The Monkey King's Used Primate Emporium and Book Reviews

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Max Brooks, �The Zombie Survival Guide: Complete Protection from the Living Dead�

Started September 9 � Finished September 9, 2004; 265 pages. Posted 12 October 2004

This is the final part of a 25-part story about Hawaii. The story begins here. Part five is located here. Part ten is here. Part fifteen is here. And part twenty is here. Other parts you'll have to find yourself. So there.
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Before I wrap up the travelogue, let me share a personal dream with you. Not one of those flying dreams or wet dreams, but one of those �I Have A Dream� moments.

For years, Joe and I have talked about a project. I�m technically not supposed to share it with you, but I�m considering this as a recruitment call. The project was dubbed �Zombie Marching Band� and it�s exactly what it sounds like. The plan was to get as many people as we could, dress them up as zombies, and give them all instruments. Then, with no warning, we would shuffle through the streets of San Jose, playing instruments, only playing them how you would figure zombies would play instruments � slow and shuffling with the occasional low moan for brains.

We had everything mapped out; the streets we would block, where we would go, and how we would have a van waiting to cart us away before the cops arrested us.

It�s a plan of fucking genius. But then I started to think bigger. We need national television exposure.

So The Dream, then, is as such. We need a female to go on Blind Date. I�ve seen some shows on this program where the girl will call her friends to come rescue her from a bad companion. Using code, our plant would let us know where she is, and the Zombie Marching Band would descend on whatever bar or restaurant that they�re at, shuffle though past the camera, perhaps try to bite a waiter or two, and then disappear. Our plant would act as mystified as every body else.

Hey, a guy can dream, can�t he?

Anyway, back to Hawaii.

We�re now tooling around on a tiny spare tire, and tomorrow, we�ll have to cross half of the fucking island to get to the rental agency. The parting words of the people who helped change the tire were, �you may not want to go over 40 or 45, to make sure the tire doesn�t blow, or fly off.�

Good thing that�s what I normally drive on the freeway. We head back into town for one more outing of food and drink. I drive.

It�s the last night, and I decide that tonight we�re going to drink big fucking Newcastle�s while the sun sets. Then we�re going to drink more big fucking Newcastle�s under the stars. San Jose is the perfect spot to talk about the quality of stargazing. Come on down to my city, and then look up. If you�re lucky, you�ll see four or five stars and only one of them turns out to be a plane or a satellite. Look up � on Kaua�i, and the entire skyline is filled with stars. The sky is so clear you can easily see the Milky Way.

So how many big fucking Newcastle�s do we need? There�s one left at the campsite from our last trip to the store. The Girlfriend�s drinking has slowed considerably since I first met her, so I grab three. Two each isn�t excessive, even if that does equal 44 ounces.

Yeah, better make it six.

We find a private outcropping of rocks and watch the sunset. Some people have set up a tent on this area of the beach, obviously trying to avoid the park rangers who check to make sure people have permits to camp here. And they do come. We were awakened one day when the ranger couldn�t find our permit hanging from our tent. It was blocked by my wet �underwears� to use the vernacular of the island folk. In any case, this ends any hope of naked beach sex.

We sit under the stars for a while, but she inadvertently rubs sand out of her eye and replaces it with sun block. We have to leave so she can wash out her contacts. We get back and have one last roll in the tent. She falls asleep soon after. I�m not tired, though.

I also have four Newcastle�s to drink.

I�m wandering around the dark, quiet campsite, drinking my beer from a paper bag and looking around, thinking about all that�s happened over the last two and a half weeks. I fucking love this island. I wouldn�t want to live here, as I know I�d get bored out of my mind. But, from the first time I came here, I knew I wanted to share this place with someone I loved.

I got to do that. I feel very lucky. And now, in less than six hours, we�re going to leave this place. We�ve covered nearly everything that we could possibly do here, and I still wish we were here longer.

When I open the next beer, I realize I�m not sure if I�m thinking this way because I want to stay, or if I�m scared of what will happen with The Girlfriend and myself once we get back. I ponder this as I drink.

By the time I finish, I realize it�s probably a bit of both.
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We wake up the next morning and start packing. I didn�t finish the other two beers, but the ice in the cooler has melted, taking the labels with them. I make room in my bag to fit the bottles.

Stumpy the Ass Pigeon visits us for the last time. We give him what we have left to feed him. The rest, we leave for the hippies. We pack the car and slowly head for the airport. When we return the car, we�re wondering if we should tell the owner about how punching the dashboard actually makes the car run smoother, so he can pass that particularly helpful tidbit of information on to the next poor hapless couple who makes the mistake of renting from him.

We don�t.

Our first flight is a puddle jumper plane, and I continue to read the Zombie book. Though it�s a parody of Army survival manuals, this makes it read slower. I�m now on a race against time to finish before we get home.

When our plane lands on Oahu, as we wait for our chance to disembark, the guy in the aisle across from me starts up a conversation.

�I was reading over your shoulder while we were in the air,� he says. �What are you reading anyway?�

I hand him the book. �It�s a manual detailing how to survive a zombie outbreak,� I say. �Everything you need to know to be properly prepared for the next zombie outbreak, it�s all in there. Very useful stuff.�

�That�s good information to know,� he answers. �You know, I�m a pastor, and I talk about these things, since they�re all detailed in Revelations.

Fucking hell! He�s a fucking priest! A fucking priest who believes in zombies. That�s the most awesome thing I�ve ever heard! That makes two churches that I�d actually like to visit � the other being Al Green�s church in Memphis.

He reaches over to shake my hand. �That�s funny,� I say, �I�m a priest as well! Reverend Dean Carrico, from the Universal Life Church.�

This ends our conversation. Insert demonic maniacal laughter here.
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There�s one more thing I want to share with The Girlfriend while we�re here though, and that�s the airport bar. Truth be told, I could have got us on a flight that had a shorter layover time, but I wanted to make sure we did this. Because at the airport bar on Oahu, they offer a drink that�s just as ridiculous, if not more, as drinking out of a huge fucking pineapple.

It�s called a Tropical Itch, and it�s as silly as it sounds. Filled with a bunch of various rums and whiskey, it�s topped off with fruit, flowers, and a fucking backscratcher that you get to keep! McDonald's Happy meal toys have nothing on this order!
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I finish the book early on the second flight. Our movie is a bio-pic that I�ve never heard of, detailing the life of a golf pro. No thanks.

So now I have four hours left on the flight, and I have nothing to do. No books at all. I nearly break out in a cold sweat. The Girlfriend, however, has a suggestion. She recently learned to knit, and she�s been knitting like a motherfucker since then. She also is very interested in teaching me. I finally acquiesce.

For the next four hours I�m probably more annoying than any crying baby could be, as I can�t stop swearing every time I drop a stitch. My hands are wrung so tightly that I actually break two of her knitting needles.

It�s a long flight.

We arrive back in Oakland. Did I ever mention how much I hate the Oakland airport? Oh yeah, I did. It�s all detailed here.

Waiting for our luggage to arrive, I know my bag will be easy to spot, as when I put the final things inside beer inside, the zipper exploded. We sealed the bag by lining it with safety pins. When it does finally arrive, we see that it�s exploded again, and the airport has resealed it with tape. I pick my bag up and see that they have put inserted a flyer, explaining that my bag was opened and searched.

I wonder why they would do that, and then I remember the two Newcastle 22-ounce bottles that had the labels washed away. Security probably thought that was some sort of explosive. I just hope they left them in there. They did.

Her father drives us home and she unloads the car. I know she�s itching for time to herself, so I announce that I�m going home as well. She quickly agrees. In fact, she looks relieved that I�m leaving.

�Um,� I say, �Call me sometime?�

�I will,� she says.

We embrace. We kiss, but it�s not passionate. We�re both tired. I start the car and back out of her driveway as she waves to me.

I�m afraid it�s the last time I�ll ever see her.


Rating: Worth used.

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