A Star Is Born

More from Paul Potts.

Introducing Paul Potts

This video is a clip from Britain's Got Talent. Paul won the competition and walked away with 100,000 pounds. Seems the folks across the pond DO know talent.

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Emily Visits New Mexico

My niece, Emily, flew to Albuquerque last Thursday to visit us and see the desert. Telly and Murphy were so excited to see her they nearly turned themselves inside-out. After picking her up at the airport, we had some lunch, took a little drive, ran a few errands, and played with the dogs. In spite of pouring rain, we decided to have dinner in Old Town and had a pleasant, filling meal at La Hacienda, where Emily was introduced to red and green chiles.


Still on Eastern Time, Em retired shortly after we returned from dinner.

Friday we bought a homegrown, homemade ristra from a man with a big smile at the side of the road not far from home. The new chile ristra is now hanging at our front door.



After a stop at the Sandia Tram for a panoramic view of the valley, we stopped at Elena Gallegos Picnic Area, where several mountain trails converge, including one that leads to the crash site of TWA Flight 260, a twin-engine plane that went down in the Sandia Mountain Wilderness on February 19, 1955.



Too hungry to hike, we made a dash to Whole Foods, picked up several trays of sushi and guacamole, and drove home to chow down.

Saturday morning we went to the Indian Pueblo Cultural Center, a wonderful museum on 12th Street in Albuquerque. We were treated to a dance performance by a group from Zuni Pueblo, who performed an arrow dance, followed by a deer dance.






After touring the museum we ate Pueblo food and bought oven bread fresh out of an adobe oven.




Mid-afternoon we drove to Santa Fe for a quick tour of the city.






Sunday we hiked up the mesa in Boca Negra Canyon to see the Petroglyphs. I discovered I wasn't nearly as out of shape as I thought I was. This was all very encouraging. My muscles are feeling the strain today, however.




Emily left for home on Monday. I dropped her off at the Southwest terminal late morning and returned home to console two grieving puppies who miss her.

We humans miss her too...it was a swell weekend and we hope she'll come back for mountain hikes, chiles and desert air. Y'all come back real soon now, ya hear?

[For those interested, the futon held together and did not collapse.]

A Piece of Cake

With four waves of company arriving between now and Thanksgiving, it seemed prudent to find a suitable bed for guests. Several months ago I bought a used metal futon sofa from someone on craigslist. The finish was badly scratched, the thin futon mattress afforded little protection from the grid of metal support bars, and the sofa-to-bed mechanism produced annoying squeaks under the weight of anything heavier than a Chihuahua. (I believe this to be an ancient form of torture revived in the late 20th century for dealing with house guests who don't know when it's time to leave.) Though it looked clean, my gut told me the futon probably had an unsavory history at the hands of debauchers, dogs, and toddlers. But desperate as I was, I handed over five twenties for shabby second-hand furniture that probably sold at Big Lots for $129 brand new. Since its arrival, two people have collectively spent many nights on it, both of whom are heavy sleepers. Neither complained, and one even said it was comfortable, but I'm certain both these individuals would sleep soundly on a curbstone. I, on the other hand--a graduate of the Princess & Pea Academy of Rest & Relaxation--rank this futon among the five most uncomfortable places I've ever laid my head, including a canvas rack on a cargo ship, bare ground, the back seat of a '67 VW Beetle, an unheated waterbed that sprang a major leak and burst in the middle of the night and, finally, an upper bunk in a couchette I shared with five noisy strangers on a train from Bologne to Naples.


Futons & Frames is less than fifteen minutes from our house. The showroom boasts a good selection of mattresses and an even wider array of frames. After sitting on each and every sofa to determine which one delivered the most comfort, I chose the most luxurious (and most expensive) futon--thick foam layers sandwiched between soft cotton--and the least expensive wooden frame, hoping the combination would produce a reasonably nice, middle-of-the-road bed. Just thinking about repositioning on the used metal sofa made the thing squeak, which is why I opted for wood, all wood, with wide wooden slats. No bars. After the sale was completed and charged to my Visa, the salesman smiled and assured me it would be easy to put together.

"Put together? You mean I have to assemble this thing?"

"Yes," he said, "but it's a piece of cake."

"Promise?" I nervously asked.

"Absolutely. It'll take you just a few minutes to pop it all into place. If you change your mind, the delivery guy will assemble it for $25."

Delivery Guy carried a large flat box into the house and then returned to his SUV for the futon mattress. Still uneasy about putting it together, I asked him if assembly was simple, or whether I'd need his help.

"It's no problem," he assured me. "It's very easy to assemble."

"Do I need tools?"

"Nah," said he. "Comes with an Allen wrench."

After unpacking the box I found five stapled pages of instructions, as well as a formidable bundle of screws, barrel nuts, dowels and pins to hold the sofa together. I carefully laid them all out in front of me: 2 Clevis Pins, 4 6x18mm screws, 4 6x60mm screws, 4 6x100mm screws, 8 6x30mm screws, 8 wood buttons, 4 30mm dowels, and 4 metal brackets. The barrel nuts weren't even listed on the parts. Then the components: back deck, seat deck, front and back rails, 2 side arms, and 4 slat supports. Already I could see this was far more complicated than anticipated, and Delivery Guy was halfway to the next county.

"Step 1: Attach the brackets to the bottom holes of inside leg of the arm as shown in Fig. 1." If you've ever assembled furniture from a third world country, you already know that instructions written in English by non-English speaking persons are usually convoluted, unclear and mystifying. The illustrations alone were mind-numbing. I held the sheets upside down, then right side up, hoping something recognizable would jump out at me. As I stared at the crude drawings, my befuddlement deepened. Once I figured out where the "inside leg of the arm" was, I realized the designated screw didn't fit in the Step-1-specified "bottom hole." In my zeal to make it fit, I partially stripped the head while forcing the screw into the hardwood with the flimsy factory-supplied Allen wrench. Fearing I'd destroy the frame, Marcia flew to the kitchen and placed a call to Futon & Frames, demanding they send someone out immediately to put the sofa together. As I struggled with a tool that was evidently fashioned from reconstituted Reynolds Wrap, I cringed at the sudden verbal explosion coming from the kitchen.

In that moment, one thing was made crystal clear: cranky women who are out of estrogen shouldn't be allowed to assemble furniture. Period. It should be a federal law.

"The screws don't fit! Your directions are wrong! The Allen key is a piece of crap!" she wailed.

Not surprisingly, the condescending man on the receiving end of Marcia's wrath responded to the assault by insisting the directions for the easy-to-assemble sofa were "obvious" and "self-explanatory." This sentiment apparently did not help the situation, nor appease the cranky woman, who was by now shrieking into the telephone like a banshee on crystal meth. Her diatribe concluded with the words, "Your instructions suck!" followed by the sound of the receiver slamming into the cradle.

(N.B.: Our phone cradle has taken a great deal of abuse over the years. I'd like to personally thank Uniden for making a product capable of withstanding impacts equivalent to a pile-driver.)

Inasmuch as Marcia's phone rant didn't help us with Step 1, nor was Futon & Frames about to send someone to assist two homicidal lunatics, I considered a more thoughtful approach. Take a deep breath and try again. A careful examination of the parts showed a second hole above the first hole. Eureka! It was the same size as the screw I was holding. Moving past this initial hurdle, I realized the directions were not only incomplete, but dead wrong. One by one we attached the screws. We slid pieces into place and coaxed the dowels into cleanly-drilled holes with the help of a rubber mallet. When it comes to furniture assembly, directions are designed to be interpreted loosely, not literally, by creative minds. It took us 90 minutes to attach all the screws, nuts, dowels and pins, lift the large pieces, line them up, tighten everything down and finish the job.


There are several futon stores in Albuquerque. This is a blessing, because we can never again show our faces in Futons & Frames after yesterday's indelicate display of rage.

This blogger sincerely hopes all the screws are secure and the sofa doesn't collapse under our next overnight visitor. Brave souls are cordially invited to spend the night. For those interested in purchasing an inexpensive metal futon sofa, I'll make you a great deal, no extra charge for squeaks. Come and get it. It's sitting in the front yard, looking sad. Even the birds won't perch on it.

Cabbages and Kings

"The time has come," the Walrus said,
"To talk of many things:
Of shoes--and ships--and sealing-wax--
Of cabbages--and kings--
And why the sea is boiling hot--
And whether pigs have wings."

Organizing my thoughts on this clear blue New Mexico morning does not come easily. Oh, but if only my head were as cloudless as today's sky. I won't be discussing "boiling hot seas" (global warming??) or "pigs having wings" (genetic engineering??). However, shoes, cabbages, and ships are all fair game.

Humpty-Dumpty
The canine next door has started making daily excursions to our house to play with Murphy and Telly. This is an amusing sight, because Neo is a Yorkshire Terrier. This scraggly wisp of a dog, scarcely weighing six pounds, likes to play with the Big Dogs, and is especially fond of Murphy, whose back leg he humps frequently and with great vigor. Murphy isn't quite sure what to make of this behavior. It wouldn't take much to shake Neo off his back leg, but he never does. He just stands there and lets Neo have his way. Telly, ten times bigger than Neo, is afraid of the little dog. Neo lets us know he's ready to play by barking at the back door. If that doesn't work, he comes to the front door and makes a lot of noise. He seems very full of himself. The black dogs already know that Neo's in charge.


A Mothership Fly-Over?
From Space Weather News for Sept. 14, 2007:

On Sept. 13th a remarkable fireball split the skies over New Mexico. Witnesses say it "turned night into day" and reminded them of a full Moon hurtling across the sky. In fact, it was brighter than a full Moon. At least two all-sky cameras captured the event while one amateur astronomer recorded radio echoes from the fireball's ionized trail. What was it? Probably a piece of reentering space junk, but this is not yet certain. Visit http://spaceweather.com for updates plus sights and sounds of the Great New Mexico Fireball.

Space junk? They can't be serious. It was the Mothership. I just wish someone had let me know. I would've been ready to beam aboard. Chronic insomnia has plagued me for years. The last time I slept through an entire night was in January 2004--that is, until this past Wednesday night. I slept like a baby until morning. Missed the whole fireball thing. Even the dogs slept soundly, which only reinforces my contention that the Mothership was doing surveillance and sprinkled fairy dust over all of New Mexico, to insure no one would be watching.

Being an interplanetary refugee isn't all it's cracked up to be. I'll be ready for the next pass.


Ah-choo!


Is it just me, or is everyone sneezing just a little harder and more often this summer? People all over Albuqueruqe are sneezing. But wait, it gets better. The City of Albuquerque's daily pollen counts (samples taken on both East Side and West Side) have registered in the low range for weeks, which leads me to believe whatever is making us sneeze simply isn't being measured. Albuquerque, once a haven for patients with respiratory diseases, now ranks among the ten worst areas in the U.S. for pollen. Pollen in the desert, you say, where very little grows? Native desert plants aren't the problem. It's all the exotic, non-native ornamentals folks have planted to make the city look pretty. Come on, folks, this is the desert! Why are you trying to make it look like North Carolina? To make matters worse, last summer's heavy rains set the scene for a massive weed invasion. I haven't gone outside with a ruler, but I'm quite certain some of our weeds grow six inches overnight. Or so it seems. Fortunately, the cooler winter weather should put an end to the sneezing...eventually...I'm counting the days...AH-CHOO!!!

Remembering 9/11

I created this 14 minute slideshow five years ago, so it's a little dated, but the sentiment is timeless. This slideshow represents my own very personal journey in the wake of 9/11. It was, in a sense, my therapy, my way of trying to make sense of the senseless and coming to terms with the realities of war. Many of the images are disturbing. The first half of the video is about grieving, and the last half is about hope. May this slideshow serve as a reminder that our lives have value and meaning, that peace is a personal process, and that we are all connected.

Hoarding For The Afterlife

Last week my ailing, overworked paper shredder took its final breath and ascended to shredder heaven. When I brought it home from Sam's Club three years ago, I dubbed the Royal MX-150 "R2-D2." It was large, it had wheels, and it reminded me of something out of Starwars. During his last painful days I tried to baby R2 by feeding only 3 sheets into his hopper at once, rather than the maximum rated 15 sheets. R2's last meal was unceremonious; he simply stopped eating and died.

Sam's Club is owned by the Walton family, the same folks responsible for the Walmartization of America. When Sam Walton was alive, he built Wal-Mart's reputation on the "Made in America" concept. After Sam died and the rest of the Walton clan assumed the helm, Wal-Mart came to represent everything that's wrong with America. I avoid shopping at Wal-Mart, simply because I believe Wal-Mart is bad for this country. In addition to flooding landfills with inferior goods manufactured in overseas sweatshops by underpaid workers laboring in deplorable conditions, Wal-Mart's employment practices impose costs on society here at home. The low wages paid to employees make it necessary for the government to subsidize earnings. With an average hourly wage of less than $9/hr. (starting wages are as low as $6.25/hr. for cashiers), a full-time (34-hour/week) Wal-Mart employee makes less than $16,000 per year, well below the poverty threshold of $20,000. One study suggests that raising prices by a half cent per dollar would add $1,800 to each employee's annual earnings. In other words, $2 items would cost $2.01, and $20 items would cost $20.10. Imagine what a nickel increase could do.

The world's largest retailer routinely reports quarterly profits of more than $3 billion dollars. The five Walton family partners, each worth more than $15 billion, appear on the Forbes list of America's wealthiest people, occupying five of the top eleven spots. Their combined fortune of over $77 billion makes the Walton family worth more than than Bill Gates, the richest man in the U.S., whose net worth is $53 billion.

Research suggests that Wal-Mart discriminates against women and favors men in managerial positions. And then there's Wal-Mart's systematic and strategic annihilation of "Mom and Pop" stores, as well as medium-sized businesses, but I won't get into that lest I be branded anti-American and an enemy of capitalism, neither of which accurately describe my political leanings. But that's another blog post.

When my Sam's card expired in 2006, I decided to take a stand, speak my truth, and let my membership lapse. To be honest, we only kept the membership alive in Florida ("the hurricane years") because of Sam's succulent rotisserie chicken. But I have to admit, when my time at Sam's was up, I missed the joy of pushing an oversized cart through oversized aisles stacked 30 feet high with oversized grocery items. I missed the opportunity to buy a gallon of mayonnaise or 12 jars of pickle relish. I missed the challenge of figuring out where to store 48 rolls of bathroom tissue in a 1200 square foot house. I missed the euphoria of the wholesale buying club experience.

Costco has several locations in Albuquerque. The closest store is directly across the street from Sam's Club, not ten minutes from my house. I made a beeline for Costco when R2-D2 bit the dust. After an initial exploratory pass to scout out All The Oversized Things I Need From Costco, I rushed back to the service desk to sign up. A half hour later, I was making my way to the car with a cart piled so full I could neither steer nor see around it. Maneuvering the behemoth to the car, I distracted myself realizing I'd broken even on my $50 annual membership fee during this, my very first, Costco shopping spree. Not only did I replace and upgrade my paper shredder, I bought a one terabyte RAID drive (there can never be too many gigabytes of storage), a book of photos of Albuquerque (in case I decide to never leave my house and forget what the city looks like), a map book (in case I get lost on the way home), and a case of water with 10 bonus bottles (in case I become suddenly dehydrated - you never know). I came to Costco to spend $150 on just one item, but forked over nearly $600 at the checkout. My purchases seemed justified, however, and I cheered myself tallying all the cash I saved.

Yesterday I went back to Costco to buy some food for Abbey, who's been ill and unable to shop for herself. Proudly flashing my new Costco card bearing a tiny, pixelated black and white photo of me that looks like someone else, I entered the store behind a sea of slowly moving carts commandeered by slowly moving people. A palpable, hypnotic spell blankets shoppers entering a wholesale buying club like Costco. The sheer enormity of the store alone is enough to send me reeling, but it's the lure of shiny goods parked near the doors that grabs me by the scruff of the neck and shakes bills from my wallet, beckoning me to explore every aisle for bargains. Giant bags of Milano cookies, a 25 pound slab of cheddar, a bag of spinach large enough to hold a small child, a BBQ grill the size of Rhode Island, a 900 inch HDTV, brownie mix for 10 dozen brownies, a gallon of mango salsa--this is the magic of shopping at Costco. This is the essence of the Big Box Warehouse experience. This is the overpowering intoxication that comes from saving money. Bigger, apparently, is better.

There's only one problem. Shopping at Costco, particularly in the grocery department, assumes (1) you're shopping for a family of 12 or an entire Boy Scout Troop; (2) you own a warehouse in which to store your cases of tuna, chicken broth and dishwashing detergent, not to mention a meatlocker for your 20 pounds of hamburger, 10 pounds of bacon and 36 boneless chicken breasts; (3) you're catering a cocktail party for 120; (4) you've invited either the Mormon Tabernacle Choir or the entire U.S. Marine Corps to brunch; or (5) you're stocking a fallout shelter with two years' worth of survival rations. (That's the hook for me--be prepared: you never know when the world will end or stores will mysteriously run out of food.) Those who don't meet the above criteria should carefully consider the wisdom of buying ridiculously large portions in order to save a few sheckels. If you're like me, you'll find any excuse to leave the store with ginormous bags of frozen goodies figuring if it's frozen, it won't go bad before you can eat it. You open the freezer and realize there's no way on earth those Buick-sized bags are going to fit, and your immediate response is to drive back to Costco to purchase one of those small chest freezers sitting near the entrance of the store. (This is troubling, because we all know that starting out with small, harmless freezers always leads to bigger freezers, and eventually a walk-in. It's a dangerous addiction, and the only cure is going cold turkey on cold storage.) As for storing non-perishables, there are storage sheds for sale at the back of the store and plenty of storage cabinets in Aisle Six. In other words, Costco seduces you to purchase goodies, and then forces you to return to the store to buy stuff in which to stash your stuff.

The next time you consider buying a six-pack of ketchup, five pounds of sliced pepperoni, or a case of Fruit Roll-ups, think about how long it will take to eat it and where you'll store it. If you're hoarding for the afterlife, remember, all bags are checked at the Pearly Gates. No food or beverages allowed. What a waste. I hope I finish that 10 pound bag of frozen oven fries before I croak.

Instead of buying stuff at Costco, I should probably just buy Costco stock. With a formula like this, their growth is almost certainly guaranteed.

Santo Domingo Market

Thirty-five miles north of Albuquerque, Santo Domingo Pueblo is located near the ancient Cerillos turquoise mines. The people of Santo Domingo are known for crafting fine jewelry and heishi. The annual Labor Day weekend Santo Domingo Arts and Crafts Market features more than 350 artists, traditional dances, and food booths. We were short on cash last year when we accidentally stumbled upon the Pueblo's Indian Market, but resolved to return this year with pockets full of legal tender.

Saturday afternoon we arrived at the Pueblo just after a huge cloudburst sent rivers of rainwater coursing through the village. The storm left massive amounts of mud and huge, deep, cocoa-colored puddles in its wake. Though many vendor tents were flooded, the good spirits of the villagers were not dampened. Smiling children swinging pieces of sugar cane like long skinny bats played in ankle-deep brown water as we made our way from one soggy tent to the next, slogging through slippery muck that made our sneakers feel heavy. In the end we decided to leave and return the next day after the village had dried out. It took some doing to wash and scrape the hardened clay from our Nikes. Sneakers, it turns out, are mud magnets.

Sunday was hot and dry. The weather seemed conducive to spending lots of money on pretty things. While I wasn't able to shoot photos in the Pueblo (tribal law forbids photography without a special permit), I captured these images of our jewelry and pottery purchases in the comfort of my dining room. The jewelry is mostly turquoise, with some red jasper, carnelian, spiny oyster shell, and silver.

The famous black pottery of New Mexico comes from two Pueblos: San Ildefonso and Santa Clara. I was excited to find a table of Santa Clara wares--thick black pots with designs deeply carved into the shiny walls. While I hadn't planned a major pottery expediture, I couldn't resist this pot.

I also spotted an Acoma horsehair bear I had to have. Horsehair pottery is one of the most recognizable and beautiful forms of authentic Native American pottery, made by applying actual horsehair (taken from tail and mane during grooming) to the pot. Black lines are formed where the hair burns into the clay.

Every woman needs some inexpensive fun earrings, and late in the afternoon I needed something frivolous to take my mind off the green chile. When I spotted a family selling bushels of "Santo Domingo" chiles under a canopy off to the side of the main plaza, I couldn't wait to inquire about the variety of chiles grown in the Pueblo (Big Jim, Sandia, or extra hot Barker).
      Are they very hot, I asked.
      No, try some, the grandmother said.
      Gracias, abuelita.
I broke off a small piece of the raw green pepper and popped it in my mouth. An hour later my lips were still numb. Worse yet, several hours later--after washing my hands three times with soap--I absent-mindedly rubbed my eyes and realized a potent capcaisin residue still covered my fingers. No, they weren't hot. They were incendiary.

On a completely different subject, Telly came into her second season several weeks ago, much to my chagrin. Her spay surgery planned for late August has been temporarily shelved until she finishes this cycle, which should be (God-willing) any day now. To Telly's delight, Murphy immediately revived his role as stud muffin as hormones kicked in. The dogs didn't miss a beat and proved that practice makes perfect. Telly's fashionable indoor denim diaper-garment has served her well. All that's missing is rhinestones. I guess I need a Bedazzler.

This afternoon I told Murphy this is his last hurrah as Telly's boy-toy. Surgery for Little Miss Flirty Pants is around the corner. Murphy is not amused.