I want to make clear that 1) for certain people, this is going to be a bit of a buzz-kill, and 2) this is about true zombies - the living dead. This is not about I Am Legend zombies, which aren't really zombies because they haven't died. They have a virus, which is a whole different issue. In fact, if we are going to worry about this sort of thing, viral diseases should scare us a lot more than the possibility of a true zombie apocalypse. Here's why.
In the event that a true zombie apocalypse actually happened, (what could cause millions of people to come back to life as decaying versions of their former selves?) zombies would be kind of pathetic. I don't buy the super strength, super speed, or super anything that have become attributable to zombies in popular culture. Any real zombie (again, assuming that a dead body could come back to life as a zombie) would be, at best, equal to a regular human in intelligence, strength, speed, endurance, and all those other things we need to know about to optimize our chances of survival.
Presumably, zombies are simply reanimated humans. So the materials they have to work with are limited. And depending on the stage of decay they are at when they regain consciousness, the weaker they are. I mean, an ancient corpse would be pretty gross, but really incomparable to say, a healthy grizzly bear. If it falls apart before it gets to you, it's just not that bad. Fresher corpses would be more problematic, but at least they wouldn't look quite as gross.
How could a fresh zombie function, actually? My friend explained to me that in some zombie shows, the brain is somehow reactivated, but certain parts of it no longer work (areas corresponding to personality and speech, for example). Motor control is a bit sketchy, to all appearances, but not completely absent. For my part, I've noticed that the one area where zombie flicks are universally consistent is the depiction of decay in the average zombie's inner ear. (Why is lurching so scary, anyway?) At any rate, if the inner ear can decay, why not the brain in general? Why should motor control be preserved at all? Why don't reanimated zombies get tired? Don't they run out of energy? What about respiration and circulation? If they run out of blood, how do they keep lurching along? If they do eat, their digestive systems must all be miraculously intact, right? If they have a sense of touch, how come they usually shrug off massive injuries?
Let me explain - No, there is too much - let me sum up. True zombies are subject to way too many limitations to pose a huge threat. And as far as I can see, a real zombie apocalypse is pretty much out of the question anyway.
Uh.
I mean, in case you were in doubt.
'Cause I wasn't.
Sunday, November 27, 2011
Monday, November 7, 2011
The Moth's Return: Leaving the Lake
They all stood on the shore and skipped rocks and the lake sipped the sun like hot chocolate - when it was gone, there was a lingering sweetness at the edge of things that the Moth would never forget. Warmth went west over the water and they sent pebbles that way, too, for the soft splashes between each skimming arc, and for the thought of sinking stones settling in the blue and fluid dark.
Even a cool and misty morning found them reluctant to head to bed. Sir Ontzlake stood with his hands in his armor-pockets, squinting at the tendrils of fog creeping from the lake to the circling trees. He had a bad case of helmet hair. The Owl's feathers were rumpled and out of place. Icarus' antennae were frazzled. Except for the Cat, they were exhausted, but while full daylight was blocked out by darkness or clouds or fog, it was the kind of place that one could look at and look at forever.
"Mangelwurzel!" swore the Cat, and everyone jumped.
"Cat, must you insist on-" snapped the Owl, but he was interrupted by Ontzlake.
"No, look! Hordlings!" He was pointing to the north end of the beach, where figures were emerging from the mist. They stood frozen for a few seconds, and then the noise of voices and clinking metal reached them. Several more hordlings appeared, and then all at once a pack of them, and then, to their horror, a monstrous champion who towered over the rest of them. And they were all sprinting straight at the Moth and his friends.
Even a cool and misty morning found them reluctant to head to bed. Sir Ontzlake stood with his hands in his armor-pockets, squinting at the tendrils of fog creeping from the lake to the circling trees. He had a bad case of helmet hair. The Owl's feathers were rumpled and out of place. Icarus' antennae were frazzled. Except for the Cat, they were exhausted, but while full daylight was blocked out by darkness or clouds or fog, it was the kind of place that one could look at and look at forever.
"Mangelwurzel!" swore the Cat, and everyone jumped.
"Cat, must you insist on-" snapped the Owl, but he was interrupted by Ontzlake.
"No, look! Hordlings!" He was pointing to the north end of the beach, where figures were emerging from the mist. They stood frozen for a few seconds, and then the noise of voices and clinking metal reached them. Several more hordlings appeared, and then all at once a pack of them, and then, to their horror, a monstrous champion who towered over the rest of them. And they were all sprinting straight at the Moth and his friends.
Wednesday, November 2, 2011
Language in the Library
This happened in the library today:
I sat down at one of many wooden cubicles equipped with outlets. There was a bearded guy with a mac set up in the one beside me. I remember he had really blue eyes. I looked around for the usual outlet to plug my laptop into. Couldn't find it. The guy pointed out that the outlet was on the floor. I said "oh yeah, it's inth'floor..." because I'd started speaking a split second before I decided that the time it would take to say thank you I did know there were outlets in some of the cubicles and I expected the ones in these cubicles to be in the same place so when I didn't see any in this one I simply assumed that this particular one had no outlets and was about to move along but not because I thought you were odorous or unsightly or unsatisfactory as a seating buddy in some way was much greater than the usual time that someone would expect to spend listening to a normal response, like "Thank you," or "Oh, there it is."
About thirty seconds after I'd pulled out some vexing assignment guidelines, he said, "So what're you studying?"
"Shakespeare," said I.
"Pretty heavy stuff? Upper level?"
"Yep. I'm doing three other English courses so it's a lot of writing."
He smiled. "Yeah...yeah - hey, if you were asked to describe the essence of 'house' - okay, I'm doing a presentation for educational psych - could you give me a three or four word definition of the essence of 'house'?"
"Uh...maybe...the place where a family is?" I replied. Couldn't come up with anything more profound than that. But he seized on the idea.
"Yeah! That's great, I can work with that. Thanks, that's good." He started typing, and I asked him what his presentation was about. "Language," he said. "It's like how we construct reality with language. I mean, look at the way we capitalize 'I' when we talk about ourselves. Says somethin' about our egos, doesn't it? What if we capitalized 'you,' I mean Y-o-u, and decapitalized 'i'? It would totally change the whole dynamic!"
By now, he really had my attention. Some of my profs had already tried to sell me a somewhat similar idea. I said, "Sounds like an interesting presentation," and meant it. He nodded. "Yeah, I really think the class'll be stoked." He went on to talk about how learning Halq'em'aylem had taught him about different ways of using language to shape reality. He talked about the English desire to name things and take the mystery out of them by naming them. Apparently in Halq'em'aylem they don't have that same compulsion. I asked him how they talked about stuff without having words for it, and his answer was, "Maybe we don't have to talk about everything. Maybe that's the beauty of it. It's not English. We don't have to name stuff like that. We should go back to the language of the land. It keeps the mystery."
It was an utterly odd conversation. I'm still not sure if he was pulling my leg, or totally serious...
I sat down at one of many wooden cubicles equipped with outlets. There was a bearded guy with a mac set up in the one beside me. I remember he had really blue eyes. I looked around for the usual outlet to plug my laptop into. Couldn't find it. The guy pointed out that the outlet was on the floor. I said "oh yeah, it's inth'floor..." because I'd started speaking a split second before I decided that the time it would take to say thank you I did know there were outlets in some of the cubicles and I expected the ones in these cubicles to be in the same place so when I didn't see any in this one I simply assumed that this particular one had no outlets and was about to move along but not because I thought you were odorous or unsightly or unsatisfactory as a seating buddy in some way was much greater than the usual time that someone would expect to spend listening to a normal response, like "Thank you," or "Oh, there it is."
About thirty seconds after I'd pulled out some vexing assignment guidelines, he said, "So what're you studying?"
"Shakespeare," said I.
"Pretty heavy stuff? Upper level?"
"Yep. I'm doing three other English courses so it's a lot of writing."
He smiled. "Yeah...yeah - hey, if you were asked to describe the essence of 'house' - okay, I'm doing a presentation for educational psych - could you give me a three or four word definition of the essence of 'house'?"
"Uh...maybe...the place where a family is?" I replied. Couldn't come up with anything more profound than that. But he seized on the idea.
"Yeah! That's great, I can work with that. Thanks, that's good." He started typing, and I asked him what his presentation was about. "Language," he said. "It's like how we construct reality with language. I mean, look at the way we capitalize 'I' when we talk about ourselves. Says somethin' about our egos, doesn't it? What if we capitalized 'you,' I mean Y-o-u, and decapitalized 'i'? It would totally change the whole dynamic!"
By now, he really had my attention. Some of my profs had already tried to sell me a somewhat similar idea. I said, "Sounds like an interesting presentation," and meant it. He nodded. "Yeah, I really think the class'll be stoked." He went on to talk about how learning Halq'em'aylem had taught him about different ways of using language to shape reality. He talked about the English desire to name things and take the mystery out of them by naming them. Apparently in Halq'em'aylem they don't have that same compulsion. I asked him how they talked about stuff without having words for it, and his answer was, "Maybe we don't have to talk about everything. Maybe that's the beauty of it. It's not English. We don't have to name stuff like that. We should go back to the language of the land. It keeps the mystery."
It was an utterly odd conversation. I'm still not sure if he was pulling my leg, or totally serious...
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)