The Undead Smart Set

Greetings and salutations,

I was recently enraged to see a blogger demolishing one of the more recent Robert Ludlum books.  He hated it, and was extremely vocal about it.  I would normally shrug and say that he’s absolutely right and that any doorstop thriller with latin letters in the title is little more than lowbrow entertainment akin to Big Brother.  If you read something like that, don’t come crying to me if it hurts your brain.

And yet, this blogger managed to get my attention because he snootily implied (actually it was more like a declaration than an implication) that the fact that Mr. Ludlum died in 2001 and the book was published in 2005 had had a negative effect on the quality.  Essentially, he said that dying had affected the quality of his writing for the worse.  Reading between the lines, he was saying that the publisher was milking the name of a best-selling author, now sadly deceased, to make a few extra bucks.

I have to take issue with this reviewer on a number of counts.  In the first place, the publishing industry needs to get money wherever it can.  If this means paying a ghost writer to write under an illustrious name, so be it – it’s a time-honored tradition (or did you think that Franklin W. Dixon has been alive and active since the dawn of time?).

My second problem with it is much more serious.  Simply stated, the assumption that a dead writer cannot keep writing is ridiculous.  Why does the reviewer assume that Mr. Ludlum has been replaced by a ghost writer (space considerations mean that I have no room to rant about the prejudiced term “ghost writer”)?  Why can’t he just accept that he’s joined the ranks of the undead, and is happily typing away, rotting fingers smearing the keyboard?

This kind of bigotry keeps many promising artists from letting themselves be converted to undead, and makes life so difficult for us.  Do you really need to be alive to write?  Or to answer the phone at a call-center?  Or to fly a Jumbo jet?  Of course not!  And yet, the undead are routinely passed over for these positions just on the basis of a few flakes of rotting skin and an insatiable appetite for human flesh.  The pitchfork-wielding peasants are just the icing on this cake of bigotry.

I applaud Mr. Ludlum for his continued dedication to his craft.  The blame for any lessening in the quality of his books can be placed firmly on the doorstep of the publishing house, which wants longer and longer books, quality be damned. May the skin on his fingers take forever to rot – he is a standard all the undead, be they vampires, zombies, ghouls or “various and sundry” need to rally behind.

Best regards,

Hieronymous

Greetings faithful readers,

As cold weather and low skies make the northern hemisphere a gloomier place, I’d like to take this opportunity to inform you that I am in Hawaii at the moment.  This isn’t, by any means a choice I would have made on my own.  I like cold, dark, gloom.  Ideal lighting for a midafternoon abduction and dismembering of a used car salesman. 

Hawaii, on the other hand has little to recommend it.  After a few hundred years, even the wittiest of undead humor grows thin (“My last meal disagreed with me.  So I ate him.  Har Har.” Aaargh!).

And yet, here I am, trying to avoid direct sunlight in a place where the sun seems to be permanently smiling on beautiful tanned bodies.  Not a place where the undead walk joyfully.  And the humidity is just hell on zombies – they get moldier and riper.  As you can imagine, I am here by invitation of the Big Island’s royal ghosts.  I’m currently sitting deep inside a natural cave formed by a lava floe, and my wireless access is patchy (what does it say about the world when you can actually get internet acces in a CAVE?).

Being here has, once more, gotten me thinking about the relationship between money and taste – mainly because I’m surrounded by tourists who were able to afford the price of admission, so presumably have at least some disposable income.

Most people hear the word taste and equate it with money.  Good taste seems to be something that everyman is not allowed to have.  Now, while I will be the first to admit that it is in short supply, and would like nothing better than to say that yes, it is the exclusive domain of those wha are well-to-do, I simply can’t do so with a good conscience (and before the moralists out there point it out, yes, I am a multiple mass murderer.  But it doesn’t affect my conscience, since they are only humans.  Lying about this or anything else, however, would be beneath me).

Now, while I’ve often been accused of being a snob about money, the truth is that I’m a snob about taste.  I would much rather spend my time with the ghost of a penniless maid who’s spent the intervening years haunting a library than even the most aristocratic vampire whose idea of elegance is a pimped Cadillac Escalade.  Hell, I’d rather spend time with the Old Monster than this particular aristocrat.  Earthy as the monster is, she is at least honest and unpretentious.

To those with even a modicum of taste, the above will seem obvious, a waste of a few hundred words.  But those of us who are here at the Aikanaka Reunión and Bloodbath, there is a single self-evident truth, a new first law of everything, if you will.  One that, when broken, will cause gods of the underworld to cry:  Zombies.  Flowered shirts.  NO.

I have seen things here that no undead was ever meant to see. 

Regards,

H

The age-old question of what to wear seems to come around with depressing regularity and seems to be exacerbated twice a year when designers put out their new Spring and Autumn collections.  I’ve always been a bit leery of these developments for various reasons.   

The first reason has to do with the fact that, since I lived in Paris in the final days of the monarchy, no excesses of fashion or decadence will ever impress me again.  Even now, hundreds of years later, I see cues from the court of Loius XVI being timidly revived.  Gold embroidery one season, pleated sleeves the next.  Mortals today are such wimps.  Old King Luey’s retinue used to use it all at the same time.  You could say they lost their heads when it came to fashion.

The second is that, being male, I’ve been a bit less victimized by this trend.  Despite moving in the best of circles and having to be on top of my game, I have found that about nine-tenths of my wardrobe survives unscathed from one year to the next.  There are some things that just can’t be worn next season, but they usually only lie fallow for a year or two before they can be shown in public again.

But the main reason is that the kind of place where I buy my work clothes has only recently begun to advertise their collections.

How so?  Well, it’s pretty simple, actually.  Most of my interaction with mortals, whether alone or at social events, tends to be of the spattering kind.  You would be surprised at the amount of blood that a human body can drop on clothes and furniture before the heart stops, and before the bits are ready to eat.  Before the invention of plastic sheeting (a gift from whatever powers look over the undead), my house was a hell of layers upon layers of waxed canvas.  Ugh.

A similar thing comes up with clothing.  It used to be that I would buy a year’s supply of blacksmith’s aprons every time I was in town, and discard them as they became soiled.  As you can imagine, wearing nothing other than this vest often left me in an undignified poistion, and was completely unsuitable for entertaining the neighborhood ghouls.

This sad situation changed in the second half of the 19th century, especially after the publication of the Marquis of Sade’s delightful little books (say what you may about his sexual tendencies, but his knowledge of human pain was sound).  Small, private shops began springing up in every major capital where leather goods with a little more panache were available for a price.  While most mortals assumed that the shops catered to the cruel and perverted among the aristocracy, the truth is that they would never have survived living off princes and high-end prostitues alone.

 Most of their trade went to the vampires, zombies and ghouls that were so much more common in the Victorian era than they aare now.  While living in gaslight London, I even met an evil mummy who’d escaped from the British museum, who’d dress only in the leather clothing supplied by a certain small establishment in whitechapel – he insisted that getting the blood out of his bandages was murder.

Which brings us to today, and the glories of having entire warehouse trade shows filled with leather clothing specifically designed to be comfortable while inflicting pain – and mortals still think that they’re the ones doing the buying. There are more or less dignified takes on each theme, of course, but therein lies the wearer’s taste.  I guarantee, you will see the entire range at any party worth its salt.

Before I go, I leave you with a warning about the dangers and pitfalls of the season.  Latex, no matter how sinister and shiny, is not in this season, and, if I had my way, never would be.

And as for yellow plastic raincoats, well, while they may be practical, they are something only the Old Monster would ever stoop to wearing.  Shudder.

Happy hunting,

Baron Hieronymous

Greetings, esteemed readers.

I’d like to thank my colleague in the abattoir for the opportunity to express myself on a subject that has long been near and dear to me: the mortal insult.  Don’t get me wrong, the Monster and I go waaaaay back, and she’d have to step much further over the line to get me overly angry.  Plus, I live in Manhattan, the only place on the planet where “screw you” has replaced “hello”.  So I’m not mad, just inspired.

But back to the main topic.  Looking over the Monster’s last post, I must admit that there’s a certain measure of crude effectiveness in the words, but – and this is important, so pay attention – they were obviously written in the heat of the moment.  This is just wrong.

In order to be truly effective, an insult must be delivered after careful consideration and days, in some cases even weeks, of preparation.  It is an art that needs to be studied carefully.  How much will you actually say, and what will you leave to open interpretation?  Who needs to be present when the insult is delivered?  How can you deliver the insult without looking crass?  Remember, the insult must not only diminish the opponent, it must also make the insulter look good.  It’s no use calling someone a rude name, no matter how accurate, if everyone else present thinks less of you for doing so.  And, the final moral dilemma: how much of the dirt that you have on your opponent should be included?  You might have to hold something back for later use.

Last, but not least, the insult must make the other person or ghoul so incoherent with rage that he or she can’t reply in kind, but must either remain silent or say something which, in the eyes of witnesses, will diminish them further.  You need to hit them where it hurts.

For example, were I to wish to respond to the monster’s post, I’d probably say:  “I’m sorry you feel that way.  I’d visit you so we can talk it over, but it takes ages to get the dust out of my clothes afterwards”, or “I need some advice, I noticed you’ve got green and orange curtains in the living room.  Have you found that they increase the victim’s pain?  Or do you use them to make your victims welcome death as an better alternative?”

This last line should be delivered, with a look of complete, innocent earnestness at the yearly gala with at least one member of Transylvanian royalty present.

Anyhow, if you’re moving in the right circles, you will be exposed to this kind of thing on a regular basis, and you need to know how to hold your own.  Think, beforehand, of one deadly insult to be delivered to each of your acquaintances at any given social event.  Memorize them.  Refine them.  And be ready to deliver them at the slightest provocation – especially if they launch a preemptive attack.  Good luck, dear readers, make me proud.

And there are extra brownie points for anyone who understood why I selected the title for this post.

See you soon,

Baron Hieronymous

Before beginning today’s post, I have to do something which, hopefully, won’t happen too often.  I need to give a kudos to the Old Monster.  While I would normally avoid any advice from this source like holy water, I have to admit that the monster has hit the coffin-nail on the head with the August 17th column.  Nothing is more frightening to a writer than scam publishers – as a rule, anyone asking YOU for money is a scam publisher or a scam editor or a vanity press.

My colleagues often believe that these bloodsuckers are useless, but my colleagues are mortals, with a limited outlook.  I have had quite a few scam editors as guests of honor at my bloodbaths parties, and I can tell you that hot pokers and sharp objects are quite satisfying when used judiciously.  Always remember that plastic sheeting is a good way to spare the Louis XIV upholstery.

Writing, we all know, is a poor and frustrating way to keep body and soul apart (mortals might see it as a way of keeping them together, but I lost my soul nearly a thousand years ago, and would be seriously put out if if came areound to bother me again).  But what are the alternatives for the nicely aged undead?

The thing might be to to do what Jarvis did.  Jarvis is my butler, and has held the position for the past couple of centuries.  He is ideally suited for the position, as he is that rarest of creatures, a fat vampire, and makes for a perfect butler of the Wodehousian persuasion.  So, if you are a bloodless creature with a tendency towards obesity, I highly recommend it.  Well preserved Zombies are probably also a good bet here (by the way, and just as a pedantic aside, doesn’t it irritate you that all the move zombies are thin?  Why, if much of the world has a weight problem, are there no fat zombies in the movies?).  Jarvis’s duties include dusting the coffin and mopping up the blood, which are both light enough, although feeding the rabbit from hell, who doesn’t like him for various reasons too lengthy to go into here, is heavier going.

But what if you’re one of those creatures who just doesn’t clean up that well, or looks ridiculous in a tux (werewolves, regardless of what you may have seen in the movies, this means you!)?  Then I see two paths, the easiest of which is becoming a programmer.  Trust me, even the tattiest zombie will look like the MC at the French Embassy gala compared to the fashion don’ts perpetrated by this crowd.  I know a programmer who regularly wears a blue shirt with the Superman logo to work with a straight face.

If you have no computer skills (excusable, I guess if you were created undead during the plague years), I would go for telemarketing – or better yet, consumer service callcenters.  Even raspy undead voices will be hired, and, as far as I’ve been able to ascertain, you are allowed to say ANYTHING to the customers, as long as you leave them indefinitely on hold after they ask for your supervisor.  Even zombies who can only manage a tortured moan should do well here.  Good place for banshees, too.

If you have no pride, of course, you can do what the Monster does, and live off of whatever you find in your victim’s pockets, but that leads to a different kind of lifestyle altogether, and respectability does not lie down that particular path, even for those of us with all of eternity to save money in.

I, of course, do none of these things, because I invested wisely after the French Revolution.  But that’s another story.

Yours,

Hieronymous

Greetings, all.  I’m honored you could make it.  I think today’s column will be of interest to most of my readers, but first things first: after some discussion and dismemberment, it has been decreed that my little column will be appearing on WordPress and on Daverana.com once every two weeks.  While I understand that this is a hardship for those of you who truly need guidance as to how to interact with your fellows, there is no need to fret – being undead gives you all of eternity to polish.  In the meantime, the off weeks will be catered to by my fellow columnist, The Old Monster.  While I can’t condone or approve of anything the Monster says or thinks, even I haave to admit that the column does seem to be popular among some of the less discerning undead.  I hear there’s even some mortals reading it.  Oh, well, there’s no accounting for taste.  Or lack thereof.

Speaking of taste, today’s column deals with a subject that is, or at least should be, a constant concern for anyone who wishes to make a hit on the undead social circuit.  I refer, of course, to the selection and decoration of one’s living quarters.

While it is evident that economic concerns might limit the options available, it is also true that most of the undead can have low risk access to other people’s money, especially if you eat the bodies afterwards. 

The way I see it, there are essentially two ways to go on the decoration front this decade: Sophisticated or Rustic.  Both can be made to send the message “I’m undead, and therefore mortals should be frightened of entering my lair”, but both face specific challenges in order to avoid falling into a mixed hodgepodge.

Sophisticated, of course, is the classic way to go.  This is de riguer when choosing property in the chic parts of town, or if you are lucky enough to fall into a chateu somewhere.  Vampires tend to be very good at Sophisticated styles.  The trick here is to avoid any furnishings produced after about 1900 or so.  Heavy drapes -preferably in the darker crimson shades – and dark upholstery are a great counterpoint to moodily lit renaissance artwork depicting some great atrocity or another.  Please remember that it is a social gaffe to have any Christian imagery or crucifixes among the décor – your vampire guests will be discomfited by it.  Mysterious Indian, Vodoo or African figurines, if made of dark poished wood, often add to the effect, and I recommend them heartily – the cognoscenti among your guests willl appreciate it.

Common mistakes in this style generally come from cutting corners.  Nothing ruins a sense of dread quite as quickly as adding anything sold by Ikea, or anything solar yellow.  Modern equipment such as plasma screens or ipods may be present, but only in the bedrooms, never in the areas seen by your general guests (we assume that anyone who gets as far as the bedroom is never going to leave, at least not while still alive).  Excesive lighting is also a no-no.  And while there is an ongoing debate about the advisability of allowing dust and cobwebs, take it from me, it won’t get you any points from those you truly want to impress.  Finally, for the more entertaining parties, I recommend keeping plastic sheeting in an easily accessible closet in order to cover the upholstery - blood stains are a bear to remove, especially once they dry.

The Rustic style is suitable for those country seats that aren’t chateaus.  I’m talking about the typical run-down old house at the end of a rural or suburban street, generally referred to as “the old Stevens place.  Nobody goes there anymore, because the family was all found dead, hanging from the rafters.”  When dealing with rustic, it is always better to cultivate the dust and spiders – the idea here is to send the message that the house should be deserted, but everyone knows it isn’t.  Furniture is typically sturdy and wooden, and there must be a shed or garage filled with a veritable arsenal of sharpened farm or gardening implements, which, despite the dust, must always have a serviceable edge.  Chainsaws must always start on the first pull, and basements should have no working lights.

Common mistakes in this style arise from the need to live here.  While it is acceptable to have one room with modern amenities hidden somewhere no one will ever see, it is not OK to clean the windows, have pretty little pillows on the couches or own a tabby cat with a pink collar and a bell (horribly disfigured black tomcats that hiss and spit dementedly and attack anything that moves are acceptable).  Another thing that willl immediately alert the knowledgable is if you mix styles.  Seventies kitsh and a twenties rocker do not – and can never - go together. Actually, if you want a whole list of ways to turn terrifying into tacky, just drop in on the Old Monster.

In either style, it is important to have at least a pair of large, well-refrigerated storage closets in which to keep the bodies until you are done with them.

Hope this was of use, and now go throw out that ole Hello Kitty clock on the mantelpiece – you, too can actually impress your visitors and terrify those mortals who don’t yet know that they’re the main course.

See you in a couple of weeks.

Hieronymous