Indulged any residual All Hallow’s Eve hunger for the strange and weird with a second helping of ZombieLand tonight in the bowels of our nation’s capital. Meanwhile Mom, Kate, Bree and our cousin Kathleen learned about friendship, celebrity, and sequined hot pants at the Miley Cyrus concert next door. Having carted my group of screaming girls to the arena (Mom wisely brought earplugs), I strode off to the local theater for a flix, accompanied by a host of lucky fathers, who had managed to escape the two-hour scream-fest in favor of blood-spewing zombies.
Fascination with undead violence is a universal man-love, much like weaponry, alcohol, and mammary glands. Watching bits and pieces of animated corpses explode or disintegrate, or smashed to applesauce with giant carnival mallets reaches deep into our collective male pleasure nodes. Imagine yourself armed with only a shotgun or a Ford Excursion (a tank on wheels) mowing down crowds of incarnate demons and your lips begin to quiver ever so slight . . . Heh heh heh.
Unfortunately our arrival at the concert was not half as cathartic. In an effort to save the environment, Miley instituted a paper-less entry, which meant that we needed to swipe our credit cards in order to enter the arena. Which meant we could not give tickets to others, driving separately. Which meant I had to swipe nearly sixteen people into a venue, I myself would not see. Which meant I was confused as hell.
Luckily Dad solved most of our problems by paying others to solve them for us. As a kindness for buying the tickets in bulk, our ticket vendor guided the girls inside without any qualms or anxious glances. I was free to see my show and the girls were free to squeal and giggle loudly at theirs. We left early from the concert to emerge first-in-line for D.C. traffic, complicated by lane closures and road work, but all in all, we arrived back home healthy, exhausted, and wise enough to stay home for the next two weeks.
In the meantime, I’m off to kill some zombies on the Xbox before bed. Somehow it just relaxes me . . .
Murphey's Pub 