The night of October 20,2010 began like any other evening. The sun went down, my headlights came on, and I turned the radio up as I drove toward Dallas with Hayley Mumaw, my best friend, in tow. As the downtown skyline came into focus, little did I know I would experience a host of out of body problems.

October 20 was a special date to me. I was going to see Sufjan Stevens, my long time favorite artist whom I’d been waiting for two years to go on tour. Upon arriving at the SMU campus, I couldn’t find the auditorium the band would be playing in, so I pulled over and asked for help from two professors, looking a bit Twiddle-Dee and Twiddle-Dum in their cardigan and bow-tie ensembles. They gave me directions to McFarlin Auditorium, parting with a bop on the head before hopping back down the rabbit hole.

I followed the steps and arrived quickly, the next goal being to find a parking spot. Vetoing the option of parking at the crowded auditorium, Hayley and I scoured nearby parking lots for spaces, finally finding one in front of a yogurt shop. We got out, locked the car, and began crossing the busy two-way, four-lane street, when I heard someone shouting “Ma’am, ma’am!”

As I turned to see who was calling after me, my shoes slipped, causing me to spin and fall flat on my back. I felt gravel press into my arm as I shifted my eyes left; six sets of headlights danced toward me, with no intention of stopping. Still sprawled over the cross walk, I reached a weak hand out to Hayley, who only looked at it before doing a hesitant jig and fleeing to the opposite side of the street, where she proceeded to yell at me to get up. Alone and vulnerable, I scrambled to my knees and crawled to the sidewalk, just barely missing becoming a hulking carcass in the middle of the street.

I rose from the curb, a little dusty and shaken, and approached the man who had been shouting for me. Wielding a yogurt spoon like Rafiki’s enchanted staff, he informed me that “The Man” of myths and hollow threat infamy would tow me if I remained parked where I was. Partly because he was a nice guy, and partly because he thought I was an illiterate cripple who’d parked in a clearly marked “no parking” zone and wiped out in traffic, the parking shaman allowed me to leave my car in the yogurt shop’s employee parking.

After the minor set back, Hayley and I were on our way to the concert. Our night of tribulations had yet to come to a close though. On our way up to the balcony, I was stopped by an usher remnant of Puff Daddy to question me on my age, because “I looked like I was dressed as if I was 30 or something, not that that was a bad thing.”

Eventually we made it up the stairs and were guided to our seats, and then when the actual owners showed up, re-guided to our right seats, located in the corner. The ushers appeared to be as good at seating people as they were at fashion judgment.

Finally, the concert started with a blooming of music. On stage were nine musicians, two back up dancers/vocalists, seven guitars, two brass instruments, three pianos, one drum set, three disco balls, and the all holy Sufjan Stevens of Asthmatic Kitty legend. Playing only songs from his new CD, which is a radical change from his usual folksy tunes, the auditorium ricocheted with experimental-transcendental beats. As Hayley and I started jamming out, I looked to my right and left and was met by the blank-eyed-slack-jawed stare of the audience, sitting their breathing and blinking like natural ol’ mammals. Resuming their “The Thinker” poses for a majority of the night, I had no choice but to assume that these people were zombies. I should have seen it coming, what with the Wonderland creatures, car towing prophecy, Vogue-inept ushers, not to even mention the near accident that would have inevitable left me a teenage road kill zombie. Because I had waited two years for a two-hour concert and because we were striving to survive, Hayley and I stood up and danced for our lives, because you can’t eat what you can’t catch. Unfortunately these zombies were a bit more cunning, telling us to sit down and enjoy the concert like a good human being. At the end of the show, we cheered and cried and high-tailed it out of there before our limbs were salted and gnawed off.

In conclusion, I learned that Sufjan Stevens puts on a mean show, but the road to the concert is even meaner, SMU college boys might be hot, but they’re all zombies, so don’t bother, and that you should always trust nice yogurt employees, because my car did not get towed.