I have a new office mate. It’s my friend Nick and we always have a good time when we share office space. On our last show, we got in trouble for “non-stop cackling” and “continued mention of specific body parts.” Every day around 4:30 or so, we’d get punchy and I’d start laughing so hard that I’d be either nearly pissing my pants or wiping tears off my face.

But we’re more than simply cackles and base body humor, we are observers of nature too.

Yesterday we decided to take a break outside and stood in the street near the front door to the production office and watched a hawk tear the flesh from a pigeon that he’d plucked out the sky just moments earlier.

The hawk sat on the roof directly above the production office doorway under the canopy of a tree in the golden evening sunlight. One spot of orange light shone through the dappled shadows of the leaves and hit him squarely on the breastbone, setting him aglow. Behind him, up the hill, the dome of the Columbia Capitol Building shone brilliant white against a solid wall of dark thunderstorm clouds. People noticed our craning necks and a small crowd began to gather.

“He doesn’t like to be watched.” Nick said to the people who joined us to see what we were staring at. They all left. But we didn’t. Eventually the bird became comfortable with our gaze and began to eat again.

Blood spattered the sidewalk. Sometimes a snap of flesh pulled from his beak. As he ripped flesh from feather, he shook his head, sending a steady trail of whirligigging pigeon feathers floating right past the office door. A man in a crisp suit walked right into and past one of them, completely unaware. People walked out the front door lurched over, wincing, as if expecting to be hit with bloody pigeon pieces. And for good reason, as that’s about the time that the hawk tossed a bit of entrails over the edge, scoring a direct hit inside the vestibule.

We watched for a very long time, but eventually left the bird to eat in peace. About ten minutes later the beginning of an evening of thunderstorms began with a boom. Water poured down in a deluge and the secretary came running into our office, beaming, and said, “Hey! The rain’s washing all the blood and guts away!”

That just struck us as funny, setting us off into laughter that escalated to cackles. We do that alot, really for no particular reason. Just about anything can set us off.

If you’ve never heard of the incredible traveler’s database of couchsurfing.com, you should check it out. I’ve happily been an active member of that gypsy community for three + years now and the experiences I’ve had with it color my life just about every day. I’ve crashed and been crashed upon countless times, always with plenty of adventure – from streaking in Boise, Idaho all the way to drinking Coca-cola at 3AM in Lima, Peru after just being picked up from the airport by an entire family.

Ah, but all things naturally ebb and flow . . . and really for no reason in particular, I took an extended hiatus from using my wondrous network of instantaneous (for the most part, anyway) friends and like-minded folks . . . that is, until last night.

Columbia, South Carolina is alright. I’m working here and my idea of a good time isn’t going to the local hipster bar after a 13+ hour day and re-hashing a bunch of corporate bullshit over frosty PBR’s with a gaggle of frustrated employees. They are nice people, but I crave something more . . . well, local.

Enter couchsurfing. With this database, a person can not only find available places to sleep and rest, but also one can quickly find willing locals to show the vernacular of the area. And that is exactly what I found last night.

I’m staying in an urban heat island right next to a mall on the far outskirts of town because I’m traveling with my cat and the only hotel available for people with pets seems to be in that remote part of town. I can’t stand malls and I feel completely out of place and bored in that part of town. Not to mention that it’s neither smart nor safe for me to swig libations with my co-workers and then drive twenty minutes to my far-flung flophouse. What I needed, I decided, was an infusion of local color.

I perused the profiles for Columbia and came up with but one person I wanted to send a message. She seemed not only my age and crazy type, but fun and approachable . . . my kind of people. She returned my email a few days later with much enthusiasm, inviting me to dinner at a friend’s home followed by promises of a “punk rock house party where we could be the old ladies on the porch tellin’ the kids how ignorant they are.” Sounded like fun to me!

Within four hours last night, this incredible chick did indeed take me to her friend’s home . . . ah! a real, live home . . . not some hotel . . . and we had the best dinner I’ve had since venturing to South Carolina. From there we proceeded to another friend’s home. This friend was a very young, hip mother of a drop-dead gorgeous 19-year-old boy who’d just come back from a two-year stint as an Aussie model. We three “old ladies” walked a few blocks over to the afore-promised punk rock house party. We were the only people over the age of 22, I’m quite sure, but two of the three of us brazenly wore our pigtails with pride anyway.

Honestly, with the craziness of work, I was a bit intimidated by having to go into a house full of punk rock kids, so we went to the backyard, where the largest home-made swing I’ve ever seen hung from a tree. I hopped on and was so swallowed up by the immensity of the wooden slat that I felt like a child as I swung with my arms held wide by the faraway ropes in the humid air that was the same temperature as my skin. Back and forth I swung, the clammy air massaging me in the darkness as I watched the wind blow the other trees in the distance. It relaxed me and I was able to breathe deeply and calmly, a great way to unwind from a hectic office day, the whole while crashing chords hummed in the distance. I found it funny that I had to be mindful as I swung that I didn’t hit any young punks in the head with my feet as they piled out the back screened-porch door between sets.

Eventually I did make my way inside to see the final band play in the back room off the kitchen. The fridge was blocked with a rack full of custom t-shirts. The music was quite good and the band had ventured all the way from Portland just to play this house show. Columbia doesn’t have any venues, I found, so it’s quite common for bands to play house parties. Good to know. Note: In Columbia, you gotta know someone to see a good show.

The best part of this entire adventure is that it happened on a random Monday night in what would appear to the average eye to be a sleepy southern town. And, although I was half-afraid I would run into someone I knew from that other part of my life, I never saw one person with whom I’m working.

Last weekend, I decided to visit Holly D., my old friend from high school, who I very serendipitously and unexpectedly re-connected with several weeks ago. I’m working in South Carolina right now and she just happened to move to Athens, Georgia right about the time that she contacted me. Athens is only three hours away from Columbia. I had the weekend off, so I decided to go for a visit and explore Georgia.

I won’t lie. I have mixed feelings about Georgia. I have ex in-laws who live there and so that sort of colors my outlook on the whole place and reminds me of times in the past. But, that was a very long time ago when I was very different (well, kind of).

My Georgia extravaganza was a really long weekend. Not in that “Oh-my-god, when-is-this-going-to-end” kind of way; I just experienced a lot and it feels as though I packed an entire week into those 48 hours. Holly D. and I picked up right where we left off 17 years ago. We met at The Globe restaurant, in the heart of downtown, chatted for hours and drank copious quantities of Pinot Noir, the wine of poets. Since we are both writers, it seemed quite appropriate.

I am fascinated with the architecture of the deep, hidden south. For instance, all the buildings are crumbling, old buildings with imperfect plaster and crooked doorways. These folks understand the value of preservation and aren’t obsessed with new, clean, sharp edges – a trait I very much admire. History is important and valued – although the new, corporate environs are encroaching upon the edges. The artsy community of Athens, however, is doing it’s best to keep Athens weird. And imperfect.

And of course, Holly and I were happy to contribute to that endeavor.

We stumbled from The Globe, window shopped for wigs and headed onward to other sights. We saw two rocker chicks in the street. One wore a t-shirt that said, “Stop Bitching and Start a Revolution.” I have that same t-shirt. I bought it from a mountain-commune hippie on the Georgetown streets of DC back in September. We stopped and talked to the rocker chick and her friend, who were promo-ing their rock-n-roll camp for teenage girls.

“Where’d you get the shirt?” I asked.

“My mom bought it for me from some random guy on a street corner in DC,” she said.

“Get out!” I laughed. “I bet it was the same dude I bought mine from!”

We jetted into a corner bar by the college and the downstairs was kind of dead. We did, however, notice that upstairs was hoppin’. The bartender told us that it was a private party for a wedding reception.

I was wearing my fabulous Southern Belle straw hat and Holly and I both just happened to have on sun dresses. I have learned that this Audrey Hepburn-esque straw hat with it’s trailing ribbon will get me everywhere, so I told Holly, “follow my lead, shugar,” and proceeded to walk into the entrance of the upstairs, exclaiming, “Didn’t she look sooo good in her wedding gown!?!”

The bouncer opened the door for us.

We drank free PBR’s from the wedding party’s open bar and danced with the music as the live band played. We grabbed one of the disposable cameras and took shots of ourselves for posterity and left it behind for the bride to someday find. Then we headed onward. No one even gave us a second glance.

The next morning we happily drank non-corporate coffee.

I bid my old friend adieu and then took off to explore the back country roads solo. I very much enjoyed my leisurely jaunt back to Columbia. I stopped at roadside stands in search of tree-ripened Georgia peaches. Read more about how the whole “Georgia Peach” state motto is a marketing ploy from the Civil War Reconstruction era. Fascinating stuff. Not only did I find juicy peaches, I also went on a jelly-acquiring, liver tonic spending spree. More on that later.

But, as you can plainly see,

the peaches are damn fine!

I cruised by an organic farm that gives tours, but sadly, it was closed. I stopped at an old roadside junk store and bought four books, even though I really don’t have room for them on the airplane ride back to Albuquerque. Gosh, Albuquerque seems so far away . . . . I pressed onward to Lake Oconee, wanting only to find a shady spot to read one of my newly acquired books in repose from the blazing mid-afternoon heat. But I suppose that Shangri-La only exists in my mind or in one of the many high-stakes real estate plots I spied around the lake’s edges, as I never found a public spot to rest. There’s a Ritz Carlton on the lake too. I am disappointed with the lack of public access on Lake Oconee, but oh well.

I drove onward to Augusta. Besides The Masters Golf Tournament, Augusta also boasts the world-famous Sconyers BBQ. They weren’t open. Shucks! But, it just so happens that my ex in-law’s live just down the street. I had a bit of reminiscing and loose ends to tie up, if only inside myself. So, I decided to do a psycho drive-by of their house. They are very nice people and all, but suffice to say that they just don’t have the warm fuzzies for me since divorcing their son eight years ago.

Nothing has changed there. Same cars parked the same way in the same driveway. I am the one who has changed, thankfully, and so now that part of my life is at peace in a way it’s never been before . . . a knot that I didn’t even know existed deep down in my belly suddenly came undone and I took a big, deep breath. Fuckin’ yay for me!

A shit-stirring friend of mine suggested I knock on their door unannounced and say Hello, but I’m not so sure about that. He says, “Honey, you look good and you are happy and doing exactly what it is you’ve always wanted to do . . . doing things you never could have done if you would have chosen that life.” Exactly why I should not bother them.

Eh, it would be a shenanigan for sure . . . a funny one, a bold one, a morally illicit one . . . (you know, the kind I normally like) . . . . but not worth it this time. I’ve moved on . . . no looking back. Driving past and untying those stomach knots was good enough.