MZM 09

Another week, another post with pictures where my words should be.

Last Friday we went to the third annual Memphis Zombie Massacre downtown. Last year I was knee-deep in wedding preparations and couldn't make it. Since my husband is an avowed zombie enthusiast, and I am a fan of odd social happenings that are seemingly pointless, nonetheless compelling, we met at Handy Park after work and stood in line for a couple of hours in order to get zombiefied.


I haven't heard any kind of count, but I know there were at least a couple of hundred people there. Here's some highlights.

This guy was offering a zombie cure of some sort. It was odd because I recognized him from his blog, which I had just discovered that very day. I think he's pretty hilarious, and as I later told Lindsey, anyone who executes an idea like that must be at least one quarter amazing

Do you know what the deal is with this whole thing? You can either go dressed as a zombie or in old ratty street clothes with a duct tape X on them. When the zombies see folks marked with the X, they attack them and they get zombiefied. Which is incredibly fucking creepy the first few times you see it:

This zombie was my favorite. I was near him during nearly the entire thing, and he never broke character once. I was lying. This zombie is really my favorite.

I'll close with the loveliest of all images: Undead Lovin'.

Even more pics here & here, if you haven't seen enough fake blood and wounds yet.

Nothing that this world could bring would hold me back from you

Hey y'all. I have just been dry as a creek bed as far as blogs go. When I post I want to be funny or entertaining. Not boring or bitchy. Even though life's been just fine, I haven't had shit to say as of late. I am pretty sure I will be back, though. I'm just super busy at work these days, spending my days interviewing 6-10 clients per day and working working working to keep up with their cases. But I wanted to pop in and post this exciting and bloody picture to whet your appetite for more of my keen wit.

Lovely, huh? Yeah, we went to Chattanooga this weekend to have family time with B's brother and soon-to-be-wife. We try to visit them somewhat often because we all love each other and get along well, and since the timing was perfect, a few months back I got us all tickets to go see The Avett Brothers at the Tivoli theatre in downtown Chattanooga. I am sure that I have mentioned before that TAB are my favorite band. I am as emotionally and sentimentally involved with them as I have ever been with any current band, and this show was the ninth, count em, ninth time I've seen them. Pretty cool. I know I've bitched about going to shows before, and dear Bette sums a lot of my complaints up in this post, but shows like the one this past Saturday are what keep me buying overpriced tickets and putting hundreds of miles on my small rollerskate-like car. It was gorgeous and worth every penny and every mile; they played nearly every song I ever want to hear, and I want y'all to play this song. I preach these boys to anyone who will listen; I hope you can love it a tenth as much as I do.


But my knee, right? What the fuck am I even talking about anymore? Jesus, the structure of this is giving every English teacher I've ever had a headache. They don't know why, but they have one.

Ok, my busted ass knee: earlier on Saturday, my brother-in-law drove us up Signal Mountain so that we could take a casual little hike. I have to explain that my BIL, G, is very outdoorsy and fit and active. Now, I'm not a total obese shut-in, but I get a little... pant-y when walking up hill for long stretches. Know what I'm saying? So for nearly the extent of our relationship, I have been a little afraid of the day that G realized that I am LAZY and DECIDELY NOT FIT. (Although I am sure he already knows this, he hasn't yet heard the panting). So it was a bizarre twist of events when, nearly as soon as we started our walk on the trail, I tripped and went flying leg-first into this little buddy:

The only fucking sharp rock in the entire vicinity. That is the precious denim from my jeans that got ripped open on the rock. My leg feels a lot better now, a few days later, but we had to go back and I had to drink vodka with cream soda out of a mason jar while my wonderful husband carefully picked dirt out of the bigass hole and flushed it with water and peroxide. Then I had to go to the show with my sore swollen old lady leg and deal with the silent taunts of 17-year-old hardbodies. Fuck you, high schoolers of Chattanooga. Usually I can climb stairs JUST FINE thank you.

A balloon just popped somewhere in my office and I swear to God I heard someone hit the decks.