We’re going on a hayride tonight. A haunted hayride. I don’t normally participate in hayrides (even the haunted kind) because of the following:
1. They are out in the middle of nowhere.
2. It takes a long time to drive there.
3. It takes a long time to drive back.
4. It requires standing in line.
5. Mostly with hoosier ass rednecks who scream “WOOOO!” for no reason at all.
6. It costs money.
7. I am afraid of ticks.
8. But I am not afraid of “haunted” hayrides.
9. Bitch, the house I grew up in was for real haunted and I wasn’t scared of that, why would I be afraid of your methy cousin Phil in a costume store wig and a Slipknot shirt?
While tonight’s hayride will take a very long time to reach (it’s something like 4 miles west of Columbia, which is more than halfway across the state) and will most certainly be full of hoosier ass rednecks and methy cousins named Phil, this hayride is haunted by zombies. And to protect yourself against them, you get to carry a paintball gun.
I haven’t yet decided how I feel about riding along in some bumpy cart with a bunch of weirdos who barely know the alphabet yet have been given propulsion-based non-lethal weapons, but Graham and Dustin are really into it, which means that me and Niki will be going along. And she’ll be going along with a smile on her face, since they’re the kind of couple who have been together for like 6 or 7 years and still cuddle on the couch when they’re not even in their own apartment. Not like it grosses me out or anything; as long as no one else is having actual intercourse on my couch, I’m not worried, but when Graham and I are watching TV and he tries cuddling with me, I’m more like “UGH, it’s too hot like this, quit pulling at me, this is uncomfortable, I can’t see the show.” And then The Cat wanders over to lean against me and Graham starts complaining about how it’ll make his face itch. This is why I have a gigantic couch. It’s big enough for the both of us plus animals, and no one has to feel smothered when they’re just trying to watch The Wonder Years (now on Netflix Instant, which means you can see my crush on Paul Pfeiffer from space!).
But anyway, we’re all going on this zombie paintball hayride thing outside of Columbia (ahem, nowhere), which should be either really cool or absolutely horrifying (due to the participants, not the zombies). I’ve decided that if the zombie paintball hayride thing falls through – I don’t know, maybe everyone’s car breaks down or there’s a tornado or the place blows up before we get there – I’m going to pay far less than I would have to shoot zombies to see the Bach Society perform Mozart’s Requiem at St. Francis Xavier Church tonight. I know that on paper it’s not as impressive as zombie killing, but Requiem is one of my favorite pieces of music and I’d love to be able to see it done live. I imagine that I’ll have my Pretty Woman moment of tearing up in the dark, too, probably during Lachrimosa Dies Illa. Or Lux Eterna. Or Agnus Dei. Whatever, it’s a super beautiful concerto and from the outside, at least, St. Francis Xavier is a beautiful church (rich people get married there a lot, so it has to be nice on the inside, too), and I wouldn’t be devastated if we couldn’t shoot zombies for some reason.
Oh, another thing. For some reason I feel compelled to share that I hid from Boy Scouts selling things yesterday. Two kids and their mom were chilling out on my neighbors’ front steps (the neighbors were not home) when someone whom I assume was their dad pulled up in a post apocalyptic-looking car with a crackhead-looking friend and stood around to shoot the shit for awhile. Knowing exactly where this was going, I crept quietly to the back of the house and sat very still for about 15 minutes; 10 of those were before they got up from their little break, and 5 of those were after they’d pressed the doorbell. I don’t want to be un-neighborly, I just don’t want to buy wrapping paper or cookie dough or candy from anyone who isn’t related to me.
I’m interested to see how my social awkwardness is going to manifest on Halloween. Much better neighborhood = existence of trick-or-treaters.
(I am aware that the title has nothing to do with Mozart. But, heh….)