His name is Maleke and he drives a tiny little bus in the suburbs of Columbia, South Carolina.

I´d had a trying day. I was staying with Matt and his family in the suburbs of Columbia, South Carolina. I like to ride busses where I can, whenever possible, even when an alternative is available. Yes, there was an alternative available – Matt´s mom offered us the car. But I just wanted to ride the bus, mostly because I believe in public transportation. I´m along for the ride, for the characters, for the slower pace and for the peace of mind of not having to deal with a car. I also believe that as more people demand public transportation,  that it delivers a message to municipalities to extend services.

I walked out to the bus stop just in time to see the bus come zooming down the street about a block away. I stood at the stop, so happy that the timing was so good. And then . . . and then . . . the bus zoomed right on by, without even a pause. So, I ended up having a nice long two mile walk to the suburban Columbia mall. I needed the exercise anyway and I wasn´t in a hurry.

Finally, after traversing the mall, I found the bus I needed and I hopped on. I was the only white person on the bus, the other patrons were older black men, talking about beer and making jokes with one another and cute older little black women with shopping bags. The driver was nice enough and answered all my questions, including my query regarding the bus that zoomed past me earlier in the morning. ¨He shouldn´t a done that,¨said Maleke, the bus driver. ¨I bet he didn´t even see you. Call this number and tell ´em what happened, they´ll give you a free pass and maybe tell that driver to be more aware,¨ he said as he handed me a flier.

The information was nice of Maleke to give, but that´s not why he´s the best bus driver ever. At one of our stops a guy in a day-glo vest with dark sunglasses and cane got onto the bus. He said, ¨I´m trying to get to the mall.¨ Maleke told him that in order to get to the mall, he´d have to cross the street and get on the bus that was going the other way.

One of the bus patrons who´d been making jokes earlier grabbed the blind man´s hand and got off the bus with him and walked him gently across the street to the opposite stop. Maleke waited patiently for his rider to return, and only then did we all continue into town. That is why Maleke is the best bus driver ever.

When I jetted out of Columbia, South Carolina a few days ago, it was a mighty hasty departure indeed.

I had the best time working on that movie. I met the best people in the worst of circumstances. That happens sometimes. When they told us that we had 24 hours to pack up accounting, I just wanted to throw up. And I just wanted to leave town and disappear for a few days.

I was flying to Tennessee, but had only a loose idea where I (and the cat) would be staying in the next days, but I wasn’t sweating it. Sure enough, everything worked out. A friend called me and offered me her place for the Fourth of July weekend since she was going to be out of town.

It was LOVELY. I stayed in bed pretty much for three days solid, read a novel and just decompressed in general.

Today, I’m in Nashville. I’ll be here for a few more days, then I’m meandering northward to Illinois. I just kind of free-floating these days and right now am not sure where I will live/journey to in the next couple of months. I have definite plans, I’m just not sure yet where I will carry them out. It’s a-comin’.

I woke up this morning and found a chicken foot in my purse.

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.

Roller skating the winding, woodsy bike path meandering for miles along the Congaree River in Columbia, South Carolina yesterday was very much like a metaphor for my life lately.

I’d heard that the bike path along the river was perfect for roller skating. Up until hearing about the river walk, I was trying to find a good empty lot or parking garage, but all the locals said, “Oh, check out river walk . . . ”

Either no one in South Carolina roller skates very much or they are hard-core skaters with much more courage than I. I’m thinking that it’s the former that’s the case because yesterday was a typical thriving Sunday afternoon in the park and while there were walking couples and puppies galore, I only saw one roller blader and a handful of cyclists. As the lone roller skater, the looks I received told me that they don’t see this kind o’ thing around these here parts too often.

I may be an avid roller skater, but I’m not all too athletic with it. I do not perform tricks. I’m not that great at stopping on a dime. I’m an artist adventurer, not an athletic adventurer.

Upon arrival, I parked the car in the gravel lot across the street and wandered down the grassy hill to the river walk in my socked feet, carrying the skates. I needed to suss the place before beginning. My definition of flat is sea level. Again, I thought I’d ask a local.

A lady pushing one of those high tech speed racer baby carts jogged past. “Is the path very hilly?” I asked, brandishing my skates. “Or flat?”

“Oh, it’s pretty flat,” the lady quickly replied. “You should be OK.”

Now, if she would have told me the truth, which is that the path curves and takes sharp twists and is probably too hilly for a roller skater, then I probably would have missed out on this adventure. As it is, I rolled right into the middle of the woods, literally. And while it was sticky and sometimes scary and fraught with snarls along the way, I wouldn’t trade the experience for anything.

I had to really be mindful on this tree-lined path, I knew right away because the sidewalk was littered with small sticks and pods of every variety and there were lots of people walking with dogs and babies. And I could see the path zig-zag and curve down hill, but the lady with the carriage after all, did say it was “pretty flat” so I kept thinking that just around the next bend, everything would straighten out.

It never did, but I was committed to my adventure by now, so I was rollin’ with it, literally. The river is wide and shallow, full of large flat sandstone rocks. There were people everywhere playing in and along the river and path, some fishing, some wading, some reading, some chatting at picnic tables with their families. I love hearing snippets of conversation as I roll past people. One girl squealed, “Oh mother, don’t tell me that you really believe that your son has a perverted interest in children!” Yep, I thought, I’m definitely in South Carolina.

I was especially happy to be rolling through such a different kind of environment: the humid air full of the woodsy smells of leaves and flower blossoms. I’ve rolled through the gritty streets of Chicago and I hit the beach path in Venice every day that I can, but to be cruising past big trees was a new and exhilarating feeling – but I knew I didn’t have the luxury of just innocently blazing through this place. I had to be on guard, because every time I gazed at the river, a little rock or twig would remind me that I was in uncharted territory. Argh! Not to mention that twist in the path up ahead and – eek! – the hill going down, down, down to a wooden plank walkway that twisted before me with no end in sight . . . . !

Br-u-u-ump! Br-u-u-ump! Br-u-u-ump! My teeth chattered and people could hear me coming and cleared the way as I rolled downhill and onto the bridge, fully into a secluded forest setting. Momentarily I thought about turning around, but dammit, I was here, so I was determined to see where this path ended. The concrete path eventually opened back up, only to be oft-punctuated with wooden plank bridges.

In life, sometimes we see bumps along the way, and that little voice trips inside our heads, warning us with a sense of foreboding. At one point, as I rolled uphill and onto another bridge, I noticed the smallest little ramp, maybe an inch in height connecting the planks and sidewalk and that little voice said, “Watch out for that ramp on the way back . . . .

The path ended in another county in a completely different town. Someone buried their pet at the end of the path, making a little grave with flowers for a memorial and a headstone that read, “Fluffy – Gone but not forgotten.”

On the way back, I remembered the ramp and I knew when I was getting close. By this time, I’d developed a certain comfort zone with the wooden planks, and it felt as though I wasn’t able to catch much speed while chattering across. My thoughts were absorbed by the upcoming little ramp, and I completely forgot the hill leading down to it – that is, until I was in mid-hill and I realized I was going waaaay too fast to properly navigate both the little ramp and the immediate curving concrete just past it.

I knew I was about to eat shit. “Farfegnuggin!” I screamed as I hit the concrete. It was that or jettison myself into the river rocks about ten feet off the veering path.

I sat up. I could move my arms. I could move my legs. Didn’t hit my face. Whew! I landed on my knee and elbow, losing skin on both . . . and I waited for the hurt, but it never came. The sting felt strangely OK, good even. The song lyrics came to my head, “When everything feels like the movies, yeah you bleed just to know you’re alive . . .”

An older lady came running up to me as I reached for my glasses, which had landed several feet away. “Are you OK?” she asked. And then in what could only be called true Southern hospitality, she exclaimed, “I am not leaving here til you get up!”

I got up, shaken, but kept going, this time, more wary and more slowly and even at times taking the skates off and walking. As I neared the parking lot, I thought about getting in the car and just going home, but that’s when I realized I still had the whole upper part of the path to explore. And that’s exactly what I did, bloody strawberry on elbow, sore body and all. I don’t know when I’ll be back on the Congaree, so I had to see as much of it as possible while it was in front of me!

Ah have arrived, my shugahs. 

And aside from the taxi cab ride to my hotel and the ritual of hanging of christmas lights in my hotel suite . . . I have done not a damn thing except acquire frizzy hair and view some magnolia blossoms. All these things make me very happy.

Frank was EXceptionally good on the two plane rides, shuttle van ride, taxi cab ride and short subway jaunt it took to get here . . . nary a meow.

He’s not even holed himself up underneath the hotel bed yet . . . a new one for him . . . I think he’s getting the hang of this whole travel thing . . . but you can see for yourself . . . he’s become a blogger too . . . I was a bit afraid that the TSA might try to confiscate his catnip lined scratch pad as some kind of contraband, but that didn’t happen. There would have been some clawz flyin’!

The last couple of weeks have been a bit unstable. I knew I was moving, but wasn’t sure where or when or how . . . . my roommate and I finagled our way out of our lease, so whoo-hoo! I’m free to roam again . . . and that’s exactly what I’m going to do . . .

Sunday morning, Frank, the cat and myself will fly from ABQ to Columbia, South Carolina for a short bit of work. It’s going to be seat of the pants living at it’s best. We will be living in another fine hotel and may stay two weeks, maybe four and I have absolutely no clue what I’m doing or where I’m going after South Carolina. My stuff goes into storage in ABQ tomorrow and the car gets parked at the airport and I am done thinking about it all for a bit.

My granny’s 90th birthday party is in July, so until July, I’m not so worried about being in any specific place at any certain time. I’ve got lots of options, but as life has recently taught me – I have no idea what will pop up – and that’s OK – even exciting. Maybe Frank and I will kick it in Santa Fe for June, maybe Chicago, maybe LA, maybe Peru (ok, Frank can’t go to Peru). . . . maybe a shack in a redwood forest. Who knows?

I’m sad to be saying good-bye to G-unit so soon, but it’s time to move on . . . do what I do best. . . be an artist adventurer . . . keep livin’ the moments.