Stalking them has become a new fascination of mine – the longer their lens the better. It can be difficult to be covert, but I´m getting the hang of it.

Seriously, though . . . This guy won´t have a camera or a backpack for long. Neither is secure on his shoulders. Easy pickins for a theif. . . Don´t be this guy.

“No matter that Turistico Control told me that there are no free days, ever?” I asked.

He reassured me that the day in question would indeed be a free day. I was still skeptical. I went to the local bakery for my daily Coca-Cola in a glass bottle and carne empanada fix. Conception, the girl who works there and knows me as a regular customer, asked me why I wasn’t up at the ruins. “It’s free today,” she said, “because of Carnival.”

So, Heather and Maria and I decided to splurge the US $3.00 for cab fare up to the top of the ruins since it was already well past noon. On the way up, I decided to ask our driver about it.

“No,” he said. “There are no free days. If you are Peruvian, it’s free. Don’t you have a ticket?”

We explained that we did not. Then our cab driver did something unexpected, fun and truly adventurous. “OK,” he said, “Hide your faces and your hair.” He spoke in fast Spanish. I could only understand the gist of what he was saying, but I got the idea that he was going to help us sneak in.

He stopped the car when we got close to the control station. He motioned for us to put the hoods of our raincoats on and duck down together in the backseat. He gave me a newspaper and motioned for me to put it over my face and hair. Then he hit the gas. We went a little way and then he said, “OK!”

We made it! He snuck us past Turistico Control! He then explained that if we walked down the other side of the mountain toward the market after exploring the ruins that the guards at the other gate would stop us and ask for our tickets. So, he offered (for an additional fee, of course) to wait two hours for us at the top of the mountain and then take us back down into town. The total fee would for the three of us for this scheme would be the same as one regular ticket, so we said yes and thanked our driver graciously.

There are alternate ways to get to the top of this mountain after all!

The verdict is still out as to whether Turistico Control really was open and checking tickets or not. We wouldn’t know, because we were hiding in the backseat of the cab. But I really don’t care.

Oh the beer-guzzling!

The tinsel-spewing good times of the LA Santacon  . . .

Matt and I . . . bottom front. El Cid.

Then later . . . I stole a sign from one of those clowns . . .

I’m sporting my grandma’s green taffeta ball gown. As you can see, things got a lil’ fuzzy . . .

“What do you want for your birthday?” Matt asked the other day.

“Some green leaf lettuce!” I said.

He went to the IGA. Only a few heads of wilting iceberg lettuce were on display. We went to the local cafe, where the menu is centered around a salad bar/hot buffet. I never order the salad bar because it lacks greens. But that day, we noticed the white lettuce was sitting atop a garnish of green leaves of lettuce. Still, it wasn’t enough for me to want to order the salad bar. We sat drinking our coffee for awhile when Matt looked up.

The place was empty of customers. The waitress left the room. The cook left the room.

Matt got out of his seat without a word, walked over to the salad bar, looked around like a kid who’s about to raid the cookie jar and . . . pulled a single leaf of green lettuce out from under the iceberg mix. A smile crept across his face as he ripped it in half and came back to our table. He handed me my half as he shoved his half in his mouth.

I tried not to giggle as I ate my portion of this birthday wish come true. We checked one another’s teeth for any sign of green so we wouldn’t be busted by the waitress when she came back to make her rounds and I realized that I am in love.

Perhaps I should explain myself. Last night, being Friday the 13th and all, we decided it would be a good idea to dress up like zombies. I mean, why not?

First, remember that I am in Columbia, South Carolina. I have found some cool kats here to hang with, but this is a fairly small, conservative southern city. The longer I’m here, the more interesting individuals I find, but for the most part, this is a very traditional place where the general public doesn’t understand the burning need to act goofy.

The plan: get dressed up like zombies, go to a rock show at The Whig – the local hipster-ish bar, which is located underneath the ABC newsroom across from the Capitol building – get drunk, get drunker, get rowdy . . . and eat some brains.

And of course, one cannot just be a zombie. Zombie-ness of it’s own accord is so blasé. Everyone had to be a different kind of zombie. Our party of five included fairy tale zombie, hippie mama zombie voodoo madame zombie, Yankee’s fan zombie (a sure way to be the world’s most hated zombie), military private-zombie first class, and then there was me – the zombie hooker.

I left the hotel dressed in completely inappropriate clothing, including a very short dress with a clear vinyl window in the chest, snagged garter belt stockings and platform boots. Perfect! The funniest part about the whole outfit is that I didn’t even have to go shopping for any portion of it. Remember, I flew into SC one month ago with only one rolling duffle bag – with a tent and sleeping bag crammed inside, leaving room for very few items of clothing – and one box of work stuff. I’d packed the dress and hose because of Flipside, so I figured I should maximize the usage of all the items I’d lugged out here with me – thus, the zombie hooker was born.

There was an email floating around from the band that encouraged costumes, but I had no idea what to expect. I’d gotten off work a bit late, so by the time I got to Michelle’s place to apply the zombie make-up, it was late. I didn’t have time to apply any rotting flesh to my face, but by the time I was done smearing on the acrylic paint, adding some black lipstick and some blood, I was satisfied with the look.

I’ve noticed every time I go to The Whig, I get the stranger stare-down. I think this is because everybody there knows everybody else. By the time we arrived to The Whig, the band was already playing. I was the first to walk in the door. I flung it open and tromped right on in with gusto. My South Carolina Zombie Posse poured in behind me with a flurry of flashbulbs, feathers, hollow eyes . . . and a thirst for brains.

No one else in the entire place was dressed up – except for us and the band. I mean one guitar player was wearing a dress and the trumpet player wore a sparkly cape, so really, does that even count? We proceeded to execute our plan anyway. The band was awesome, performing completely improvised music and songs for several hours and they sounded great. This is not easy to do and I’m impressed with the quality of these musicians.

We indeed got drunk and drunker, danced and created much merriment and generated lots of gawks from Friday night revelers. After awhile I pseudo-forgot I was in zombie hooker attire and became comfortable stepping into the role of watching people watch me. This proved to be an interesting people study. I find that you can be in a dark bar in a conservative small town, show up dressed in a manner that some may find offensive, act with complete confidence anyway and people kind of accept it after the first 20 minutes when the shock wears off.

Some people asked “Why are ya’ll dressed like that?”

We answered, “Br-r-rai-i-ins!” and just kept dancing.

“I’ll take a triple grande soy latte,” I said to the unnamed girl at the counter.

“And your name?” she asked.

I don’t like to give my name. I don’t ask for theirs. I want to be incognito. I don’t want them to perk up and start screaming “Good Morning!” when I walk in the door every day. And they often will. I feel strange enough that I find myself going there on a daily basis, so at least allow me my privacy and let me get my fix in private, please. Sometimes I make up a fake name. But the other day, I just didn’t feel like playing that silly game – at all.

“I don’t feel like giving my name today,” I replied in a courteous manner, with a simple smile.

“Uh . . ” the Starbuck’s counter-intelligence stammered, “And your name is . . .?” But I could tell by the look on her face that she herself was confused as to why those words were coming out of her mouth, but at the same time, could not stop them.

I repeated myself, gently. “I just don’t feel like playing the name game today.”

I think that smoke was about to come out of her ears simply from sheer confusion. I’d completely thrown her for a loop. She continued to stammer, “Um . . you want a . . . Venti what?”

“A triple grande soy latte.”

“And your na-” she broke her words off. And then averted her eyes and said, “uh, that’ll be $4.09, please.”

After the show ended and the liquor store set was struck, all the good liquor went home with various crew members. No one ever called accounting . . . no, I’m not holding a grudge about that . . .  However, later I found that no one wanted the cases of King Cobra (or the chuck). Ain’t these people never hear’d o’ malt licka? Anyway, the set decorator was just going to throw the stuff away . . . and that’s when I had an idea!

I took all the chuck and any cases of old, hot beer that I could find and gave it away to my friends. I also took all the King Cobra home. And I saved it til the night of the next full moon. Then I put it all in the freezer for about 45 minutes, til it was nice and frosty. Then I went outside to take a peek onto the night time streets of my lovely Venice ghetto ‘hood, where, sure enough, there were crack dealers and prositutes galore. During the summer, there is alot going on out there and for some reason, the street activity picques even more during times of the full moon. So I thought I’d help out.

I brought the King Cobra outside, lined the street corner with it’s frostiness and left it sitting there for all to enjoy. I checked an hour later. No malt liquor on the sidewalk. Music pumped up a notch in the hood. Hookers dancin’ in the streets. This is how we roll in Venice.

I was running late, and bustled into the store around 1:09ish, pushing past people, sliding in my flip-flops on the marble floors, bounding to get to the third floor. I had no idea which book I was going to grab, but I definitely knew it would be on the third floor. I didn’t know how many, if any, people would be here reading with me, I was listening for others, but didn’t really hear anything. I grabbed a random book from a low shelf. It was a book of blessings. “Perfect, I thought, “It’s just what I need to be putting out to the world.”

And I began to read, and listen for others. I walked around, then sure enough brushed casually by a long haired tattooed dude who was reading Mien Kampf. Then I saw others. Then I heard others mumbling near and far, like constellations of mischeif, as I myself read as loud as I could. I noticed a couple of kids walking together arm-in-arm, reading aloud too.

The plan was to read out loud until about 1:30 or until getting kicked out.

We all continued to walk around Barnes and Noble, reading aloud and eventually we saw staff members and customers begin to look at one another like, “What the . . .?” And on we read, some were mumblers, most were just reading in a relaxed and normal way, like it was perfectly acceptable public behavior. I, on the other hand, was as loud as I could be reading poetic blessings into the air. . . a sustained theatre voice projected from the diaphragm, not screaming or anything, but definitely enough to cause people to notice. I wanted to be heard by the others, to help keep momentum going. I noticed a security guard coming near me, but he was actually going after one of the other men who were reading. It was odd, like he didn’t see me. Then a sales lady approached and said, “The customers are complaining, ma’am, you have to stop.”

I walked a couple of aisles over and commenced to the blessin’ again. Then as I rounded the balcony, I saw that security guards were escorting people out, so I put my book down. The kids were still reading and giggling. No one ever asked them to stop. I found a dear friend of mine, mumbling, but still reading. It was not yet 1:30. I hugged him, and walked out the door, glowing.

The others who’d been kicked out were standing in front. I introduced myself. They said, “Hey, wanna go for coffee?”

We did. And we planned the next shenanigan. Coming soon.

Take about 150 friends dressed in all various forms of ‘Santa’ , causing trouble at local malls, parks and bars . . . .  . . . and drinking yellow snow lemonade . . . and gettin’ the cops called on us . . .

. . . and about four hours later, you’ve got ‘Santa-AnnaTude’ sleeping at Formosa Cafe, puking behind a plastic tree and squealing, “I just don’t know how this happened!” between heaves . . .

 . . . and ever since that fateful day, my body has said, “Ho means HO! We’ll be having none ‘o that pot o’ gold!”