Hey everyone, Phoebe here. I'm writing to ask you if you have any friends, zombie or otherwise (werewolves, pixies, and creatures from the black lagoon are welcome, also), who you think might be sympathetic towards the issue of rights for the undead, that you would consider encouraging them to add their names to The Wall at right. We're hoping to get as many people as possible to sign up in anticipation of Tommy and team arriving in Washington.
We're hoping to get the total number of names on The Wall to two thousand in the next two weeks. Can you help us?
Here's a silly "joke" from Adam:
Who won't get any older this year?
Answer: Zombie kids, and Phoebe. (I was born on February 29th--no birthday for me this year!) Conan O'Brien, he isn't.
He'd better not think he's getting out of giving me a present...
Saturday, February 27, 2010
Sunday, February 21, 2010
Dead in Hollywood
I could write an entire book on the adventures that we had in California. In some respects, California seems like its own country within our country, there is so much diversity within the state in terms of lifestyle. I’ll keep today’s entry quick though, confining my comments to the time that we spent in Hollywood.
I’ve got to admit, that the trip to Hollywood was really more about satisfying my own curiosity. What would America be without Hollywood? I really didn’t expect to find a very big undead population there, and I was right. I mean, the Sunset Strip was loaded with zombies, but only at night, and most of them were doing their best to blend in with the rest of humanity. If, that is, you consider them to be a part of humanity.
We didn’t stay long. Not because we pelted with rocks or driven to the edge of town by angry villagers or anything like that, but I’m not sure that any of us felt less comfortable in a place than we did during our trip to Hollywood. I was talking about it with Christie in the van when we driving away, heading east. It wasn’t that the beautiful people there were hostile, or even curious. It was more like they were completely indifferent to us—like we didn’t even show up on their radar. Like they were so inside themselves and their own concerns that they didn’t even notice we were dead.
I’ve got to tell you, in some ways I found that even more terrifying than the guy who pulled a gun on us outside a gas station in Utah.
We didn’t stay very long. The police kept us moving along and didn’t really give us a chance to talk to anyone. They weren’t violent—actually they were probably the most polite of any of the cops we’ve dealt with thus far, but they kept us moving, like we were trash they would like to see swept out of town.
The only thing that even came close to a normal human interaction was when a bearded guy stopped Christie and I and told us really liked our “look”. We were too stunned to speak, at first. He went on to tell us that he was a filmmaker and that he’d really be interested in having us do a screen test. I don’t even think he was aware that we were dead, not at first. He was sort of a heavy-set guy, which set him apart slightly from most of the people we saw in that town, and when he looked at us he seemed to be staring right through us; I felt like he was staring at something that wasn’t even there.
I told him no, thanks. After I spoke he looked at me like he could see me, the real me, for the first time.
“Why not? Really? You really wouldn’t want to get some screen time? I’m shocked. I’m really shocked that you would say that.”
I started to reply, but he kept going. For such a large guy he moved around a lot, shifting from side to side and punctuating his words with his waving arms. Christie would tell me later that his sneakers cost upwards of $500 dollars.
“Look, you people need to get some screen time. Images. Image management. All that newsreel stuff, it doesn’t do you any good. I’m talking positive images, film, documentary. Images people can relate to. Beauty. You’re beautiful. That will translate.”
I remember turning towards Christie in the exact moment that she turned towards me. Whatever it was that would translate, it wasn’t anything the bearded man was saying.
“Look,” he said. “I know. You’re busy. I understand this. You have things to accomplish. But I think we’ve got something hear. Death as attractive. In the right light, makeup, some slice of life, I think we could really make a statement. Do you have a card?”
“A card?” I said.
“Here’s mine,” he said, and fished one out of his jeans, which Christie said were the least expensive thing the man was wearing.
I took his card, which was creased and torn at one corner. It had his name and a phone number, nothing else.
“Kid, call me,” he said. “When you are ready, call me. You can’t get anything done in this country without Hollywood.”
His Bluetooth lit up and he pressed a stubby finger to his ear.
“Yeah?” he said, and, turning, started walking away without another word to us, this hands fluttering and making forms in the air that would remain unseen to whoever he was speaking with.
Christie and I had a long talk about this encounter. Had he understood? Was he offering us something real? Some of the things he said made it sound as though he knew who we were, and what we needed. But most of what he said left of feeling like he had no clue at all.
I kept his card, though.
Actually, we had one other interesting encounter just before we left, again at a gas station. A girl and a boy about our age, beating hearts, walked over to Christie and I as we stood outside the van. They were so tanned and healthy looking; it was hard not to think of them as the our living reflections, the image of what we’d be if we were truly alive. The girl asked if she could add a slogan to the van, and Christie found her a can of blue paint.
“Death, to zombies…” the girl wrote, and a thin drip of blue paint slid down her bare leg, “…is an endless sunset.”
She drew a big blue smiley face, and then she stood up and gave Christie a big hug. Weirdly—or I thought it was weird anyhow—the boy hugged me as well.
“Good luck,” he said, and then he took the girl’s hand and off they went.
I left as confused as ever. Maybe some day I’ll come back to Hollywood, someday when I have the time to figure things out.
I’ve got to admit, that the trip to Hollywood was really more about satisfying my own curiosity. What would America be without Hollywood? I really didn’t expect to find a very big undead population there, and I was right. I mean, the Sunset Strip was loaded with zombies, but only at night, and most of them were doing their best to blend in with the rest of humanity. If, that is, you consider them to be a part of humanity.
We didn’t stay long. Not because we pelted with rocks or driven to the edge of town by angry villagers or anything like that, but I’m not sure that any of us felt less comfortable in a place than we did during our trip to Hollywood. I was talking about it with Christie in the van when we driving away, heading east. It wasn’t that the beautiful people there were hostile, or even curious. It was more like they were completely indifferent to us—like we didn’t even show up on their radar. Like they were so inside themselves and their own concerns that they didn’t even notice we were dead.
I’ve got to tell you, in some ways I found that even more terrifying than the guy who pulled a gun on us outside a gas station in Utah.
We didn’t stay very long. The police kept us moving along and didn’t really give us a chance to talk to anyone. They weren’t violent—actually they were probably the most polite of any of the cops we’ve dealt with thus far, but they kept us moving, like we were trash they would like to see swept out of town.
The only thing that even came close to a normal human interaction was when a bearded guy stopped Christie and I and told us really liked our “look”. We were too stunned to speak, at first. He went on to tell us that he was a filmmaker and that he’d really be interested in having us do a screen test. I don’t even think he was aware that we were dead, not at first. He was sort of a heavy-set guy, which set him apart slightly from most of the people we saw in that town, and when he looked at us he seemed to be staring right through us; I felt like he was staring at something that wasn’t even there.
I told him no, thanks. After I spoke he looked at me like he could see me, the real me, for the first time.
“Why not? Really? You really wouldn’t want to get some screen time? I’m shocked. I’m really shocked that you would say that.”
I started to reply, but he kept going. For such a large guy he moved around a lot, shifting from side to side and punctuating his words with his waving arms. Christie would tell me later that his sneakers cost upwards of $500 dollars.
“Look, you people need to get some screen time. Images. Image management. All that newsreel stuff, it doesn’t do you any good. I’m talking positive images, film, documentary. Images people can relate to. Beauty. You’re beautiful. That will translate.”
I remember turning towards Christie in the exact moment that she turned towards me. Whatever it was that would translate, it wasn’t anything the bearded man was saying.
“Look,” he said. “I know. You’re busy. I understand this. You have things to accomplish. But I think we’ve got something hear. Death as attractive. In the right light, makeup, some slice of life, I think we could really make a statement. Do you have a card?”
“A card?” I said.
“Here’s mine,” he said, and fished one out of his jeans, which Christie said were the least expensive thing the man was wearing.
I took his card, which was creased and torn at one corner. It had his name and a phone number, nothing else.
“Kid, call me,” he said. “When you are ready, call me. You can’t get anything done in this country without Hollywood.”
His Bluetooth lit up and he pressed a stubby finger to his ear.
“Yeah?” he said, and, turning, started walking away without another word to us, this hands fluttering and making forms in the air that would remain unseen to whoever he was speaking with.
Christie and I had a long talk about this encounter. Had he understood? Was he offering us something real? Some of the things he said made it sound as though he knew who we were, and what we needed. But most of what he said left of feeling like he had no clue at all.
I kept his card, though.
Actually, we had one other interesting encounter just before we left, again at a gas station. A girl and a boy about our age, beating hearts, walked over to Christie and I as we stood outside the van. They were so tanned and healthy looking; it was hard not to think of them as the our living reflections, the image of what we’d be if we were truly alive. The girl asked if she could add a slogan to the van, and Christie found her a can of blue paint.
“Death, to zombies…” the girl wrote, and a thin drip of blue paint slid down her bare leg, “…is an endless sunset.”
She drew a big blue smiley face, and then she stood up and gave Christie a big hug. Weirdly—or I thought it was weird anyhow—the boy hugged me as well.
“Good luck,” he said, and then he took the girl’s hand and off they went.
I left as confused as ever. Maybe some day I’ll come back to Hollywood, someday when I have the time to figure things out.
Sunday, February 7, 2010
Death To Zombies
So we get to Denver. And as cities go, this one is actually fairly hospitable to the differently biotic. We're able to line up a few places where we are welcome to speak about what it is like to be undead in America without much hassle or heckling, and a number of zombie teens want to join up with us on our travels, so we've now got a caravan of three vehicles, and we've got three traditionally biotic supporters who are driving, including the mother and the older brother of one of the new recruits. All and all, a pretty good trip. Except during one of our stops--in the community room of a senior center, no less--we come out of the building and someone has painted "DEATH TO ZOMBIES" in still-dripping black paint on the side of our white van. We're outside staring at this lovely peace of artwork, a whole host of thoughts and emotions going through our head, when Justin, one of the newlydead kids, say "I can fix this." We all looked at him--it was sort of like when Jeff Spicoli trashed the car in Fast Times at Ridgemont High and says his father has a 'awesome tools' or whatever. But we play along and drive Justin to the local hardware store. He comes out with a couple brushes and cans of paint.
"Watch this," he says, and he opens a small can of black paint and makes a few marks. We wait until he's done, and then we see that the van now says:
"DEATH,TO ZOMBIES..."
He opens a can of red paint, and in tiny letters writes:
"another chance to get it right."
"You try," he says, handing brushes out to some of the other kids. In a few minutes there are a number of messages in various spots on the van, messages like
"a sobering experience."
"the great equalizer."
"a laff riot."
"a pain in the brain."
"heaven deferred." (That one was Christie's)
So now whenever we stop we ask local zombies to add their thoughts to our travelling billboard. Thank you, nameless vandal!
What will you write on the van when we stop by your town??
(thx to Dee for the inspiration)
"Watch this," he says, and he opens a small can of black paint and makes a few marks. We wait until he's done, and then we see that the van now says:
"DEATH,TO ZOMBIES..."
He opens a can of red paint, and in tiny letters writes:
"another chance to get it right."
"You try," he says, handing brushes out to some of the other kids. In a few minutes there are a number of messages in various spots on the van, messages like
"a sobering experience."
"the great equalizer."
"a laff riot."
"a pain in the brain."
"heaven deferred." (That one was Christie's)
So now whenever we stop we ask local zombies to add their thoughts to our travelling billboard. Thank you, nameless vandal!
What will you write on the van when we stop by your town??
(thx to Dee for the inspiration)
Sunday, December 13, 2009
Road Report: Omaha
I'm sorry it has taken me so long to post; but thank you to all the zombies who have been posting your memes. I asked Phoebe if she would post this for me when I was on the road, but she said that it was one I really ought to do myself.
I met a girl in Omaha. Her name is Christie Smith and she's a zombie.
I met her at a small gathering of zombies and we really connected. I'd really like to write more about her and how we met--I tried to get her to do Phoebe's zombie meme--but she's really, really shy.
But Christie and a few of the other zombies I met are going to be joining me on the rest of my travels. Right now there are six of us. I'm no longer hoofing it or catching Greyhound, either--the mom of one of the dead kids is driving us around in--get this--a white van.
Although, the van is so old it is really more of an off-white van. But I thought you'd think it was funny, anyhow.
I met a girl in Omaha. Her name is Christie Smith and she's a zombie.
I met her at a small gathering of zombies and we really connected. I'd really like to write more about her and how we met--I tried to get her to do Phoebe's zombie meme--but she's really, really shy.
But Christie and a few of the other zombies I met are going to be joining me on the rest of my travels. Right now there are six of us. I'm no longer hoofing it or catching Greyhound, either--the mom of one of the dead kids is driving us around in--get this--a white van.
Although, the van is so old it is really more of an off-white van. But I thought you'd think it was funny, anyhow.
Sunday, November 29, 2009
Zombie Meme Redux
Hello--
Last year Tommy posted a meme that I wrote. We now have over three times as many members on the Wall than we did then, so I thought it would be a good time to invite all you new zombie kids to post your meme into the comments.
Here it is, the Zombie Meme:
1. How did you die?
2. How long have you been gone?
3. Death age/true age?
4. What do you miss most about being alive?
5. What, if anything, is cool about being a zombie?
6. How did your family react to you coming back?
7. Most humiliating moment as a zombie?
8. Visible signs of zombiism?
9. Goals/ambition?
10. "If I were alive today, I would..."
Tommy says he has some "big news" about his trip to Omaha, and Colette has finished typing up her interview with the traditionally biotic members of Skeleton Crew, so we should have more news to post soon. Until then, post your memes!
Last year Tommy posted a meme that I wrote. We now have over three times as many members on the Wall than we did then, so I thought it would be a good time to invite all you new zombie kids to post your meme into the comments.
Here it is, the Zombie Meme:
1. How did you die?
2. How long have you been gone?
3. Death age/true age?
4. What do you miss most about being alive?
5. What, if anything, is cool about being a zombie?
6. How did your family react to you coming back?
7. Most humiliating moment as a zombie?
8. Visible signs of zombiism?
9. Goals/ambition?
10. "If I were alive today, I would..."
Tommy says he has some "big news" about his trip to Omaha, and Colette has finished typing up her interview with the traditionally biotic members of Skeleton Crew, so we should have more news to post soon. Until then, post your memes!
Sunday, November 22, 2009
Road Report: Cleveland
Hi, Tommy here with the latest from the road. Thanks(?) to Margi for filling in.
I wasn’t sure what to expect for my trip to Cleveland. My fiends in Pennsylvania arranged for me to stay with the Thomases (names changed to protect the innocent), who have two zombie sons who I’ll call Greg and Dave. Like me, Greg and Dave both died in a car accident. Unlike me, their injuries are both visible and horrific. Greg can still walk, albeit with a pronounced dragging limp, while Dave is confined to a wheelchair. Greg’s face was so disfigured in the crash that he wears a mask like my friend Melissa, although his is a Spiderman mask and not a white theater mask.
Greg doesn’t speak at all; Dave is talkative but isn’t what you would call a fast talker. Both of them are deadly poker players, however. I gathered that Greg and Dave had been popular students at the school prior to their demise; a photograph on the Thomas’s mantel showed them both in the school’s baseball uniforms, smiling for the camera on a sunny day. There was also a prom photo of Greg and a pretty smiling girl nearly a foot shorter than he was. No prom for photo for Dennis; he must have died too soon. Of course he died too soon.
I thought I would just be talked to them and whatever network of zombie friends and maybe parents that they had, so I was a little surprised when Mr. Thomas told me that I was invited to go speak at the high school where his boys still were allowed to attend classes. I said sure, I’d be glad to.
When I followed the Thomas family down the hall, with Spiderman Greg pushing his brother down the hall, using the chair to balance himself, I was pleasantly surprised by the number of their classmates that said hi or called to the boys by name. Dave always waved with his one good arm, although by the time he was able to raise his hand the person he’d meant to greet was already long gone down the hall.
I was thinking it would be something like Undead Studies class, with maybe fifteen students and a teacher or two.
I was wrong. There were over a thousand people in the school’s auditorium, students and many of their parents.
I don’t get sweaty palms or shortness of breath, and when my speech hitches people assume it is because I’m dead and not because I’m nervous, so overall the talk went pretty well. I spoke about what people were doing to zombies across the country, and I encouraged living people everywhere to try and be more understanding of the difficulties that undead Americans deal with on a daily basis. When I was done speaking, everyone clapped. The clapping wasn’t like I was at a U2 concert or anything, but I’d like to think the applause was more than polite.
The principal took the stage, and he shook my hand.
“Does anyone have any questions for Mr. Williams?” he said.
Lots of people did. The parents, especially. Questions about how they could get involved, questions about politicians I had never heard of that might be sympathetic to our cause, questions about how they might get laws to change.
Many of the people that spoke to me didn’t have questions as much as they did ideas, or statements about things that could help. A young girl spoke up and said that a city bus driver threw some “hoods” (her word, which I just loved) off his bus because they were making fun of a zombie and his mother. I told her that was the one thing that beating hearts could for us: speak out.
One elderly woman spoke up and said that she’d invited a couple of runaway zombies to stay with her at her house.
“I love those kids!” she said. “They’re quiet, respectful, and they take my trash out for me. And I don’t even have to feed them!”
That got a big laugh, but she wasn’t done yet.
“They’re so much better company than cats!”
After the applause died down, she looked around at all of her neighbors, her grip on her purse tightening.
“No one should be lonely,” she said, and she sat down, rather hastily.
I wasn’t sure if she was talking about “those kids” or herself, and clearly, it didn’t matter either way.
Like I said, I wasn’t sure what I was expecting out of my trip to Cleveland, but this sure wasn’t it.
I wasn’t sure what to expect for my trip to Cleveland. My fiends in Pennsylvania arranged for me to stay with the Thomases (names changed to protect the innocent), who have two zombie sons who I’ll call Greg and Dave. Like me, Greg and Dave both died in a car accident. Unlike me, their injuries are both visible and horrific. Greg can still walk, albeit with a pronounced dragging limp, while Dave is confined to a wheelchair. Greg’s face was so disfigured in the crash that he wears a mask like my friend Melissa, although his is a Spiderman mask and not a white theater mask.
Greg doesn’t speak at all; Dave is talkative but isn’t what you would call a fast talker. Both of them are deadly poker players, however. I gathered that Greg and Dave had been popular students at the school prior to their demise; a photograph on the Thomas’s mantel showed them both in the school’s baseball uniforms, smiling for the camera on a sunny day. There was also a prom photo of Greg and a pretty smiling girl nearly a foot shorter than he was. No prom for photo for Dennis; he must have died too soon. Of course he died too soon.
I thought I would just be talked to them and whatever network of zombie friends and maybe parents that they had, so I was a little surprised when Mr. Thomas told me that I was invited to go speak at the high school where his boys still were allowed to attend classes. I said sure, I’d be glad to.
When I followed the Thomas family down the hall, with Spiderman Greg pushing his brother down the hall, using the chair to balance himself, I was pleasantly surprised by the number of their classmates that said hi or called to the boys by name. Dave always waved with his one good arm, although by the time he was able to raise his hand the person he’d meant to greet was already long gone down the hall.
I was thinking it would be something like Undead Studies class, with maybe fifteen students and a teacher or two.
I was wrong. There were over a thousand people in the school’s auditorium, students and many of their parents.
I don’t get sweaty palms or shortness of breath, and when my speech hitches people assume it is because I’m dead and not because I’m nervous, so overall the talk went pretty well. I spoke about what people were doing to zombies across the country, and I encouraged living people everywhere to try and be more understanding of the difficulties that undead Americans deal with on a daily basis. When I was done speaking, everyone clapped. The clapping wasn’t like I was at a U2 concert or anything, but I’d like to think the applause was more than polite.
The principal took the stage, and he shook my hand.
“Does anyone have any questions for Mr. Williams?” he said.
Lots of people did. The parents, especially. Questions about how they could get involved, questions about politicians I had never heard of that might be sympathetic to our cause, questions about how they might get laws to change.
Many of the people that spoke to me didn’t have questions as much as they did ideas, or statements about things that could help. A young girl spoke up and said that a city bus driver threw some “hoods” (her word, which I just loved) off his bus because they were making fun of a zombie and his mother. I told her that was the one thing that beating hearts could for us: speak out.
One elderly woman spoke up and said that she’d invited a couple of runaway zombies to stay with her at her house.
“I love those kids!” she said. “They’re quiet, respectful, and they take my trash out for me. And I don’t even have to feed them!”
That got a big laugh, but she wasn’t done yet.
“They’re so much better company than cats!”
After the applause died down, she looked around at all of her neighbors, her grip on her purse tightening.
“No one should be lonely,” she said, and she sat down, rather hastily.
I wasn’t sure if she was talking about “those kids” or herself, and clearly, it didn’t matter either way.
Like I said, I wasn’t sure what I was expecting out of my trip to Cleveland, but this sure wasn’t it.
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
Margi Interviews DeCayce
Hello--I'm turning MSCU over to Margi this week for her interview with DeCayce! Hope you enjoy it!
--Phoebe
Hi this is Margi Vachon and I am sitting with DeCayce, the lead singer of Skeleton Crew. If you aren’t familiar with Skeleton Crew—and why would you be, because it isn’t like you can buy their CD in a store or anything—they are a punk band from New Jersey that is unique because they have a zombie lead singer. DeCayce the zombie and this is my interview with him.
Margie: Hi, DeCayce
DeCayce: Hi, Margi
(Note: DeCayce has a lot of pauses in his speech but I’m not going to try and type those out or anything. It is hard enough trying to type along with this stupid recorder. Sometimes I think the pauses are because he’s a zombie and sometimes I think it is just because he thinks a lot before he says anything)
Margi: So is DeCayce your real name?
DeCayce: Sort of my. My real name is Casey Dimello. So, Casey D. D. Casey.
Margi: Well plus that’s like a cool name because it is like a pun about zombies. You know, like ‘decay’.
DeCayce: Oh, you caught that?
Margi: So anyway, you’ve been in Skeleton Crew for how long?
DeCayce: Since about a month after I died.
Margi: Seriously?
DeCayce: Yes. Before I died the band we were in was called The Polynesian Gods of Southern New Jersey.
Margi: What?
DeCayce: We were a surf band.
Margi: You were in a different band with the same guys? Before you died?DeCayce: Yes.
Margi: That’s so cool! How did you die?
DeCayce: I leaped to my death from a hotel balcony tower while shouting “I am a golden god.”
Margi: No way. Really?
DeCayce: No.
Margi: Come on, how did you die?
DeCayce: I prefer not to say.
Margi: Fine, be that way. Well, were you always the singer for the band?
DeCayce: Yes. When I was alive I also played guitar, but it is very difficult for me to move my fingers fast enough on the frets now. But I am relearning.
Margi: Wow. That’s kind of sad.
DeCayce: Yes. It is.
Margi: I heard that you write a lot of the songs.
DeCayce: Yes. I write most of the lyrics. We all help write the music.
Margi: What about I’m Only Dead on the Outside? Did you write that one?
DeCayce: Yes
Margi: What about Differently Biotic, Differently Neurotic?
DeCayce: Yes. The lyrics.
Margi: Living is Like Dying? Lost the Plot?
DeCayce: Yes. And yes.
Margi: Across the Universe ?
DeCayce: No.
Margi: Hah! Just kidding. That was Fiona Apple.
DeCayce: Actually, it was—
Margi: I know who it is dummy I’m just kidding you. So, do you have any wild stories about being on the road?
DeCayce: You mean like when bioist jerks throw bottles at me?
Margi: I was thinking like whether or not you have groupies. Other than Colette.
DeCayce: Colette isn't a groupie. She's my soul mate.
Margi: Ew, whatever.
DeCayce: I wouldn’t call them groupies, but we have some fans, I guess.
Margi: Do you have more dead ones, you think, or living ones?
DeCayce: Hard to say, because sometimes it is hard for differently biotic people to get to the shows. I’m glad we have so many traditionally biotic people cheering us on.
Margi: Lots of girls think you are really hot. Which I think is pretty weird.
DeCayce: Yeah. Thanks for that.
Margi: Even beating hearts. You guys are pretty good, though.
DeCayce: Thank you.
Margi: Not as good as the Misfits were, though. Or The Damned.
DeCayce: Well, those are great bands. Legends.
Margi: Or the Others. Or Blitzkid, or Son of Sam.
DeCayce: Those are some great bands, too.
Margi: Or. Michale Graves. Or the Morgue Staff Rejects. My Chemical Romance. Paramore.
DeCayce: Ok, I get it.
Margi: Green Day. You aren’t bad, though. For a local band. Buckcherry.
DeCayce: Yeah, thanks.
Margi: So what’s next for Skeleton Crew?
DeCayce: More practice, apparently.
Margi: Come on! Don't be so sensitive!
DeCayce: Well, we’re thinking about recording a CD once we have enough money to get the studio time. I’m not sure if we’ll do it as a digital download or what.
Margi: Any new songs? Or the same old stuff I’ve heard you play at your last three shows?
DeCayce: We’ve got a new song that Dominic wrote. It is called “Karen”.
Margi: No way.
DeCayce: Way. We’re not sure what we’re going to call the album, though. We’re thinking either “Love Never Dies” or “Generation Dead”.
Margi: Go with the first one. The second will never fly.
DeCayce: Yeah, thanks for your always trenchant commentary.
Margi: No problem. Just make sure you thank me in the liner notes.
That’s all for today, everyone! This is Margi Vachon, intrepid girl reporter, signing off! Skeleton is on tour right now playing all ages shows anywhere that will have them! Check local club listings!
--Phoebe
Hi this is Margi Vachon and I am sitting with DeCayce, the lead singer of Skeleton Crew. If you aren’t familiar with Skeleton Crew—and why would you be, because it isn’t like you can buy their CD in a store or anything—they are a punk band from New Jersey that is unique because they have a zombie lead singer. DeCayce the zombie and this is my interview with him.
Margie: Hi, DeCayce
DeCayce: Hi, Margi
(Note: DeCayce has a lot of pauses in his speech but I’m not going to try and type those out or anything. It is hard enough trying to type along with this stupid recorder. Sometimes I think the pauses are because he’s a zombie and sometimes I think it is just because he thinks a lot before he says anything)
Margi: So is DeCayce your real name?
DeCayce: Sort of my. My real name is Casey Dimello. So, Casey D. D. Casey.
Margi: Well plus that’s like a cool name because it is like a pun about zombies. You know, like ‘decay’.
DeCayce: Oh, you caught that?
Margi: So anyway, you’ve been in Skeleton Crew for how long?
DeCayce: Since about a month after I died.
Margi: Seriously?
DeCayce: Yes. Before I died the band we were in was called The Polynesian Gods of Southern New Jersey.
Margi: What?
DeCayce: We were a surf band.
Margi: You were in a different band with the same guys? Before you died?DeCayce: Yes.
Margi: That’s so cool! How did you die?
DeCayce: I leaped to my death from a hotel balcony tower while shouting “I am a golden god.”
Margi: No way. Really?
DeCayce: No.
Margi: Come on, how did you die?
DeCayce: I prefer not to say.
Margi: Fine, be that way. Well, were you always the singer for the band?
DeCayce: Yes. When I was alive I also played guitar, but it is very difficult for me to move my fingers fast enough on the frets now. But I am relearning.
Margi: Wow. That’s kind of sad.
DeCayce: Yes. It is.
Margi: I heard that you write a lot of the songs.
DeCayce: Yes. I write most of the lyrics. We all help write the music.
Margi: What about I’m Only Dead on the Outside? Did you write that one?
DeCayce: Yes
Margi: What about Differently Biotic, Differently Neurotic?
DeCayce: Yes. The lyrics.
Margi: Living is Like Dying? Lost the Plot?
DeCayce: Yes. And yes.
Margi: Across the Universe ?
DeCayce: No.
Margi: Hah! Just kidding. That was Fiona Apple.
DeCayce: Actually, it was—
Margi: I know who it is dummy I’m just kidding you. So, do you have any wild stories about being on the road?
DeCayce: You mean like when bioist jerks throw bottles at me?
Margi: I was thinking like whether or not you have groupies. Other than Colette.
DeCayce: Colette isn't a groupie. She's my soul mate.
Margi: Ew, whatever.
DeCayce: I wouldn’t call them groupies, but we have some fans, I guess.
Margi: Do you have more dead ones, you think, or living ones?
DeCayce: Hard to say, because sometimes it is hard for differently biotic people to get to the shows. I’m glad we have so many traditionally biotic people cheering us on.
Margi: Lots of girls think you are really hot. Which I think is pretty weird.
DeCayce: Yeah. Thanks for that.
Margi: Even beating hearts. You guys are pretty good, though.
DeCayce: Thank you.
Margi: Not as good as the Misfits were, though. Or The Damned.
DeCayce: Well, those are great bands. Legends.
Margi: Or the Others. Or Blitzkid, or Son of Sam.
DeCayce: Those are some great bands, too.
Margi: Or. Michale Graves. Or the Morgue Staff Rejects. My Chemical Romance. Paramore.
DeCayce: Ok, I get it.
Margi: Green Day. You aren’t bad, though. For a local band. Buckcherry.
DeCayce: Yeah, thanks.
Margi: So what’s next for Skeleton Crew?
DeCayce: More practice, apparently.
Margi: Come on! Don't be so sensitive!
DeCayce: Well, we’re thinking about recording a CD once we have enough money to get the studio time. I’m not sure if we’ll do it as a digital download or what.
Margi: Any new songs? Or the same old stuff I’ve heard you play at your last three shows?
DeCayce: We’ve got a new song that Dominic wrote. It is called “Karen”.
Margi: No way.
DeCayce: Way. We’re not sure what we’re going to call the album, though. We’re thinking either “Love Never Dies” or “Generation Dead”.
Margi: Go with the first one. The second will never fly.
DeCayce: Yeah, thanks for your always trenchant commentary.
Margi: No problem. Just make sure you thank me in the liner notes.
That’s all for today, everyone! This is Margi Vachon, intrepid girl reporter, signing off! Skeleton is on tour right now playing all ages shows anywhere that will have them! Check local club listings!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
