The Most Peculiar Place in Portland, or How to get a Non-Consumer to Consume

            The diseased zombie brain is a torrent of aggression, fear, confusion and anger…zombies can attack from any direction…human flesh and human brain invigorates the zombie metabolism…

            I know these things because I’m currently standing inside the brain of a zombie, my teeth grinding away on a scorpion. I know how insane that last sentence must sound, but before you label me crazy, or decide that I’m obviously on drugs, please continue reading, because I promise you that by the end of this piece everything will make perfect sense.

           Portland, Oregon is a pretty peculiar place but no place in Portland is more peculiar than the Peculiarium. Try saying that ten times fast! Never mind. Don’t even try. It’s tough enough to pronounce the word “peculiar,” let alone rattle off that alliterative jumble of a sentence. In the northwest part of the city, between the skyscrapers and the industrial drag, down the street and around the block from the posh neighborhoods, trendy bars, and artisan shops, there’s one building that’s almost impossible to miss—that is, if you happen to stumble upon it in the first place. The first time it caught my eye, I was mainlining it home from a mountain bike ride in Forest Park, covered in mud, cold and wet and in a hurry. I can’t recall if it was the building’s out-of-place pink façade, or the dark, hairy ape waving to me from the sidewalk, or the zombie sitting in a wheelchair, but I do remember thinking: What is that place? I need to go there!

            

            I usually tend to shy away from stores, boutiques, shops, and outlets—any place that might expect to me to spend my hard earned money on crap that I don’t want or need. The last time I walked through a mall I nearly had an anxiety attack. I’ve never in my life bought anything from Sears or JC Penney’s. I’ve never even been inside a Macy’s or a Nordstrom. I did once buy a fancy shirt from Abercrombie and Fitch, but that was only because I was young and stupid, had a hot date to Homecoming, and followed poor advice from a friend who today we would refer to as a “metrosexual”—a term that didn’t exist back then. What I’m trying to say is that I’m not much of a consumer, at least not the kind of consumer that the giant evil soul-sucking corporations want me to be. If it’s not going in my body, or on one of my bicycles, then I’m probably not going to buy it. What about clothes? I’m absolutely convinced that there is currently enough clothing in existence to sufficiently dress the entire world for at least the next fifty years, if not longer. Underwear and footwear aside, I haven’t bought clothes in almost a decade. I simply wear whatever I already have or whatever somebody gives me (see: “An Accidental Hipster”). Fashion is a luxury, not a necessity.

          What does any of this have to do with zombies? Well, a couple of things. Corporations expect the public to act like zombies. Just as zombies are attracted to human flesh, consumers are attracted to crap they don’t need. Through flashy advertisements and reoccurring commercials, humans are easily brainwashed, convinced that they MUST HAVE this, or that, or the other thing. If you don’t think so, just watch the nightly news the day after Thanksgiving. Those hordes of people trampling each other outside the entrance to Walmart don’t look much different than a scene you would see in a George Romero film, do they? I mean, is it of any surprise that zombies are more popular in today’s culture than they’ve ever been? Perhaps it’s because we see something of ourselves in the undead. But you can’t really blame the ad men—they’re just good at doing their jobs. You can really only blame yourself, that is if you are one of the people hypnotized by all the bells and whistles—if you’re one of the zombies. And if you’re not? Well, that brings us back to the Peculiarium.

            I walk inside the “FREAKYBUTTRUE PECULIARIUM AND MUSEUM” and am immediately greeted by a ten foot tall Sasquatch—this is my kind of place! (Woodland apes are one of the reasons I moved to the Pacific Northwest. More on that in the coming months…) I go through a doorway to the left, through a room filled with creepy dolls and figurines, and to the rear of the building, where I gawk at a “Wooly Giraffe Mammoth,” what little is left of a lady who spontaneously combusted, Al Capone’s secret safe, a haunted doll house, an alien autopsy, and several other very strange displays. I wrap back around front and join the “Insectatarian Club” by ordering the “Bug Eater’s Delight,” an ice-cream sundae which features an ant cookie and my choice between meal worm larva and a scorpion. I choose the scorpion before ducking behind a dark sheet and into “The Diseased Zombie Brain,” a display that uses an undead visual cortex in an “attempt to image what the diseased zombie brain, ergo the zombie, saw.” Hence, I’m currently standing inside the brain of a zombie, my teeth grinding away on a scorpion.

            Before leaving I browse the gift shop, which is filled with every gag-gift a child (or a man in his early thirties?) could dream of—joy buzzers, snake nut cans, x-ray specs, etc. I spend more money than I should, walking out with a Guy Fawkes mask, a fake plastic knife with push-in blade, those neat spectacles with attached nose and mustache, a souvenir book, some Big League Chew, and some fake dog poop—a bunch of crap (some of it literally) that I simply don’t need. And I know what everybody’s thinking: I thought you weren’t a consumer?

            And this is where the lesson comes into play. To all the corporations out there, to all the big box stores—the Macy’s and Sears and Penney’s—who have tried throughout the years to brainwash me, but couldn’t—I’m here to tell you the secret. How do you get someone like me into your stores? What does the Peculiarium have that you don’t? Simple—Bigfoot. Aliens. Monsters. Oddities. That’s what you’re missing. Right now, there is absolutely no reason for me to visit your establishment. Bring in an Iceman, or a batboy, or the corpse of a werewolf; then you at least have got a fighting chance. At least you’ve got me curious. Keep your kitchenware and your overpriced jeans; just put a bearded lady who swallows fire somewhere in-between. That’s the trick. It’s that easy. That’s how you get non-consumers to consume. You don’t treat us like zombies—you put us inside the zombie.