“Undead Poet Laureate of Kansas,” I had Ken magic-marker onto a white shirt, and then, with a purse full of bookmarks to commemorate the occasion, I waved goodbye to my live husband and went with my eldest son to march with the undead. The Lawrence Zombie Parade brought together well over 500 of the living dead, including the undead Santa, undead Harry Potter, undead Batman accompanied by undead cowgirl, and many undead brides sporting rubber intestines spilling out of their satin and lace gowns.
The organizers in the gazebo at South Park gave everyone a lesson on how to shamble — drag one leg while leading with the other — and appropriate roars and groans worthy of a zombie. Then we were off, heading toward Massachusetts Street.
A woman holding the leash of an invisible zombie dog worked hard to keep her invisible pooch from attacking live dogs. Zombie parents pushed zombie babies. A toddler with perfect red horns growing out of his tow head giggled loud while someone said, “What an adorable little devil baby!” Drunken college kids brushed fake blood stained arms against old-time zombies. Outside the Toy Store, a team of employees, equipped with Nerf guns, kept the zombies at bay while a dignified zombie couple carried their live (and quite beautiful) chickens past the tattoo parlor.
My favorite was the entire undead cast of Gilligan’s Island. A zombie dad dragged his zombie daughter while everyone laughed. A hip couple walked by with a zombie ferret (make up was particularly impressive). Zombie 1950s dads walked by reading zombie newspapers.
Meanwhile, whoever read my shirt or bookmark, connecting what “undead” had to do with the state of the arts in Kansas, laughed and occasionally applauded. On this night, it was okay to be in a program that’s undead, particularly because I believe it will cross over from this hazy hemisphere into pure life. Besides, on nights like this one, I’ve got a lot of vivid company.
