I am new at being a zombie.  There are only three or four of us, and it's new to all of us.  There is no one to show us the ropes.  We have to figure it out for ourselves.

A dark-haired zombie woman in her mid-fifties has taught herself how to kill a human by stabbing it in the abdomen with a key.  It looks simple enough, but when I try it the first time, I find that human flesh does not want to yield to my timid stab.  I try again, this time more forcefully, and am successful.  My first kill.  It should be a moment of triumph and exultation, but instead I feel rather put off by what I have done.

With time, we zombies are able to arm ourselves with knives, far superior to keys as implements of death.  It's a messy job, and blood soaks into the carpet of the hotel we've invaded, making it squish under our feet.  I wonder how the hotel staff will get the blood stains out of the bed linens.

We feed on our victims, of course, but I am concerned that we are killing far more than we need.  The flesh won't keep.  There will be maggots.  It will smell.  Besides, each victim has left behind his or her own larder for us: canned goods, frozen dinners, snacks; all perfectly good food which we should be eating.  Even zombies need balance in their diet.

There is something else that is bothering me.  There's a spot about the size of the dime on the back of my right hand.  The spot hurts.  It is common knowledge that zombies do not feel pain, and I am afraid that the other zombies will learn of it and think I'm human and turn on me.  Likewise, if the humans knew of my weakness, they might destroy me.  I tell no one of my pain.

As our numbers increase, so does the carnage.  Now my fellow zombies are killing out of sheer blood lust.

"Wait!" I say to Zombie Jim.  "Who's going to run the power plants if we kill everyone?   Where will we be able to buy gas?"

Jim laughs and changes the subject, unwilling to consider the future.

I am convinced that we need to get organized.  We are out of control.  But no one will listen.

Defeated, I go to sleep and dream that I have become a zombie.

I consider myself one of the luckiest people I know. Good things just keep happening to me. My partner Ben tells me I make my own luck. Either way, life seems to smile on me, and I just keep smiling back.

I have been hired to do my first professional costume design job for a production of Bill Harris’ "Robert Johnson: Trick the Devil" which goes up in April. This is a tremendously lucky break for me, as I am working with a well respected theatre company and we will be performing in the brand new Long Center for the Performing Arts here in Austin.

Costuming is something I’ve dabbled in, but the only training I have is the work I’ve done -- on the job training, as it were: looking at what needs doing, and then doing it; creating it from found items and borrowed clothing, studying lots of photos and finding ideas in my own brain.

This is the perfect production to be my first pro gig. There are five characters and no costume changes, which makes my life so much easier. The era is Great Depression, the locale is a juke joint in the deep South. What could be more fun than that?

I immediately turned to my friend Jane when looking for Robert Johnson’s suit. Jane owns one of Austin’s finest vintage clothing stores. She not only had it in stock, but it fit the actor. What luck!

I went to the University of Texas costume stock room (a scavenger’s wet dream!) and found the one and only woman’s suit they had from that era. And it fit the actress. Another stroke of luck!

I own a dress from the era that fits the other actress like it was made for her. It happens to be in the same color family as the ladies’ suit, and they will not only look fabulous together on stage, but the two costumes will also speak (albeit subtly) about the women and their relationship to each other. Lucky again!

The other two costumes can be pulled from existing stock and thrift stores. Costs are low and that makes the director happy. Oh lucky day!

I’m right when I say I’m a lucky person. I mean, what are the odds of finding those three vintage pieces exactly when I needed them in exactly the size and colors I needed?

But Ben is right, too. I was, in part, able to create some of that luck by paying attention, observing, learning, remembering. When I was touring as an actor with "A Ride With Bob" we had a fabulous costumer, the very same Jane I mentioned earlier. On that tour I watched every single crew person to see what I could learn -- the costumers, the stage manager, the guy who wired us with mics. I make it a point to watch, take notes and learn from every single production I’m involved with, in whatever capacity I’m involved, from sound design to directing, to costuming, to acting. It has served me well. It has created luck.

"Keep Austin Weird". That's the city slogan. I don't know if it's official or not, but everyone in town sees it, hears it, says it, believes it.

Last Thursday night The Pratts Bottom Mummers (translated as Buttocks Buttocks Mummers) did our annual pubcrawl, introducing a little traditional English style guerilla theater to local patrons who may not (indeed probably not) have seen a Mummers play before. This is how it works: We hit the pub; perform the 5 minute play; the bar and/or the patrons buy us drinks; we schmooze. Then we hit the next pub and repeat. By the end of the evening, the performance is rather...uh...inspired and emboldened.

What I love about Austin is the fact that we can walk around downtown in full costume -- little 9 year old Tess played by 30-something Steve Barney, Ben Johnston in his dragon costume, Misty Poe as our King -- and can count on only about three basic responses: (1) we are totally ignored; (2) "Hi. How ya doin'?" as if we were the most normal people on the block; and (3) "Where's the party?" at which point we invite them to join us at the pub.

Our Queen Meg, played by a tall, bald man with a lovely grey beard, got an appreciative slap on the ass as (s)he walked down the street. Our dragon (whose scales were crafted from old CDs) had appreciative high tech folks fondling his scales, making comments like, "Wow, Windows '98! Dude!" As we walked past the homeless shelter, a couple of street people, referring to Tess's pink flamingo slippers, shouted, "I like your chickens!"

One of our pubs was a hole in the wall called Lovejoy's, which I think of as Austin's Portal to the Other. It's definitely on the fringe. Needless to say, that's where we had our most engaged, appreciative audience. When little Tess said, "There's a dragon about; if you see him, shout!", they raised the roof. They broke into riotous applause after St. George's stirring aria (yes, we did it operetta style this year), and they all wanted fliers about the full Christmas/Solstice Celebration on Sunday which we were touting last night. I expect we've made some new friends in this most unlikely of venues.

And that's what I love about Austin. I've lived in other places, visited many more. But I can't imagine any other place (except maybe NYC or San Francisco) where I would feel so perfectly "normal" while looking so perfectly outrageous.

Just doing our part to Keep Austin Weird.

P.S.  There's a Pratts Bottom Mummers photo album on my profile page, so check it out.  And there's a very rough video of one of our pub performances on YouTube -- http://youtube.com/watch?v=t8coiLpRH64