believe we feel. A rhythm attached to an idea, an idea conceptualized, perhaps not rhythm at all. As we have attached numbers to time, rhythm too is measured by labeled vibrations, by recognizable landmarks kindly defined on our behalf. In retreat of quantifiable irons, rhythm, music and hope have found higher ground from the flood of concepts.

Sound is a wave. It can be measured in frequency and decibels. Music can escape the graphs and scopes on occasion, it can be something other than sound. Like the writer taps into the absurd, the beautiful, the soul to present to the senses and remove ourselves from the steel and glass to the octaves no formula finds. Like the sculptor and painter who see colour and form beyond what they’ve seen in galleries, who’ve seen with their own self and convey. We name it art, and sometimes it comes from somewhere other than the apparent, other than imitation. It comes from a source that is beyond a gesture. It comes from something that can’t be defined or measured and thenceforth it is other than physical, chemical, or mathematical. It does not travel on a wave, pulse or beam. Perhaps it does not travel at all.

Hope and music share the same phenomenal presence. Both outside of concept and measure. Hope is not concerned that the next card in the deck be an ace. As music becomes mistakenly defined by volume in a conceptualized world, likewise hope can become a concept, a destination. Hope is not attached to destinations, it is a conduit to a perch in the soul and tunes without words that never stop at all (Emily D). With hope, we can hear the music. The word ‘hope’ appears on Canadian Cancer Society paraphernalia. The daffodil represents hope. There is hope for a cure. Equally important, finding hope leads to moments of being. Moments of being where the quality of the journey replaces the meaning of the destination. True hope is not a precipice to be carefully navigated, hope allowed let’s us be, we can see and hear. Hope is growth and discovery. If hope were a destination or series of events it becomes something definable, which is like describing music in terms of notes and changes. Hope and music are far less tangible. They smile harmoniously with light, breezier unhemmed eyes.

If hope were an idea and if music were sound could we look at the night sky and think of symphonies? Could we be drawn off the surface of the earth, slip gravity, and dwell in possibilities that can only be sumptuously imagined? Could our dreams include music? Those moments, night skies and children discovering, let us shake off the overlays of concept and expectation and bind us with hope and music. Bind us to something bright and more genuine than anything measurable. All that can be measured has an end. Atoms decay, stars fade, waves dissipate but hope and music are always. Always yet fragile.

Shock and awe, the biggest, the loudest, the escalation mankind surrounds itself in to define and plan. In shock, we answer with greater shock. Why? Do we stub our toe in order not to notice the sore thumb? In the noise, answers are accessible as everyone has our answer. Music and hope can sadly become something measured. We balance, the demands we face versus what could be. Hemmingway wrote that if we approach the world with courage it must break us. It will try. But we go on, understanding victory is in moments, in bringing light and growth to others. In civility and celebrating possibility. We fight gravity to do this, but on occasion, on a breeze above we are carried to a majestic view, on the wings of hope and music.

Hope and music are neither notions nor nicely drawn blueprints. Music is, it let’s you simply be, you don’t have to cup your hand to your ear to hear. You just have to shake the overlay and listen. Hope simply is as well. It is born in you and envelops the universe. Like water, it goes anywhere boundaries release. Hope is there when you see discovery in a child, when you hear a cheery symphony, when you breathe more deeply in the calm of nature and when you are fully granted the magnificence of a moment and ready for what may come next. Hope gives you those moments, denying their loss at the whim of uncertainty. Destinations can change or possibly lost, but hope is unassailable and will grant you every moment. Hope and music are what let you feel restful even when you are not tired. Music asks nothing, it lives to share, and it shares its purpose with hope. It is found in us, emits from us, and gives to us - scientifically impossible, still hope and music share beyond graphs, scopes, and blueprints. Never fear being more, join the fight against cancer, stand next to those living with cancer so they know you are there. Allow hope, emit hope, share and create hope – do so by becoming part of possibility. Experience your hope.

Marsden Porterhouse

The 70-storey building was not merely a place of business, but a monument. The Porterhouse family was among the wealthiest and most respected on the continent. They belonged to the finest clubs. They knew the right people. They vacationed in the right places. Members of the family served on all the right committees. Sons and daughters attended the finest schools and were doctors, lawyers, and MBA's. Of all the Porterhouses, none was more committed to being the best than Marsden Porterhouse the third.

Marsden just knew that he was to journalism what Shakespeare had been to playwriting. Marsden worked for the Times, an enterprise dedicated to integrity in journalism. The Times reported without bias and without influence from special interest. The cross town Sun had strayed from news and seemed more interested in Paris Hilton's visits to the clinic. The bikini clad weather reporter might well sell papers, but was pedestrian sensationalism. It mattered little, he had found his calling. Today, Marsden was writing.

Marsen was hard at work, his refined palette noticed the hint of lime in the sauce. He made a note. He felt it a nice touch. The consistency of the potatoes was perfect. The beef was well done and without gristle. The beans were not too rigid and not too soft. Even the square cardboard box was performing well. Within the cellophane packaging that had accompanied his selection, were both a fork and spoon. Impressive. The wet nap was an inspired addition. The ‘bacon chilly curly fries’ would be receiving a top-drawer review.

Marsden was the Times fast-food critic. Despite the raucous hype, he had boldly predicted that the McRib would fail. It did. Marsden knew. His drive-thru exposes were legend. Marsden relied on true methodology. While other critics did write drive-thru reviews, they used their fancy stop watches. Watches that could be subject to slight interference from radio equipment skewing time. Marsden relied on the sands of his ever consistent hourglass. He could detect the passing of time to the 19th of a second. Gravity was constant and provided the most accurate measure. Of course Glen Gladden, the Sun fast-food critic, used a stopwatch.

Glen Gladden was fast food reviewing’s glamour boy. His stamp of approval was for sale. The cheap charlatan. Gladden could be found at all unveilings of new products. When Taco Bell unveiled the ‘pettito-burrito’, the snail filled delight, Gladden was at the opening. Larry King interviewed him that very evening. Gladden was everywhere, entourage in tow. His web page had thousands of hits. Glen Gladden dolls had been popular last Christmas. When he married Julia Roberts, Gladden actually sold the broadcast rights to the wedding. Gladden had even had a cameo in Tom Cruise's latest movie. In truth, than man could barely write.

Marsden hoped to restore dignity to fast food reviewing. Fortunately, opportunity was knocking. Gladden, of course, had endorsed the flashy premiere of Bingo's ‘spotted owl burger’. While Gladden was distracted with distancing himself from his review and rebuilding his image by appearing at spotted owl conservation events, Burger King was preparing to make history. Marsden would have the exclusive.

June 21, the first day of summer. Local sensation 'Burnt Toast' was playing a concert in the parking lot. The petting zoo was humming with electric anticipation. The balloons! Oh, the balloons. It was simply a sensational summer celebration, just as the commercial had announced. Gladden was nowhere to be seen. Marsden sat at a small table. He opened his notebook. He removed his aqua blue pen, his #12 pencil and pencil sharpener. His tape recorder set to record dictation, he was ready.



AP - Amid the fanfare giddily on display in the Burger King parking lot, something special was happening in the kitchen. The anticipation was at an end but the glitz and glamour were merely beginning. The service was strong as Becky, in addition to securing my order, acquainted me with the soda-pop list. I chose a stout yet slightly bitter Mountain Dew. Within 3 minutes, I received my order. Seldom does such an aggressive marketing campaign result in a product worthy of the ado. The commercial featuring Tom Hanks repeating "Grilled chicken cheese magic, buck buck!" has become a pop culture phenomena. 'Buck buck' has become a catch phrase to rival 'I've fallen and can't get up." Would Grilled Chicken cheese fingers fall and not be able to get up? You are about to find out.The chicken was properly prepared ensuring limited risk of salmonella poisoning. The texture of the batter appeared enticing due to the shine of an ideal amount of grease. The batter was only slightly crumbly and carried a hint of black pepper. The sauce was easy to access. Once I peeled open the packet, my nose was instantly informed that something special lie ahead. Within the home-style cheese dip, something tangy sent a pleasant sensation to my core. I suspected mayonnaise but Chef Travis was unsure and unable to decipher the ingredients. Whatever it may be, it succeeds. My compliments to Chef Travis, his tour de force made all the more impressive when one considers the pressures he was facing as he fears flunking geometry. Chicken Cheese fingers, I, for one, hope fate should be so kind as to ensure that Grilled Chicken Cheese fingers are here, and here to remain.
Marsden Porterhouse III

Monotonous

The move to drop the interrogative inflection from speech was initiated by a group of monotonists based in Maple Creek led by Jen Ott, Will Nil, and Jim Boe. Known as the Maple Creek Three, the monotonists began protest to inflection in response to personally suffering from single syllable names. In pronouncing each of their names, never had there been a need for accented phonemes. All multi-syllabic words have points of emphasis. Feeling the sting and pang of emphatic discrimination, the three ventured forth breaking into the Webster printing plant and removing all accents from the dictionary. Teachers the world over assumed the eradication of emphasis to be intentional and began speaking to and teaching students in monotone. Monotone language soon caught on. Moved by some notion of syllable equality, it was not long afterward monotone became all the rage. When Tom Cruise monotonously portrayed Napoleon in the bio-epic “He Wore Lifts”, the Academy awarded Cruise all awards that year. Even languages such as the sing-songy Finnish adopted monotone lest the multi-syllabic be so favoured.Soon, all movies were dubbed by the greatest of monotone actors. Sir Lawrence Olivier’s ‘Hamlet’ was replaced by Vin Diesel’s monotone. Songs and orchestral pieces were transcribed into single note works with consistent measures. Mozart’s Figaro overture now featured a series of B flats. TV commercials now relied on computer generated voices to ensure perfect monotone. The only exception allowed was the interrogative inflection.People still needed to indicate a question. Interrogative inflection was the last bastion of vocal emphasis. The Maple Creek Three felt that the last emphatic acceptable had to go. Only when speech was entirely monotone would all syllables be equal, all names, all words, all voices. T-shirts and signs were in wide distribution. “Fairness for all syllables” and “equality of all words and phrases”. For all the ado, there were pockets of those less enthused. Who would rise with the remnants of passionate voice to stand against the monotones? The students, the artists, the unsettled among us? No, this fight had fallen to the accountants. The leader of the underground movement was Gabriella Polychronopoulis. Gabriella had once known the richness of variety in her name. Saying it just once represented a perfect line of iambic pentameter. 5 distinct points of emphasis, lost to the movement. Could colour be next? Accountants had black and red pens, would that soon to be lost to some monochromatic scheme of non-differentiation? Would the world become grey? The accountant’s souls burned with a fire never before sensed. Always considered dry, little did anyone know that within each accountant was a voice strong and undeniable. While presidents made speeches, business leaders hovered over bottom lines, and Hollywood was distracted by car chase movies, it was the accountants led by Gabriella Polychronopoulis who rose as one crying “Not one inflection less!”Bill S-21 sat before the UN council for passing various laws for the betterment of mankind or simply laws that seem to make sense or have a lot of support. The UN council for passing various laws for the betterment of mankind or simply laws that seem to make sense or have a lot of support would this day hear from both sides before making its ruling.The Maple Creek Three arrived amid much fanfare. The limousine had to activate its wipers for the confetti was overwhelming. UN council for passing various laws for the betterment of mankind or simply laws that seem to make sense or have a lot of support would hear from the Maple Creek Three first. As they exited the limo, the three were greeted by a stringed orchestra playing a long series of g notes, their favourite. “Equality for all sentences” the crowds droned in perfect, hushed monotone. Once inside, the Three made their way to the podium. “Thank you ladies and gentlemen. The UN Health Sciences Board has noted that since the ending of emphasized syllables the incidents of pneumonia, strep throat, and laryngitis have decreased 75%. No more are we so subject to the vulnerabilities of vocal systems. No more do we invite bacterium into the recesses of the laryngeal area. Instead of medical bills, we have money for thimbles, low cost housing, and spinners on our hubcaps. There is, alas, one last bridge to cross. One last frontier to save our tonsils and free our pocket books from the dirge of unnecessary lozenge expenditure. We need to no more employ the interrogative inflection. We can simply begin an interrogative statement with the word, ‘question’. It could not be more simple. Question, is evolution not the quest to make life easier.”“Here, here” the assembly droned. When the chair called for Gabriella to make her case there were hum-drum murmurs from the gathering “scoundrelous”. The task before Gabriella and the accountants was grand indeed. “That was quite the argument.” she said with obvious sarcasm. The assembly rustled uncomfortably. The emotion emitted from the inflection causing a sense of the unknown they had not experienced since the days of wild chatter. Gabriella continued, “Communication is more than words. Inflection can emit sincerity, add sugar to praise, or infect with enthusiasm. I recall the wild chatter days, we were all concerned with how inflection had become more important than words. The way we said things became more important than what we said. It’s why we bought Enron and that lemon from Dave’s Used Cars. The question of equability for all syllables gathered momentum when it was pointed out that mono-syllabic names never experienced said inflection. While I feel for the phoneme challenged, we have all lost. We have lost the capacity for expanded communication. Why must music become only a hum?” The crowd gasped at the display of defiance. Gabriella was asking questions with inflection. At once the accountants rose and sang. “Row, row, row your boat gently down the stream. Merrily, merrily, merrily merrily life is but a dream.”The French contingency rose “Stop this madness”. The Russian delegation threw up their arms “They are using different notes for the same song, stop them, we must have order.” It was then Gabriella spoke again. “Honoured assembly, do not be alarmed. Listen.” The accountants continued to sing. The Tazmanian ambassador began tapping his toes but quickly caught himself and hid his head in shame. Then the tapping became somewhat less voluntary. Soon there was a clear tapping of toes happening within the assembly.The accountants began another verse, after the “row, row, row your boat” then called out “Brazil, join in!” Beginning with an unsure stutter soon, the entire delegation was singing. “Belgium! Begin.” And they did. It continued throughout. Even the Dutch sang out. When the chair called for the vote, the interrogative inflection was saved. The Maple Creek Three left disappointed. Once safely inside the limo, they too were overcome and began yet another chorus of row, row, row your boat.