:: desert dreams ::

FarmVille Blues

2009-11-15T09:44:00.027-07:00

Cancer is cruel. Late last summer, as I helplessly watched chemo decimate my mother's body, mind and spirit, and in a desperate attempt to regain some control over the uncontrollable, I began playing FarmVille. Currently boasting over 63.8 million active monthly users, FarmVille is the most popular game on Facebook. As I grew my starter farm from 6 squares ("fields") of tillable soil to a whopping 484 squares (a portion of which is occupied by farm animals, trees, buildings and decorations), I found an escape from the agonizing, hopeless prospect of losing a parent to Stage 4 non-Hodgkin's lymphoma. Instead of obsessing about Mother's intense pain and anxiety, extreme nausea and unthinkable suffering, I built my farm. I added cows, horses, and sheep. I planted a variety of crops and a lot of fast-growing strawberries, so I could "level up" faster. I watched my coins and "Farm cash" grow, and expanded my farm several times to maximize profitability. I found order in a world that was unpredictable and chaotic.

I am now halfway to Level 70, the highest level achievable in this game. I am not a hard-core gamer and have long viewed electronic games as a complete waste of time and brain power. There are no games in my home other than a few dusty board games, a deck of cards, and a cribbage board. I live in a Wii-less household. I spend most of my day at a computer writing code and creating graphics, so spending my leisure time staring at a monitor and forcing my blood pressure to spike is not my idea of fun. That is, until FarmVille, which I found relaxing and enjoyable. It stimulated my creative juices and replenished my resources. It helped me refocus and lifted my spirits during a season of gloom. There was no rise in blood pressure. I experienced only a sense of serenity as I grew my berries and tomatoes, picked them when ripe, and plowed my fields.

FarmVille is a game for non-gamers. In truth, most gamers would probably not understand the allure of FarmVille. The point of the game is to grow crops, tend animals, and harvest. We plow, we seed, we pick our grapes, collect maple sap, and pluck fruit from trees. We milk our cows and harvest eggs and swan feathers. This is a return to basics in the simplest form. I have always loved gardening and picking vegetables from my back yard for supper. I secretly yearn to keep hens and goats. FarmVille is an opportunity to be a lazy farmer. The most energy I exert is in clicking my mouse.

Zynga, the creator of FarmVille, keeps the game interesting by frequently introducing new seeds, animals, holiday-themed decorations and other (useless) "stuff" to place on one's farm. I recently purchased a crashed UFO to decorate my pumpkin patch and also added a crop circle. These items do not benefit my farm's bottom line and serve only to make me chuckle.

Mom is gone now, succumbing to a disease that devoured her body and destroyed her mind. Since she passed 9 days ago, I have wondered whether I should stop playing FarmVille. After all, I only started playing the game to keep me sane during a difficult time. As I considered abandoning my farm, I came to the disturbing realization that I'm fully invested in this game. That's the civilized way of saying I'm addicted to FarmVille, and as with all serious addictions, this one is worthy of an intervention. The mere fact that I have taken time away from FarmVille to write this is a good sign.

Lately, FarmVille is not relaxing. The more bells and whistles Zynga introduces, the more frenetic the game becomes. The occasional clickable bonus award that appeared on my Facebook Live Feed, with the promise of coins, has evolved into an urgent, ferocious seduction that demands my immediate attention every two minutes. Seize the turkey, or the turtle, or the lost kitten! Get your bonus coins, but do it within 2 seconds, else someone else will grab it! Snag a Mystery Egg! But if you don't do it quickly, you'll miss out! (If you delay, you're apt to be told, "Sorry, so-and-so's eggs have already been claimed." As a post-menopausal woman, I take this statement very personally.)

Last night I snagged almost 40 Mystery Eggs. I was afraid to leave my laptop to go to the bathroom. My mouse finger twitched uncontrollably. I'd hit rock bottom. I was in the FarmVille gutter, covered in turkey feathers and maple sap. For today, I am stepping away from Facebook and FarmVille. I doubt that my 130 farmer neighbors will notice my absence with all those Mystery Eggs and turkeys popping up on their feeds, but if they do, I hope they'll understand that I'm looking for a 12-step meeting, walking my neglected canines, visiting with my significant other, and taking the time to actually sit down and eat a meal.

Who Killed Jenny?

2009-03-10T07:06:00.021-06:00

After being held hostage by "The L Word" for six seasons, last Sunday's series finale left me feeling disappointed and somewhat annoyed. After committing countless Sunday nights to the Showtime series, I expected more. I wanted a reward for my unfailing devotion. I'm one of those people who needs closure. I'm not happy just walking away. I want to know who (or what) killed Jenny. I need to know what happens to characters who've spent a lot of time hanging out in my living room. I yearn for resolution - not a Sopranoesque ending that leaves me saying, "Huh?". Simply put, the finale didn't deliver.

When the credits rolled at the end with no answers offered, I couldn't believe what I was (or wasn't) seeing. The last episode seemed a clumsy wrap-up of a season of flashbacks leading up to the demise of Jenny, the character we loved to hate. From the repeated mentions of the unrepaired balcony railing to the implausible and weak Dylan/Helena break-up, the finale served to remind me that all six seasons of the show were not based in reality, but on a fantastical world where everyone is beautiful, rich and privileged. Our heroines did not drive beat up Toyotas and Nissans. Theirs was a world where everyone drives Bentleys, Lexuses, BMWs and Escalades. Even the one working class character, transgendered Moira/Max Sweeney, who landed on the scene in season 3, was eventually absorbed into this mythical existence of wealth and power, leaving all traces of blue-collar behind. This sci-fi queer utopia bore little resemblance to real life, but contained all the ingredients of an elaborate dream sequence.

To the show's credit, however, creator Ilene Chaiken and director Rose Troche delivered a groundbreaking series that brought queerdom into mainstream pop culture. The L Word tackled a plethora of social issues, including breast cancer and the military's "Don't ask, don't tell" policy. We were introduced to TV's first hearing-impaired lesbian, a transgendered man, bisexuals, drag queens and kings, gay parents, a biracially identified character, addictions galore, and sexual abuse.

Rumor has it a spinoff is in the works. "The Farm" will star L Word character Alice Pieszecki, who plays a prison inmate. Can we assume this has something to do with the death of Jenny? Did Alice kill crazy Jenny? Was she framed? There is also a fair amount of internet chatter about a movie, and possibly more spinoffs. The end of the L Word is, quite possibly, not an ending at all, but a springboard to further story lines.

In considering that we may be seeing more of Bette, Tina, Shane, Tasha, Helena and Alice, my ambivalence is palpable. At least we won't have to suffer the insanities of psycho Jenny anymore.

The End of an Error

2009-01-20T14:37:00.004-07:00

Jim's Perfect Pizza

2008-12-28T20:38:00.007-07:00

We made our own pizza tonight. It was a joint effort. Jim prepared the dough, Ginger ladeled the sauce on the crust, Marcia and I chopped the vegetables, and we all had a hand in arranging the cheese and toppings. It was truly a communal work of art!

Having made quite a few pizzas myself, I can attest to the challenge of working the dough into a circle. Most of my pies wind up looking like trapezoids with holes. Jim did a splendid job making a near-perfect circular crust.

Can you spot the green chiles on our pizza? (Clue: they are only on 1/3 of the pie.)

Noche Buena 2008

2008-12-27T12:37:00.016-07:00

"Noche buena" means "good night," but in the Southwest, it means Christmas Eve. Back East, the really big holiday was Christmas Day, but here in Albuquerque it is most definitely Christmas Eve. Holiday traditions here in New Mexico are colorful, rich with history and memorable. Instead of keeping warm at home on Christmas Eve with family and friends, leaving the house briefly only to attend services, people in the Land of Enchantment hit the streets for the biggest festival of the year. Old Town Albuquerque is adorned with thousands of luminaria. In Santa Fe they're called farolitos. Either way, the brown papers bags holding sand and lit votive candles are beautiful. They line streets, sidewalks and rooftops, as well as ledges and walls. They are everywhere! My favorite part of Noche Buena, however, is the pungent, unmistakably sweet aroma of piñon smoke rising from kiva fireplaces throughout Old Town.

This was our third Noche Buena in Albuquerque. Our 2006 Old Town stroll was numbingly cold. Christmas Eve 2007 was not only cold, but windy. This year, however, we enjoyed perfect strolling weather, with temps above freezing, very little wind, and a reasonably clear night. After some spicy hor d'ouvres, tamales and cider, we took to the streets of Old Town where we explored streets, alleys, nooks and crannies. Later, we drove past a park a few blocks away where seven hot air balloons were tethered for a "balloon glow." I didn't have my camera, and this is not my photo, but here's what a hot air balloon glow looks like.

A traditional New Mexican Christmas Eve dinner for four followed the outdoor celebrations. We served posole - a hominy and pork stew with green chiles - very hot and spicy...

and Ensalada Noche Buena - Christmas Eve salad (and yes, those are pomegranate seeds, along with beets, jicama, baby greens, queso fresca, golden raisins, oranges and pine nuts).

After this hearty meal, all of us were too full for dessert, but did manage to munch on a few bizcochitos while watching the classic 1951 B&W film Scrooge, starring Alistair Sim, released in 1951 as A Christmas Carol. I grew up with this movie and am happy to report that it lived up to expectations some 50 years later.

At 12:30 we called it a night. My brother and his wife left for their home across town, the dogs tucked themselves in for the night and, anticipating Santa's arrival, I fell into a deep sleep.

This 'n That

2008-12-27T07:34:00.010-07:00

This morning, deep in the bowels of winter, the temperature is barely 20. Frost adorns windshields, snow glistens on the Sandias, and thick, menacing clouds hover at the summit. On this quiet, windless morning I hold a glimmer of hope that the day will warm to the low 30's. It will be our coldest day this season.

Christmas has come and gone, but we are still enjoying our small, festive tree, decorated with Southwest trinkets that accompany our more traditional ornaments collected over the years. Some of our glass ornaments dating back to World War II decorated holiday trees from my childhood. This year we discovered red and green chile pepper covers for our white lights in the Basket Store in Old Town. They are really quite beautiful!

It's been forever since I've written anything for this blog, in part because I've been very busy. More accurately, though, I've been remarkably uninspired these past few months. With so much on my emotional plate, there's been little time for reflection and writing. Now that life seems to be winding down and easing a bit, thoughts and feelings are beginning to spill into daily life. Work has served me well in distancing from the disappointments that were constant companions for many months. Still grieving a major loss, these smaller losses have seemed much bigger, collectively. And, as we all know, the holidays are amazing vehicles for emotional exaggeration.

I'm not a fan of New Year's resolutions, but I do think it's time to get back to writing. Buddha agrees. Stay tuned.

No Wonder My Brain Hurts

2008-12-23T07:38:00.002-07:00

We All Have The Power

2008-10-14T01:05:00.005-06:00

We all have the power to make a difference. I put this video together last night. The music was written by Jim Ahrend, and the vocals are by Allison Paris, Elena Jacinto, Jim Ahrend and Dean Moraitakis. Enjoy the music, pass it on, and don't forget to vote!

Watch this on YouTube.

Up, Up & Away

2008-10-09T10:12:00.013-06:00

It was one of those days when I wished I'd stayed in bed. I was late leaving for my morning balloon chase, I turned right when I meant to turn left, I seemed to always be in the wrong lane for making a turn, I found myself in heavy traffic on streets I tried to avoid, and my morning shaped up to be one missed opportunity after another.

On the plus side of the equation, I did remember to bring fresh batteries, all my lenses, hot tea and a cheerful outlook, which made my silly mistakes more bearable. In spite of endless miscalculations, I still managed to find a few places to stop and snap some photos. The first two were taken through the open driver-side window while stopped in traffic.

It always makes me nervous when balloons fly so close to wires...

This balloon was especially colorful!

A smiley face balloon followed me for quite some time this morning. Every time I looked over my shoulder, there it was, grinning at me and serving as a reminder to smile, no matter how woeful things seem.

On my way home I came across a balloonist who had just hit the ground hard and was having trouble controlling her landing. The winds were kicking up, dragging the basket and envelope (the balloon itself) toward a barbed wire fence. I pulled over to help and discovered the pilot was someone I'd met last year. (See How To Launch A Balloon.) We averted a minor disaster and kept the balloon away from the fence. She was obviously unnerved by the whole thing and a tad cranky, which is no surprise. Hoping to soften the tension, I looked for the smiley balloon - already becoming a totem of sorts - but it was nowhere in sight.

All in all, it wasn't a bad morning, despite a rocky start. I've some preparations to make today for our very early morning journey to Balloon Fiesta Park tomorrow morning. At the top of the list is finding my gloves, thermals and winter coat. It's COLD at that hour of the day!

Therapy

2008-10-08T09:39:00.008-06:00

Hurricane Norbert, now a Category 3 cyclone, is taking aim at the Baja Peninsula. Computer models take this storm across Baja and into the Gulf of California, making a second landfall in Western Mexico, eventually tracking into New Mexico as, quite possibly, a tropical storm. Leaving Florida does not, evidently, preclude being in the Cone of Possibilities. If Wall Street and dirty politics aren't enough to completely disrupt my equilibrium, the threat of a tropical storm is.

I chased balloons today, which is quickly becoming a therapeutic exercise in forgetting global disturbances. Stocks are plummeting, presidential campaigns are in the gutter, but balloons are rising.

Balloons, Balloons, Balloons

2008-10-07T10:33:00.011-06:00

On June 5, 1783, a crowd of people gathered to watch the first balloon, fashioned by the Montgolfier brothers, a pair of French paper makers, rise skyward. It was theorized that smoke would lift the balloon and carry it away. It worked, but no one realized it was heat that made it soar over the French countryside, not smoke. After several more test flights, the Montgolfier Brothers decided to send passengers aloft: a duck, a chicken, and a sheep. Then, on November 21 of the same year, physicist Jean-Francois Pilatre de Rozier and army major Marquis Francois d'Arlandes took flight in a Montgolfier balloon. The flight was seen by nearly all of Paris, including King Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette. After 25 magical minutes of flight, they landed safely outside Paris with much celebration.

I hit the road early this morning to watch the Mass Ascension from Balloon Fiesta Park. I managed to snap these photos from a parking lot on Paseo del Norte before my camera battery died. I really need to remember to bring ALL my lenses and a spare battery next time I chase balloons.

2008 Balloon Fiesta

2008-10-04T09:57:00.004-06:00

It's that time of year again! Weather was just perfect for launching the 680 balloons that filled Balloon Fiesta Park at dawn. The wind gently blowing to the Northwest, today's chase took us all the way to Bernalillo. We passed hundreds of cars parked along the interstate. Lawn chairs were set up all along roadways, while breakfast burritos were being consumed and thermoses of coffee were passed around. It was a beautiful day for balloons. Tomorrow rain is expected and the mass ascension may be scrapped, so we made an effort today to drag ourselves out of the house a little after 7 to follow the balloons.

Sarah & Katie

2008-09-29T10:52:00.001-06:00

A little Monday morning humor...

9/11: A Remembrance

2008-09-11T10:36:00.002-06:00

This slideshow, created by me six years ago, represents my own 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 shock, violence, and grieving. The message in the second half is hope. May this slideshow and the events of 9/11 serve as a reminder that our lives have value and meaning, that peace is a personal process, and that we are all connected.

Los Poblanos CSA

2008-09-09T19:42:00.005-06:00

I recently became a member of our local CSA (Community Supported Agriculture), Los Poblanos. Every Tuesday afternoon I drive to the farm, located less than two miles away, to pick up my share of the weekly harvest. I didn't get a chance to photograph last week's harvest box, but this week I managed to snap a photo before some of it wound up on my dinner plate.

This week's box included potatoes, beets, cheddar cauliflower, red onions (very sweet!), Juliet tomatoes, a bunch of beets, zucchini, parsley, avocadoes, pluots, pears, and roasted "Big Jim" chiles (a medium hot green chile). And, it's all organic. Missing from the photo are the beautiful green peppers. I still have carrots, spinach, lettuce and grapes from last week's harvest box, resting comfortably in Debbie Meyer Green Bags in the fridge.

Tomorrow morning I'm expecting a delivery of a new fridge. The old one still works, but the drawers are flimsy and it's just too small. There will be lots more room for farm goodies in the new fridge.

It's great to be making weekly trips to an organic farm again. Last time I did that was in New Hampshire over five years ago, when I traveled to Center Conway each week to work or pick up my harvest bag at the Earle Family Farm. It's always a surprise to see what's included in the harvest bags, which change from week to week.

Eat organic and eat local. It saves energy and the food is fresher. It's also fun.

Ike, Take A Hike

2008-09-05T19:52:00.006-06:00

The Atlantic Basin is busy again. The parade of late summer tropical systems have begun the relentless march from east to west. As I watch storm tracks and spaghetti models change every few hours, I'm reminded of the realities of living in paradise. It's been two years since I left Florida, but with loved ones still on the peninsula, my attention is never far from developing weather that threatens the Sunshine State.

Ike, a dangerous major hurricane spinning in the Caribbean, is shaping up to be a very real threat to not only Florida, but the Bahamas, Turks and Caicos, and once again, the Gulf states. Today's 5pm forecast put the cyclone in the Gulf by next week, headed for storm-weary New Orleans. But the threat to Florida remains. There is simply no certainty to unpredictable storm tracks. Landfall predictions remain a mystery.

Hurricane amnesia has not yet set in for me. I remember watching, waiting, wondering. I lived for the updates from the National Hurricane Center, posted on the web every six hours. At ten minutes to the hour I'd reload repeatedly until the next update was available. During hurricane season, life was on hold. Do I have everything I'll need in my emergency kit? Will I have enough water? Will we lose power? Will I lose clients if I'm out of commission for a week, or more? Should I evacuate? Where will I go? Will the house be OK if we leave? What about looters? Can I survive the humid summer heat without air conditioning?

I don't ask these questions any more, but I worry about friends and family in Florida. I listen to them asking the same questions. There's little I can do to alleviate their anxiety. It's the waiting that's hardest. At least I don't sleep with my computer anymore, waking in the middle of the night to check updates. It's no way to live.

Ike, take a hike.

My New Bicycle

2008-08-17T09:01:00.070-06:00

Six weeks ago I bought a bicycle at Fat Tire Cycles. I've been wanting a new bike ever since I sold my inexpensive 3-speed Spaulding with longhorn handlebars and a springy seat large enough to support a baby rhino. It was pretty, but it weighed a ton, produced random vibrations, and generated strange clunking noises that I traced to the pedals. I couldn't get rid of that bike fast enough, but I did put a few miles on it before someone took it off my hands for next to nothing before we left Florida.

My new bike is an Electra Townie, a cruising bike that uses Electra's Flat Foot Technology.

"Simply put, when the rider is sitting on the saddle, his or her feet can still stand flat on the ground, making the rider feel much safer and more comfortable. At the same time, riders can still get full extension when they pedal. [Electra Bicycles] achieved this breakthrough by combining the cruiser frame with some of the geometry of recumbent bikes, moving the pedals forward and the seat back."

The Townie seems to be the bike of choice for lapsed bike riders and (ahem) "older Americans." The price of this beauty was four times that of the electric blue Spaulding, including the high-tech removable basket and the very cool bell that says, "I love my townie."

The French racer I purchased in 1977 set me back $225 - an unheard of amount to spend on a bike, but I never regretted my extravagance. It took months to pay off, and I logged thousands of miles on that 12-speed. By today's standards, the Townie is not an expensive bike, but the price still took my breath away. Some of the bicycles at Fat Tire cost well over $1,000.

Back in the day when I was trim and fit, I biked about 100 miles a week. Weekends were saved for 30 mile bike rides. I crammed my backpack with raw vegetables (tomatoes, carrots, cukes and peppers were my favorites), fruit, a hunk of cheese, crusty bread, and sometimes even a can of Spam that inexplicably became the salty power snack of choice for a 20-something wannabe Olympian. I didn't carry much water, because it was easy to stop for frosty beverages along my route in and around Boston. Ice cold water and apple juice from Mom & Pop corner stores carried me for many miles.

While I've no expectation of biking 30 miles anytime soon, I'm hoping to build my stamina on a daily basis and strengthen muscles and bones. Mostly, though, I hope biking will mitigate my pain, elevate my mood, burn off some flab and energize this too-soft, sedentary body. Albuquerque is honeycombed with wonderful bike trails, especially the nearby paved trail that parallels the Riverside Drain and Rio Grande for many miles.

My beautiful shiny bike has been parked in the fireplace room for the past 6 weeks. My excuse for not riding has been excessive desert heat, but in all honesty, overcoming inertia has been the bigger obstacle. Yesterday morning was exceptionally cool for August, so I got up early and biked to a Chile Festival a couple of miles away. After two blocks of gentle pedaling, my legs burned enough to prompt me to question the wisdom of this possibly overzealous undertaking. It was shocking to realize how miserably weak and out-of-shape I've become. I found a more comfortable cruising speed (the hard part was determining which of 21 gears to use), pushed through the initial discomfort, and made it to the Chile Festival in about 15 minutes. I felt healthy and happy after my brief excursion on two wheels.

The weather seems to be turning cooler already, so I have no excuse for not riding every day, other than sheer laziness. I have to say, this bike is one sweet ride. The gear shifter is smooth as silk and the forward pedal position is very comfortable and less of a strain on my back. It's the next best thing to a far-more-costly recumbent bike. Though it seems a little early for mornings to feel like fall, I won't complain about the cool weather because it's perfect for biking. And, I get to annoy pedestrians with my silver bell. All I need now is a funny hat and a little dog to ride in my basket.

Exploding Food and Other Dangers

2008-08-06T07:44:00.033-06:00

Yesterday was one of those days. I woke up feeling less than perfect and for most of the day felt like crawling back into bed. General malaise is my enemy, especially on days when deadlines loom hourly. Hunger set in at 1PM and, in spite of a 1:45 deadline, I raced to the kitchen, opened a box of tomato soup, filled a mug and set it on the revolving glass tray in the microwave. I rarely use the microwave, because of decades-old health warnings, but at times like this, I'm grateful for a quick warming device to facilitate accelerated consumption of food on the fly. Since I generally nuke my soup uncovered, there are the occasional spatterings on the inside walls of the oven. This time, however, I covered the mug with a saucer because I didn't have time to clean up spills.

The intensity of the soup explosion was surpassed only by the spillage. It was a mess of Biblical proportions. The soup was embedded in all the corners, cracks, crevices and tiny vent holes on the walls of the oven. It filled the glass tray and spilled over the sides. This was the mother of all microwave messes. When I opened the oven, the red mucilagenous substance oozed out the door like molten lava, quickly finding its way to the floor. It seemed to have a life of its own.

The thing about thick soup is that it's neither liquid nor solid. Paper towels were useless. After 23 trips back and forth between oven and sink, to rinse sponges, dishcloths, and towels, the nuker was beginning to look salvageable. There was a moment when I thought I'd simply have to trash it. And after all that, I was hungrier than ever.

It was three-quarters of the way through clean-up that I was reminded of the reasons I don't use this thing often. Though spillage was not one of them, in the present moment it topped the list. Then I recalled that microwaving alters the molecular structure of food. There is also evidence that it destroys nutrients and, over time, compromises one's immune system. Over 90% of American homes have microwaves that are used daily in food preparation.

Comparative Study of Food Prepared Conventionally and in the Microwave Oven, published by Raum & Zelt in 1992, at 3(2): 43, states:

A basic hypothesis of natural medicine states that the introduction into the human body of molecules and energies, to which it is not accustomed, is much more likely to cause harm than good. Microwaved food contains both molecules and energies not present in food cooked in the way humans have been cooking food since the discovery of fire. Microwave energy from the sun and other stars is direct current based. Artificially produced microwaves, including those in ovens, are produced from alternating current and force a billion or more polarity reversals per second in every food molecule they hit. Production of unnatural molecules is inevitable. Naturally occurring amino acids have been observed to undergo isomeric changes (changes in shape morphing) as well as transformation into toxic forms, under the impact of microwaves produced in ovens.

One short-term study found significant and disturbing changes in the blood of individuals consuming microwaved milk and vegetables. Eight volunteers ate various combinations of the same foods cooked different ways. All foods that were processed through the microwave ovens caused changes in the blood of the volunteers. Hemoglobin levels decreased and over all white cell levels and cholesterol levels increased. Lymphocytes decreased.

Luminescent (light-emitting) bacteria were employed to detect energetic changes in the blood. Significant increases were found in the luminescence of these bacteria when exposed to blood serum obtained after the consumption of microwaved food.

After reading the above I considered putting the microwave in the trash anyway, even though the spill was cleaned up. And then I came across this:

Ten Reasons to Throw out your Microwave Oven

From the conclusions of the Swiss, Russian and German scientific clinical studies, we can no longer ignore the microwave oven sitting in our kitchens. Based on this research, we conclude the following:

1. Continually eating food processed from a microwave oven causes long term - permanent - brain damage by "shorting out" electrical impulses in the brain [de-polarizing or de-magnetizing the brain tissue].

2. The human body cannot metabolize [break down] the unknown by-products created in microwaved food.

3. Male and female hormone production is shut down and/or altered by continually eating microwaved foods.

4. The effects of microwaved food by-products are residual [long term, permanent] within the human body.

5. Minerals, vitamins, and nutrients of all microwaved food is reduced or altered so that the human body gets little or no benefit, or the human body absorbs altered compounds that cannot be broken down.

6. The minerals in vegetables are altered into cancerous free radicals when cooked in microwave ovens.

7. Microwaved foods cause stomach and intestinal cancerous growths [tumors]. This may explain the rapidly increased rate of colon cancer in America.

8. The prolonged eating of microwaved foods causes cancerous cells to increase in human blood.

9. Continual ingestion of microwaved food causes immune system deficiencies through lymph gland and blood serum alterations.

10. Eating microwaved food causes loss of memory, concentration, emotional instability, and a decrease of intelligence.

Googling "dangers of microwave" returned 642,000 hits this morning. Much of the evidence is anecdotal, but there seems to be some solid scientific reason for not using microwave ovens, much of it from outside the U.S. It took a cup of exploding soup to remind me that the white appliance sitting on a cart in the corner of my kitchen just might be a weapon of mass destruction. The jury is still out on whether or not I will deep six the nuker. Should I ceremoniously retire the thing, there will be photos.

Hello Dolly

2008-07-31T08:36:00.034-06:00

The remnants of Hurricane Dolly made their way to New Mexico on Sunday, devastating the town of Ruidoso with flash flooding sparked by six inches of rain in 24 hours. New Mexico Business Journal reports that most of the town was unaffected by floods, but other sources report 200 homes either damaged or destroyed, one person dead, 13 bridges washed out, and 70 people stranded in Upper Canyon.

Though the Ruidoso flood topped New Mexico's news for several days, there was little national coverage, which I attribute to a world so caught up in the parade of climate change catastrophes that we become jaded to these events. There is no doubt that recent midwest floods eclipse the Ruidoso flood, but I was baffled that national coverage was so dismal. I am also coming to realize that important New Mexico news is often neglected in the non-local media, as if the state isn't even part of the U.S. Sometimes I feel like I live in a third world country within U.S. borders - a country often neglected and ignored. I try not to take this personally.

While Ruidoso was being pummeled, Dolly was kinder to northern New Mexico. Storm clouds and heavy rain moved in on Sunday afternoon. An hour later the sky cleared. At sunset we went for a walk along the ridge. It's always nice to be outdoors after rain scrubs the air clean, but the sticky clay that adhered to the soles of my hiking shoes was another story. As it quickly built up, the clay added two inches to my height. Now I know what it's like to hike in platform shoes.

Monday morning we rose early, packed up, checked out, and drove to the lake for one last dog swim. Tired and happy, the damp dogs settled on their futon in the back of the minivan for the ride home.

On our way out, we stopped at the Heron Lake Dam for dramatic vistas of the silt-laden, cocoa-colored Rio Chama.

As we approached Highway 84, which would take us all the way to Santa Fe, the steep cliffs of Brazos Peak, at 11,286 feet, loomed in the distance.

Just north of Abiquiu we marveled at the multicolored sandstone formations that whispered, "Georgia O'Keeffe country."

We stopped for a picnic lunch at Echo Amphitheater, a magnificent natural sandstone formation that causes people to make weird sounds and speak strange words just to hear them echo. Telly's shrill, loud bark echoed nicely.

After lunch we drove a few miles further to Ghost Ranch, where we took in more breathtaking scenery and considered the dinosaurs that once roamed the area and the geologic significance of the ground on which we stood. Ghost Ranch was bequeathed to the Presbyterian Church a number of years ago and now serves as a non-denominational conference center that hosts retreats. (This week the Center is hosting a conference on peacemaking and non-violent communication, in an astonishingly beautiful setting.)

Heading south, Cerro Pedernal, a 9,862 foot flat-topped butte in the northern Jemez Mountains and the subject of a famous Georgia O'Keeffe painting dominated the distant horizon. Pedernal means "flint" in Spanish. Ancient Puebloans living nearby used Pedernal’s agate and stone for arrowheads, scrapers, knives, and spearpoints. Today Cerro Pedernal is one of the most recognized landmarks in north-central New Mexico.

Several hours later we were back in Albuquerque, where the temperature was close to 100, mountain breezes but a distant memory. This is the hottest time of high desert Albuquerque summer. Our inadequate, too-small swamp cooler is working hard, but the load is great at this time of year. So we sweat and remember happy, cooler times at El Vado.

The breeze at dawn has secrets to tell

2008-07-30T09:47:00.022-06:00

The breeze at dawn has secrets to tell you.
Don't go back to sleep.
You must ask for what you really want.
Don't go back to sleep.
People are going back and forth across the doorsill
where the two worlds touch.
The door is round and open.
Don't go back to sleep.
-Rumi

On our drive from Albuquerque to El Vado Lake, we hit thunderstorms and heavy rain in the mountains of Carson National Forest, once inhabited by the ancient Anasazi people. On arrival at our cozy cabin, light rain continued for a short while, but ended just before sunset. In the fading sun, gently falling raindrops glistened like diamonds. We were restless that first night, canines and humans alike -- attentive to new surroundings, unfamiliar beds, and strange sounds in the night, including an unidentified growl near the back porch. Looking out the window we saw nothing, but chose not to venture out to explore. At 4AM everyone was awake, and as our wild visitor had apparently moved on, we leashed up the dogs for a walk in the peaceful darkness. After our walk, the dogs went back to sleep, but I chose stargazing. There is something about pre-dawn that's magical, mystical. Staying awake at the window was compelling, no matter how tired my body. At that hour, the Creator is palpable.

At dawn I watched a hint of sunlight slowly peek over the hill behind our camp, as the sky celebrated the awakening with streaks of pink and orange. Magpies squawked in tall trees. At this elevation we saw no deciduous trees, and the sweet fragrance of evergreens intensified as the sun warmed the air.

After breakfast, we drove down the steep, winding dirt road that Telly soon learned led to the primitive lakeside camping area where she could run free. The dogs' exuberance was exceeded only by their sheer joy, as they chased tennis balls and sticks, excitedly dropping them at our feet, begging for one more toss in the water. They were tireless.

After our morning swim, we once again enjoyed the views from the cabin of which we never seemed to tire.

In the afternoon we let sleeping dogs lie in the cabin and drove to Heron Lake as storms loomed on the horizon. We found no swimming areas for the dogs superior to our treasured El Vado spot, but we did find vultures perched in a dead tree that seemed to resonate with the incipient bad weather.

When the storm passed, we were treated to this spectacular sky from our back door.

Though internet and phone deprived, we did find a small TV atop the refrigerator, connected to Dish Satellite. With my aging eyes, I could only watch it standing directly in front of the fridge. Viewing from the daybed across the room required binoculars to see images on the miniscule screen. Tuning into news and weather, we learned that Dolly was planning to visit New Mexico. We awaited her arrival and considered the irony of moving from Florida to New Mexico to escape hurricanes. As for me personally, I wondered what secrets the dawn breeze would tell on Sunday.

God's Country

2008-07-29T09:10:00.063-06:00

Last Friday we traveled north some 175 miles, the van bursting at the seams with luggage, food, dog toys and dogs, for a long weekend in the Northern New Mexico Rockies. The prospect of living without cell phones and Wi-Fi for three nights was worrisome. Though I'd looked forward to this getaway for weeks, I secretly dreaded being off the grid.

Located 30 miles south of the Colorado border in Los Ojos, the Stonehouse Lodge is perched high atop a ridge overlooking El Vado Lake. We rented one of the Lodge's five cabins cozily located in a neat row on the ridge, the lake a few hundred feet below.

Though rustic in every sense of the word, the cabin was spotless. My first order of business: Determine Cell Signal Strength. Glancing at my phone with trepidation, I read, "SEARCHING FOR SERVICE." With no bars, I was officially incommunicado. I shut off my phone and stashed it in a corner, trusting that my anxiety would abate with the device out of sight. I found comfort in knowing the Stone House Cafe has a public computer with satellite internet just 300 feet from our tiny cabin. Nevertheless, I steeled myself to use it as little as possible, determined to bravely face my addiction to electronic communication devices cold turkey. I might even welcome this freedom from the outside world.

The dogs assumed their positions patrolling the cabin and, when the perimeter was secured, they languished at the back door, looking out at the lake...

and this is what they saw.

The lake is accessible a mile away, off a dirt road I would hesitate to negotiate in winter without four-wheel drive. El Vado Lake, a man-made reservoir and part of the San Juan-Chama Drinking Water Project, is home to rainbow trout, browns, and kokanee salmon. The Rio Chama connects El Vado to Heron Lake, just a few miles north. While Heron Lake is a no-wake lake, El Vado hosts water skiers, jet-skis and small boats towing inflatables ridden by squealing children. In spite of motorized craft, the lake was surprisingly tranquil and quiet. And, the fish were jumpin'.

We found a quiet, secluded swimming area where the dogs could romp freely without disturbing anyone. In fact, we saw almost no one at the lake, other than a couple from Albuquerque carrying fishing rods and a cross-legged young man who swam to shore from a pontoon boat in search of a restroom. Telly spent the first two days at our apparently private beach trying to understand the mechanics of swimming in water over her head, and by day three earned her swimming badge. It was great fun watching Murphy and his baby sister play for hours in the lake. It was also fascinating to observe Telly gradually overcoming her fear of water.

Sunset walks along the ridge with the dogs were a wonderful way to end each day.

We were treated to rainbows daily after late afternoon storms that seemed to appear from nowhere like clockwork. By Saturday, both cell phone and internet were removed from memory.

Have a Good Day!

2008-05-13T14:05:00.001-06:00

Caveat Emptor

2008-02-06T08:34:00.000-07:00

Last Friday I purchased some software online that I've been coveting for several years. SwishMax2 is a flash authoring program touted as the next best thing to Adobe Flash, but far less expensive. Swishzone also sells dozens of reasonably priced, very cool, Flash website templates, but they can only be customized in SwishMax. Basically, I bought the program just so I could use the templates. I was ready to purchase at least a half dozen templates along with SwishMax2, but decided to try them out first and wound up only buying two. This proved a most prudent move, as both templates are full of bugs and unusable.

Evidently, the templates were all created in earlier versions of SwishMax and just don't seem to work right in the new build of SwishMax2. The program itself has been highly praised in tech circles, but the templates malfunction and are, in my humble opinion, worthless. After spending almost five hours trying to figure out why the templates weren't working, blaming myself for not being fully versed in the software, and tearing out no less than a dozen hairs, I located other folks on the Swishzone Forum who were experiencing identical problems. At that point I emailed Tech Support and demanded a fix. It took 3 days to get an answer from "MikeC," who suggested a fix for template #41 ("GlassFX"). It seemed a reasonable tweak, but unfortunately caused a second page to malfunction. This morning, yet another page crashed my computer repeatedly and I lost my work. The page will not save. I have yet to hear back with a solution for the new problems.

The second template (#101, "Moonglow") just doesn't work at all, and there are evidently no tweaks. I was told they're working on it and will reopen my support request when they've figured it out. (Translation: "Relax and breathe, throw another shrimp on the barby, and have a nice frosty lager. We'll let you know in a year or two when we get this thing working...")

I asked, but they refuse to give or sell me the (discontinued) earlier version of the program so I can at least use the templates, nor will they refund my money for the useless templates. As they're based in Sydney, there isn't much I can do, other than publicize their unethical (and probably illegal) business of selling templates that don't work in the newest version of their software. Nowhere is there a disclaimer on their website stating that the templates don't work in SwishMax2. This is not just a sin of omission. Swishzone's deception is intentional. The company offers a half-price discount if the templates are purchased along with SwishMax2. What's wrong with this picture?

The pen is mightier than the sword, so I post this tale of woe for anyone considering SwishMax2 and the very seductive templates that are offered for sale. Buyer beware! They look pretty, but my advice is, "STEP AWAY FROM THE TEMPLATES...."

Godspeed, Pop

2008-01-18T20:10:00.000-07:00

Donald W. Ahrend
August 29, 1926-January 18, 2008

Dad passed today at 4:09 PM Eastern Time.

I am standing upon the seashore. A ship at my side spreads her white sails to the morning breeze and starts for the blue ocean. She is an object of beauty and strength and I stand and watch her until at length she hangs like a speck of white cloud just where the sea and sky come down to mingle with each other. Then someone at my side says: "There! She's gone." Gone where? Gone from my sight -- that is all. She is just as large in mast and hull and spar as she was when she left my side, and just as able to bear her load of living freight to the place of destination. Her diminished size is in me, not in her; and just at the moment when someone at my side says, "There! She's gone," there are other eyes watching her coming, and other voices ready to take up the glad shout, "There she comes!"

Letting Go

2008-01-17T20:25:00.000-07:00

Pop is in the final stages of preparing for his last great journey on the planet, a journey he must make on his own. We come here alone, and we leave alone. Signs of life have waned today. This evening he slipped into a coma. My family called me from the ICU and let me say goodbye to Pop as they held the phone to his ear. It was my hardest moment since Pop was diagnosed 8 weeks ago. All that remains is the letting go.

How do I let go of a person I've known for my entire life? He's always been there. It's surreal to imagine him not being around. My adult self says, "He's lived a good life, and soon he'll be out of pain." My inner child screams, "No Daddy, don't leave!"

Tonight time stands still. I wait for the phone call. In my mind I whisper as if he could hear me, "It's OK to go home, Pop. We'll be OK."

They say losing a parent is a rite of passage, that it opens new doors and causes us to reassess our lives and values. We confront our mortality and face our fears. I can't think about any of that now. I just need to get through this long night.

Waiting

2008-01-16T22:05:00.000-07:00

Dad was rushed to the ER Monday morning, unable to breathe and obviously hypoxic. An hour later Mom called to tell me Dad has double pneumonia--one of the ugly complications of Multiple Myeloma. He's remained in the ICU since then, breathing with the help of a ventilator, slipping in and out consciousness under a blanket of heavy sedatives and IV pain meds designed to keep his frail body still. During the past few days his kidneys have begun to shut down--another ugly complication--and dialysis attempts have been foiled by heart and blood pressure irregularities. Today Mom saw a few glimpses of recognition by her husband of 60 years, as he struggled to communicate by squeezing hands that reached out to comfort him. His voice, however, is silent, his body motionless. What is he feeling? Does he have pain? Does he realize what's happening? Is he afraid?

From 2000 miles away, there is little I can do but wait. I am haunted by mental images of Dad tied to machines in order to survive a few more hours. Is it wrong to want to remember him the way he was when I last saw him seven months ago, or am I simply a coward, afraid to watch him slipping away? Today Mom told me she didn't want me to see him this way. But I feel more and more like I should be at his bedside, helping him on his journey, wherever it may lead.

In my own way, I'm preparing for the worst and hoping for the best. There has been no change in his condition. He is gravely ill. Expecting a miracle seems like a set up for the mother of all disappointments. Yet, I keep hoping and wondering what it would take for him to bounce back and fight this wretched disease. His immune system has been decimated by the cancer and chemo he'd begun just two days before his hospitalization.

I don't know how to lose a parent. I've never done this before. Though I've watched my friends go through this over the years, I've always wondered what it felt like. Now I know. My body craves sleep and my brain is numb. It's as if a limb is being removed against my will and I'm paralyzed, powerless to stop it. Sleep seems a viable option. Make it stop. Make the cancer go away.

The dogs have been amazingly responsive to my confusion and despair. They've been sleeping a lot the past three days and have refrained from pestering me, other than occasional potty requests at the back door. They know what's happening. I rewarded their wisdom and compassion today by taking them to the park. They joyfully romped on soft grass, and in the cold, bracing air I felt alive. I have not been out of the house much this week. I spend my time curled up on the sofa, where I drift in and out of sleep. These past few days we've napped together--two dogs and a tired woman--in the afternoon sun that streams through the family room windows. Sleeping with the dogs in the middle of the day is comforting. Zen Master Murphy tells me sleep is healing.

And so I wait for a change in Pop's condition. In my grief-induced fog, I wait to know what I'm feeling. I wait for a sign that he's improving, or getting worse. I wait for him to breathe his last breath. These days I speak often with Mom for medical updates and mutual support. We share the unspeakable loss of a beloved father and spouse. We talk about how different our lives will be. We wonder about the future. We laugh and cry in the same breath. We allow ourselves to just be. This is something new. As a family, we are not emoters. Our unspoken tribal law has dictated that we control our emotions, no matter what. It has governed our interactions for decades. Rules, however, are sometimes made to be broken, and as we give ourselves and each other permission to dive deeply in our oceans of grief--as we explore dark, uncharted waters--we strengthen our bond and deepen our respect for one another. This is completely unexpected, disorienting, disarming. Yet I welcome it as rain falling on parched land. We bond in our loss.

Words fail me this evening. I am losing the battle to stay awake. Thinking of the inconceivable possibility of removing Dad from life support in the coming days drains me, empties me. Perhaps tomorrow will bring a sign of change, for better or worse. Tonight life stands still. It's the waiting that's hardest.

Life and Death

2008-01-12T08:42:00.000-07:00

Cancer used to be a dirty word. For the past several years, I have noticed the alarming increase in cancer diagnoses in people I know. Cancer. All kinds of cancers, A-Z. Cancer seems to be occurring almost as much as the common cold. My way of dealing with the unfathomable is to look for causes. It's a knee-jerk coping mechanism, my way of trying to control the uncontrollable. I frequently succumb to the delusion that if I know what causes something horrid, I can probably avoid it in my own life. Until now, that is.

Many years ago I read Rabbi Harold Kushner's controversial bestseller, "When Bad Things Happen to Good People." At the time, I found it interesting; it appealed to my logical mind and gave me a certain amount of comfort. But it scared me too. I was raised to think if we live a good life, we'll be rewarded. If we do bad things, we'll be punished. If we pray with indisputable fervor and conviction, God will listen to our prayers and come through for us. This duality is, after all, what underpins Judeo-Christian belief. Lately, however, the notion that bad things happen randomly, without regard for our good deeds or kindnesses, seems not only a possibility, but a reality that gives me little comfort in the middle of the night.

Dad was diagnosed with a rare cancer last November. Multiple Myeloma is a bone marrow cancer that attacks certain white blood cells. Defined as a "blood cancer," it accounts for 1% of all cancers. After many weeks of countless blood tests, X-rays, MRIs, bone scans, a bone aspiration and a biopsy, it was clear it wasn't a back problem causing Dad's severe pain, but a systemic malignancy that continues to grow daily.

For two months Mom has crusaded for stronger pain meds, spent endless hours on the phone with Dad's health insurance provider, endured dozens of hours in doctors' waiting rooms, waited for weeks while the insurance company considers whether or not to approve the prescribed (and staggeringly expensive--$400/day) oral chemo drug, and watched Dad's condition deteriorate daily. We had all grown to believe nothing bad would ever happen to this strong man who always presented the picture of health, a person who lived a life of service to others, a man who was, quite simply, a good person who most assuredly has a very comfortable spot reserved for him in the afterlife.

The hardest part is watching him gradually lose his independence and mobility, as he suffers with indescribable pain that worsens each day. In the wee hours, as I lie awake night after night, I run through my mental inventory of reasons why this happened, when in fact none may exist. My obsessive thinking replays like a broken record. Is this a consequence of environmental toxic assaults? Was it the DDT he used in the 50's when he worked in my grandfather's greenhouse? Preservatives and artificial ingredients? Processed food? Pesticides? Or maybe there's an emotional basis. Louise Hay's "Heal Your Body A-Z: The Mental Causes For Physical Illness and the Way to Overcome Them" sits on my coffee table as a semi-permanent fixture. My left brain is reluctant to abandon its relentless search for an explanation for this wretched illness.

A monk asked [Zen Master] Tozan, "How can we escape the cold and heat?" Tozan replied, "Why not go where there is no cold and heat?" "Is there such a place?" the monk asked. Tozan commented, "When cold, be thoroughly cold; when hot, be hot through and through."

I don't know what tomorrow will bring. I don't know if the chemo will work, if this is Dad's last year on the planet, or whether he'll live to a ripe old age. The only thing I know with certainty is that I can't change anything, despite my desperate wish to magically make him well again. When I'm hot, I'll be hot through and through, and when cold, I will be thoroughly cold. And...I'll hope for a miracle. It's the most I can do right now, and--paradoxically--probably the only thing that makes logical sense. The words of Ram Dass, "Be here now," become a touchstone as I wrestle with doubt and fear.

I thought I knew a lot about life, healing, and prayer. It's pretty obvious there's a lot more to learn, as I watch my old beliefs explode into nothingness. Everything I've learned so far has brought me to this point--a place of unknowing and surrender. My journey is, in some ways, just beginning. It's about transcending duality and living fully in the present moment. Wherever we go, there we are. It's that simple. I'll never know the specific reasons or causes for Dad's cancer. I'll never know why a good person suffers with a bad disease, and I realize that living a good life doesn't necessarily guarantee good health. Life's a mystery, and it's really not about the journey--it's about how we respond to it.

N.B. Dad was to begin his chemo on January 3. Today he started one of his two chemo meds. He has still not received the second drug. We trust it will arrive in the next several days. This morning it became abundantly clear that he needs a personal care attendant. Mom quickly arranged for a nurse to visit daily. Mom is the unsung hero in this drama, negotiating, advocating, working tirelessly to attend to Dad's needs, and doing everything he can no longer do for himself.

Ramblings From the Desert

2008-01-01T07:10:00.000-07:00

This clear, crisp New Year's Day morn, I watch the first hints of daylight overspread the valley as it emerges from a blanket of cold night air like a sleepy bear. The sunrise palette changes continuously as the light struggles to peek over the Sandias, much like I struggle to climb out of bed these past few weeks.

A new day, a new year, but same old me. Resolutions are opportunities for failure, so I won't venture into that den of disappointment. However, my intentions, as I consider the newness of this year, are to live with more kindness.

Kindness is an inner desire that makes us want to do good things, even if we do not get anything in return. When we do good things from this inner desire, there is kindness in everything we think, say, want and do.
-Emmanuel Swedenborg

Before assuming a permanent spot on my typing stand, this quote was unceremoniously displayed on a small square of paper on the fridge, lost in a sea of magnets, things that jingle, shopping lists, coupons, cartoons, and photos. Now that it's on my desk, it serves as a frequent reminder to slow down during days when difficult clients erode my patience.

Whatever happened to kindness?

If there were but one thing that might save the world, perhaps it's kindness. Years ago, when bumper stickers were fixed to actual chrome bumpers that protected our cars from minor impacts, I drove around advertising that we should all "practice random kindness and senseless acts of beauty." Though I'm loathe to apply sticky stuff to a phony plastic "bumper" these days (or worse yet, the back of the car), for fear of damaging the incomprehensibly delicate paint, I continue to embrace the notion that kindness is more powerful than anything we can possibly imagine.

No matter how noble my intentions (kindness is one of the Knightly Virtues), kindness is just plain hard in a world where I often feel manipulated by advertisers, betrayed by government, and bamboozled by less-than-honest citizens. These days, is seems my life revolves around survival tactics. When I leave the house, I lock my computers with thick, padlocked bicycle cables and stash my hard drives, laptops, and cameras in a locked cabinet, in case thieves decide our house is full of stuff they want. At one point I even considered buying a safe. While I admit this lockdown ritual may be a by-product of living in the city, I also recognize that city living is far more risky now than it was ten years ago in Boston. Is it possible to think about being kind when I'm constantly assuming a defensive stance?

Stepping away from the realities of securing my home every time I run to the co-op for bread, broccoli and bittersweet chocolate, including telling the dogs to "protect" and bark at strangers (one wonders whether they full understand this mandate), I acknowledge the existence of another reality that eludes me at least half the time. This parallel reality is filled with gentle people who derive pleasure from doing things for others, whose lives are motivated by compassion, who share and pay it forward daily.

My religion is very simple. My religion is kindness.
-The Dalai Lama

Personally, I find patience and understanding inextricably intertwined with kindness. I also notice that being caught up in a vortex of deadlines and pressure generally renders me downright cantankerous. So in this new year, I hope to find stillness in everyday tasks. I invite the possibility of finding joy in chopping wood and carrying water. (This is a metaphor. I have no intention of wielding an axe or lugging anything heavier than a chocolate bar.) I welcome the opportunity to calm my spirit, work less, and make time to read. I will teach myself patience by standing on the longest line at the market. I'll pay a toll for the car behind me. I'll listen more and be less self-centered.

Lofty ambitions, but maybe I'll move closer to creating a life of random kindnesses this year. When you think about it, it's really not all that difficult. We all practice random kindness from time to time. We just need to practice it more often.

Websites worth checking out:

Help Others
Blossom International
The Random Acts of Kindness Foundation
Kindness.com
Extreme Kindness

Happy Creepy New Year

2007-12-31T19:47:00.001-07:00

What is it about dolls that's so scary? There was Talky Tina from the 1963 Twilight Zone episode, "Living Doll" ("My name is Talky Tina, and I'm going to kill you...."), Chucky (from the "Child's Play" horror film series), and my favorite scary dolls of all time, The Geezenstacks.

Watching the Twilight Zone marathon this evening--an annual New Year's tradition--I was reminded of a 1986 episode of Tales From The Darkside entitled "The Geezenstacks." I was delighted to find it on You Tube. I'm a hopeless Zone addict, but some of the Darkside stories were hard to forget. The Geezenstacks was one of them.

And so, I submit for your perusal...The Geezenstacks. Running time: 22 minutes.

The Geezenstacks - Part 1

The Geezenstacks - Part 2

Merry Christmas

2007-12-25T10:07:00.001-07:00

The "kids" love their new tug. It's an extra-strenth toy for aggressive tuggers. I suspect it might last through lunch, but I doubt it will be intact by nightfall.

Preparing For Christmas

2007-12-17T21:28:00.000-07:00

Another reason to be cheerful around the holidays: funny hats.

Shame On Me

2007-12-17T19:48:00.000-07:00

Judy has put me to shame with her many interesting blog posts lately. She's already issued a mandate that I post something before she stops reading my blog altogether. In spite of her threats, I continue to spend night after night plopped in front of the TV, too lazy (or uninspired) to write.

OK, I lied. She didn't threaten me. But I do worry I've lost my blog readers because of my protracted written silence.

Turnabout is fair play. I put Judy to shame this evening with the elaborate vegan dinner I prepared. Her dinner, apparently, was a sticky bun. I've decided after several months of general malaise it's time to make some changes in my life, starting with diet and exercise. It's never too late to get healthy again. My sedentary lifestyle has caught up with me. I am becoming one with the sofa.

The dogs are enjoying the cooler weather in Albuquerque. It seems to energize them, and their rough play has taken an almost aggressive edge, as if they're pushing their wrestling to the edge just to see how far they can go before one of them complains. Telly is beginning to show signs of growing out of puppyhood, though she's nowhere near abandoning her puppy ways. She still jumps, wags her tail incessantly, and climbs in any available lap - all 60 pounds of her - whenever she feels cuddly, which is most of the time. Telly sleeps soundly at my side right now, her wet nose resting at my elbow.

Thanksgiving was spent with siblings who flew to New Mexico for a week. It was nice to spend time with my brothers and their significant others. The last time we gathered for Thanksgiving was eight or nine years ago.

David and Telly

David and Jennifer posing on the banks of the Rio Grande

Ginger - what a cutie!

Jim and Ginger catch up on their reading

We dined one evening at the High Noon Saloon and Restaurant in Old Town, and were served the largest slab of chocolate cake I've ever seen. It weighed in at one pound. (The waiter brought 6 forks.)

One serious piece of cake

The desert is chilly these days, though only the mountains are frosted with snow. Nights are cold and days sunny. Albuquerque winters are short. By February our days will be warm again. It's a great time of year to hike.

Unfortunately, hiking seems like too much work these days. (There are signs that this attitude may soon change.) Instead of fresh air and exercise, I've become addicted to eBay. The dining room is bursting with pottery I've won in online auctions during the past month. But that's another post.

Just For Judy

2007-12-03T23:30:00.001-07:00

This is my reply to Judy's December 2 blog post. Blogger wouldn't let me post the code as a comment, so here's my video/audio comment to Judy.

Balloon Fiesta 2007

2007-10-22T11:15:00.000-06:00

Here's the third chapter of a trilogy of slideshows of photos I took at the 2007 Albuquerque International Balloon Fiesta. This year I actually got up at 4 am in order to get to the Balloon Fiesta Park by 5:15. "Dawn Patrol" consists of a handful of hot-air balloons that launch before dawn to check the winds aloft. At dawn the mass ascension begins, led by the Wells Fargo balloons, gently lifting off to the Star Spangled Banner, American flags hanging from the balloon baskets and rippling in the breeze. The day we went was one of two "Special Shapes Rodeo" days. When you watch the video below, you'll see what "special shapes" means.

Part 1

How to Land a Balloon

2007-10-17T18:47:00.000-06:00

What goes up must come down. Today's photos were taken on the first day of Balloon Fiesta, October 6. Shortly after sunrise, four of us piled into the Subaru to chase balloons. Chase crews generally follow one balloon, but we chose to follow many, ending up just north of Albuquerque in Corrales. This balloon was just dropping from the sky into a parking lot. Step one: find someone strong to catch a rope.

A safe landing.

Now the fun part: bringing the balloon down and tipping the basket.

What you don't see in these pictures is the crew at the other end pulling the balloon to the ground.

The bottom of a balloon basket is a convenient place to post messages to loved ones.

The final phase: removing the air. Once the air is forced out, the envelope is systematically folded. The final press to remove any trapped air requires that six squealing children sit on the folded bundle.

We moved on and headed toward Rio Rancho, following hundreds of balloons.

Cam and Gail were duly impressed with our early morning adventure.

I can't say the same about this horse, who was a little spooked by the hot-air craft all around him.

Sometimes a street makes a great landing strip, especially if there are neighbors eager to help with the landing. This balloon's chase crew arrived several minutes later.

Honey, there's a giant cow in the back yard...

Time to go home and rest. Chasing balloons is hard work!

How NOT to Land a Balloon

2007-10-17T16:13:00.000-06:00

Thank you, Lana, for this chilling photo.

How To Launch A Balloon

2007-10-14T08:00:00.000-06:00

Albuquerque Aloft, a prelude to the Albuquerque Balloon Fiesta, is held the Friday before Fiesta (October 5). The unofficial Fiesta kickoff, balloons launch from various schools around the city. This year, a balloon launched from M's school, piloted by a kindergarten teacher. I rushed to the school early in the morning to photograph the launch of "Mary Alice In Wonderland" with Cam, who had arrived a few days earlier from New Hampshire with Gail.

If you are interested in ballooning, here's a primer for launching your hot air craft. First off, you need a funky little trailer announcing to the world that you are really serious about your hobby.

You also need a lot of friends with muscles. Launching a hot air balloon takes a bit of work. First, the propane burner is assembled on the wicker basket (or gondola). Next, the propane lines are connected and tested, to make sure the burner is firing properly.

Now it's time to lay the envelope (that's the actual balloon) on the ground and prepare to inflate it.

A hot air balloon is first inflated cold, using a large, gas-powered fan.

The crew holds the envelope open for inflation.

No one is sure these folks ever made it out alive after the balloon swallowed them head-first.

Happy Cam-per.

Time to turn the gas on and get this baby aloft. Cold air sits on the ground, but hot air rises!

Final check before lift off.

And they're off!

A Star Is Born

2007-09-27T09:22:00.001-06:00

Introducing Paul Potts

2007-09-26T21:43:00.000-06:00

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.

Official Website
Official MySpace

Emily Visits New Mexico

2007-09-25T00:32:00.000-06:00

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

2007-09-19T06:46:00.007-06:00

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

2007-09-14T08:33:00.000-06:00

"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

2007-09-11T06:54:00.000-06:00

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

2007-09-05T15:22:00.000-06:00

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

2007-09-04T21:12:00.000-06:00

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.

FeedBlitz

2007-08-25T10:39:00.000-06:00

I discovered a service called FeedBlitz, an RSS and blog-to-email service. It's free, and once you sign up, you'll be notified by email every time I post to this blog. Just click here, scroll down to "Subscribe to any Blog by Mail," and type the blog address (http://dolphin-spirit.blogspot.com). Hit "Subscribe" and you'll be taken to a new page where you can enter your email address. Make sure you enter the captcha code (Step 2) and then click "Subscribe me!" That's all there is to it. You'll be notified by email whenever I post a new blog entry.

A Night At The Opera

2007-08-25T08:13:00.000-06:00

Judy is waiting for my opera blog, so here it is. I'm a week late in posting, and I blame a heavy daytime workload and evening laziness that borders on sloth. After a three-month marathon computer binge, mostly work-related, I feel I've earned the right to be indolent when I'm not working. In fact, I not only deserve it, I need it. Desperately. "Down time" has taken on a new meaning lately. It largely consists of assuming a horizontal position on the sofa and staring at the ceiling. However, this abundance of work helped us pay off the sofa just the other day, so we are now debt-free as far as JC Penney is concerned.

My dear friend Russ flew in from St. Louis a week ago Friday for a much-anticipated night at the world-famous Santa Fe Opera. Spending the evening in Santa Fe meant hiring a dog-sitter to watch Murphy and Telly. Lately, Telly has been getting herself into mischief (her nickname is Miss-Chief), so I'm reluctant to leave her alone in the house for very long. She has eaten books, a bag of chocolate, tennis balls, rocks, and even pillows. Fortunately, our shoes are all intact. Under Amy's watchful eye, the dogs did just fine in our absence.

But back to the opera. Russ outdid himself on tickets, presenting us with dream seats in the second row. (I was duly impressed at his ability to procure these outstanding seats!) Ringed by distant mountains, the Santa Fe Opera House is an architectural marvel, situated high in the hills of Tesuque, only a few minutes from the Plaza in Santa Fe. After stopping on Canyon Road for a quick browse in several galleries, we dashed off to Tesuque with our tailgate supper purchased in Whole Foods. Pre-opera tailgating is a tradition in Santa Fe, but our tasty picnic paled in comparison to the tables set up in the parking lot, complete with linen tablecloths, chairs, crystal, and even vases of fresh flowers. We munched on our dinner that was eaten directly out styrofoam containers and Saran Wrap, our elegant table a Toyota trunk. Next time: table and chairs. Who knew?

As the sun set against a backdrop of pink and blue, and with bellies full, we joined the pilgrimage of opera aficionados heading across two parking lots toward the theater, a covered open-air structure that is open only in the warmer months. The open sides invite warm evening breezes to weave through the audience. Small winged creatures could be seen flitting about the stage lighting well overhead. The massive roof insured our protection from evening rains.

The opera itself, Puccini's La Boheme, was delightful, showcasing some exceptional talent. I especially enjoyed reading the libretto, available in both English and Spanish, on a small digital screen on the back of the seat in front of me. Remembering my first visit to the Met, flashlight and thick libretto in my lap, I found this 21st century arrangement a lot easier.

When we arrived home a little after midnight, we enjoyed chocolate treats and other sweets. It's likely that the opera will become an annual tradition in this household. Thank you, Russ, for a splendid evening!

The Return of the Cone

2007-08-15T17:11:00.000-06:00

Ah, it's that time of year...when the tropics get active and the dreaded Cone Of Possibilities makes its first appearance near the mainland. Judy, this storm track should have you breathing a little easier tonight, although, as we well know, anything can happen with these cyclones. They wiggle and they wobble. They can't seem to make up their minds. Nonetheless, I'm grateful I have no vacation plans in the Yucatan next week.

I missed watching these cones last summer, when all was eerily quiet in the Atlantic and Gulf of Mexico. Watching the "spaghetti models" for Dean take shape was almost like an old friend coming home. The Central Florida Hurricane Center boards are buzzing like a field of wildflowers in July.

We all know I wouldn't find the colorful cone so heartwarming if I still lived in Florida. I'd be pacing like a tiger in a too-small cage, counting jugs of water, buying batteries, and stocking up on canned food. I'd be struggling to position heavy sheets of three-quarter inch plywood over windows. I'd be checking the models every ten minutes. I'd be obsessively reading opinions on the internet from seasoned storm trackers, looking for reassurance that the storm won't come my way, but usually finding reason to be scared. I'd be stressing big time.

Here's to wind shear and cooler waters in the days ahead. May all named storms fizzle like Flossie.

Shift Happens!

2007-08-09T16:45:00.001-06:00

What Is Art?

2007-08-02T21:15:00.000-06:00

Stranger Than Fiction

2007-07-31T15:51:00.001-06:00

Caution: Spoilers!

2007-07-20T19:45:00.000-06:00

So you want to know what happens at the end of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows? Here are my best guesses. Take your pick, but we'll all have to wait until one minute past midnight to be sure.

My #1 Harry Potter Spoiler of Doom is:
Draco Malfoy causes civil war across Europe wearing a pink tutu.
Get your Harry Potter Spoiler of Doom

My #2 Harry Potter Spoiler of Doom is:
Willy Wonka is killed by Hermione by using Mooncalf dung.
Get your Harry Potter Spoiler of Doom

My #3 Harry Potter Spoiler of Doom is:
A tall dark stranger is turned into an ice cream cone by Harry thanks to the Nimbus 2000.
Get your Harry Potter Spoiler of Doom

My #4 Harry Potter Spoiler of Doom is:
Ginny Weasley turns Hogwarts into a gingerbread castle after converting to Scientology.
Get your Harry Potter Spoiler of Doom

OK, I admit it. The above spoilers are totally fake, and I can tell you're just itching to know what happens at the end of the Harry Potter saga. Allow me to take you out of your misery: It was Colonel Mustard. In the library. With a candlestick.

(I think I'll just wait for Kelly to finish reading the book, which hopefully will be by breakfast tomorrow.)

Kelly Takes A Plane Ride

2007-07-18T17:46:00.000-06:00

The house is empty now--just me and two tired puppies, both of whom are out cold on their respective sofas. As I wander about a house that suddenly seems too large, I listen for an expected echo but hear only silence. This morning Marcia boarded an early flight for New York, and I dropped Kelly off at the Sunport an hour later, stopping for breakfast burritos at Flying Star on the way.

As the check-in line snaked toward the counter, I noticed a lot of luggage in our immediate vicinity. In fact, it was more than a lot. A friendly woman on line suggested to Kelly that she leave a few things home next time. Moments after we checked Kelly's three allowable pieces of luggage, her backpack exploded under the strain of its valuable contents: an iBook, a camera, and a plethora of sweet and salty snacks. The fabric didn't rip, but the zipper was shot. We hastily repackaged the snacks in Ziplock bags, disposing of space-taking boxes that challenged the zipper beyond its limits. I hoped the ailing backpack would hold together for 2,000 miles. To be honest, I prayed all of Kelly's less-than-sturdy luggage would survive the two flights back to Florida.

Kelly passed through the initial security checkpoint quickly and disappeared in a sea of people in queues--men, women and children, all waiting to remove their shoes and have their carry-ons scanned.

Driving home in solitude, the morning light seemed especially dramatic. The Albuquerque volcanoes looked majestic and strong, surrounded by endless sand. To the east, the Sandias towered above a city busying itself with routine morning tasks.

I've just refreshed my browser and notice that Kelly has landed. Marcia, however, is still stuck in Minneapolis, where she's been for the past six hours due to an aircraft malfunction. For hours Northwest has reported on its website that the flight is "delayed awaiting inbound aircraft." In the last few minutes, the aircraft has apparently arrived, as the updated status is "delayed awaiting inbound flight crew."

Comings and goings are so strange. One minute here, next minute gone. The dogs seem to take it all in stride, but I find it baffling. I get to spend a week with myself now, and I think that's a very good thing. I enjoy my own company. What more could a person ask? I look forward to a relaxing evening thinking about the past month--my trip to Florida and the past several weeks with a teenager. I might even listen to Bowling For Soup.

Sandia Crest

2007-07-17T20:52:00.000-06:00

I had to work today, but Marcia and Kelly took the Tram up to Sandia Crest to view the world from two miles up. Kelly took lots of photos.

It was hot at the summit, but the adventurers took off to explore one of many mountain trails.

It's hard to believe, but there are sea fossils at the summit. They found these fossils on the trail.

When they returned, I took them out to Las Mañanitas for dinner. Kelly likes to preserve her meals for all posterity with her camera. Exhibit 1: Beef Enchiladas, New Mexican style (i.e., FLAT, not ROLLED). The two containers of condiments are chiles - red and green.

I borrowed Kelly's camera to shoot these.

Kelly leaves tomorrow. She's busy trying to cram everything in her duffle bag. I think I may be taking a trip to the Post Office tomorrow to mail a few things for her.

It will be lonely here without Kelly.

Pancakes & Rattlesnakes

2007-07-14T19:21:00.000-06:00

I had a hankerin' for a heap of hotcakes at Old Town's Church Street Cafe this morning, so the three of us left the house shortly after 9. At that early hour, we had no trouble parking near the Plaza.

The Church Street Cafe is housed in the oldest building in Old Town, constructed in the early 18th century by the Ruiz family. The building remained in the family until 1991, when the last surviving family member died at 91. The hostess seated us in the patio, a delightful area in the back where we enjoyed blueberry pancakes, huevos rancheros and, to Kelly's satisfaction, OJ with plenty of pulp.

Of note was a stunning table and benches inlaid with beautiful tiles. I thought Judy might like to see this table, so here it is. And before I forget, Happy Birthday Judy!

The American International Rattlesnake Museum, located just a few blocks from the cafe, is home to the largest collection of live rattlesnakes in the world. While I'm neither ophidiophobic nor especially enamored with slithering reptiles, I admit sensing a palpable creepiness in being surrounded by dozens of venomous vipers, spiders, scorpions, and even a gila monster, though all were secured in sturdy glass enclosures. To be honest, I kept checking the floor and enclosure tops to make sure none had escaped. Nonetheless, the exhibition was pretty amazing, even if I had chills more than once. Kelly seemed fascinated by the poisonous creatures.

Kelly reprimanded me (and rightly so) for tapping on the glass. I just had to do it. Tsk, tsk...can't take me anywhere.

Kelly brushed up on her rattlesnake trivia. You just never know when you'll need to know snake facts.

On the way back to the car Marcia and Kelly checked out a 1926 Model T parked in the Plaza. It was one sweet ride, beautifully restored and spotless.

When I got home I took Murphy for a long walk along the ditch, where he happily swam and cooled off. I, on the other hand, became so overheated in the midday sun that I needed to place an emergency phone call to Marcia requesting a cold wet cloth and Gatorade, which she and Telly delivered to me in minutes. Though the ditch water looked therapeutically cooling, I'd rather collapse than immerse my body in a muddy arroyo. Blech.

It's summer and this is high desert country. One of these days I'm going to realize I'm not in Florida anymore, and dehydration happens quickly. Thankfully, I don't mind the taste of Gatorade.

A better way to keep cool: Tara's Organic Ice Cream. Check out the flavors. My new favorite flavor is White Pepper Chocolate Chip. My next adventure in frozen delights: Tara's Green Chile Ice Cream.

Lavender In The Village

2007-07-08T21:16:00.000-06:00

Up early, we left the dogs behind and drove 5 minutes to the 4th Annual Lavender Festival. Celebrated at several locations in Los Ranchos de Albuquerque, a lovely farm community nestled in Albuquerque's North Valley, we began our day at Los Poblanos, a historical estate that houses a beautiful inn, a Cultural Center, and an organic farm. The festival was about everything lavender. We ate organic lavender ice cream, purchased lavender soap and lotion, viewed fields of lavender, and watched children and adults creating dried lavender wands. Morning classes were offered in cooking with and growing lavender. Most wonderful, however, was wandering through gardens amongst peacocks, and walking around a lotus flower pond in full bloom. We even said hello to the chickens. Marcia bought organic strawberries and other fruits. Kelly had a chance to speak with Farmer Monte, who assured her that she could most likely begin working at the farm in a week. (!!)

This is actually a footbath in one of the gardens, so folks could stop and cool their feet. (I saw no one using it.)
These lotus flowers were enormous!
Our second stop, not far up the road, was the Village Green, where we enjoyed an excellent performance by the Watermelon Mountain Jug Band, a grower's market, tons of lavender products, booths occupied by neighborhood businesses, and food concessions offering delicious organic fare and other dishes. Especially delicious was the organic mint iced tea.

Hot and tired, we skipped the lavender sangria and lavender wine coolers at the two participating vineyards, and went home so the adults could nap and the teenager could ride her unicycle. As I close my eyes this evening, I can still smell the delicate scent of fresh lavender.

Debbie Does Dallas, But Kelly Does Santa Fe

2007-07-07T20:17:00.000-06:00

Kelly and I left for Santa Fe, a 50 mile drive, shortly after noon. After a brief stop at Galerie Esteban in Santa Fe, we had lunch with Roseta Santiago at El Farol, the oldest cantina in Santa Fe. The burgers were great and the company even better.

After lunch we drove to the Plaza, where Kelly rode her unicycle up and down streets that were closed to traffic due to a concert on the Plaza Stage. She drew favorable comments from pedestrians and was pleased to be photographed by tourists. Kelly found the perfect sunglasses at the Dollar Store, and bought several pairs to coordinate with various outfits. The green ones looked especially interesting on her today.

Happy Camper

2007-07-05T16:56:00.000-06:00

Kelly's iBook died the night before we left Florida, and I think a part of her died as well, considering the possibility of a long separation from her laptop. The next morning, Judy drove the ailing computer to Sarasota for emergency repairs at Computer Advantage. Cory, their personal computer angel, worked his magic with the broken machine. Not only did he repair it quickly, he shipped it to Kelly in Albuquerque, and it arrived before lunch today. Kelly bubbled with delight to have her beloved iBook in her hands again.

THANK YOU CORY!!!

Cuervo: A Ghost of a Town

2007-07-04T21:36:00.000-06:00

The town of Cuervo, New Mexico dates back to around 1901, when the Southern Pacific Railroad pushed through Guadalupe County. Cuervo is the Spanish word for "crow," and the town's name probably came from nearby Cuervo Hill. Around 1910, the town began to grow when the land surrounding Cuervo was opened to cattle ranching, creating a land boom. When Route 66, the "Mother Road," came through Cuervo, the new highway created additional income opportunities with gas stations and hotels.

At its peak, Cuervo boasted two schools, two churches, two hotels and two doctors, along with numerous other businesses. In the 1930's, Cuervo reportedly had a population of almost 300. By the mid 1940's, however, it had already fallen to less than 150.

When I-40 came along, parts of Cuervo were literally buried as the superhighway cut a swath through the residential section of the town. Long dependent on travelers of the Mother Road, the town immediately began to die. Today the area still supports a handful of people, who live on the south side of I-40 and on outlying ranches.

After a brief stop in this deserted town, we made a beeline for Albuquerque, arriving mid-afternoon. Mesmerized by the spectacular vistas, Kelly was afraid to blink as we made our way over and through the mountains. In all honesty, I was dazzled by the visuals as well. I never tire of close encounters with mountains.

It's good to be home.

Conchas Lake

2007-07-04T21:02:00.000-06:00

The 37 mile journey to Conchas Lake took us through the desert on a desolate, yet breathtakingly beautiful road. We saw only 4 cars along the way, with nary a billboard, gas station, house, or cell signal. It was definitely surreal, and almost creepy. As my pulse quickened, cattle grazing on the desert prairie reminded us we weren't completely alone.

Once at the lake, there were few signs of civilization, and still no cell signal. The only gas station in the tiny community dispensed Regular Unleaded at a whopping $3.49/gallon. A small sign at the side of the road announced the "next gas" could be found 72 miles ahead. I patted myself on the back for having the foresight to fill up in Tucumcari after breakfast.

Kelly was eager to go for a swim.

While she wandered along the shore, I studied the flora and fauna.

By midday we left Conchas Lake to explore Cuervo, a ghost town 25 miles away.

Tucumcari

2007-07-04T17:52:00.000-06:00

Tucumcari (pronounced TOO-kum-kair-ee) is nestled on historic Route 66 in Northeast New Mexico. The origin of its name remains a mystery, though there are several theories and legends surrounding Tucumcari Mountain and the town itself. After a restful night, we awoke to cloudless skies and cool desert air. Built in 1939, the Blue Swallow Motel boasts the best neon in Tucumcari. Each room has it's own private garage, and the current owners, who bought the motel in 2005, have restored the Blue Swallow so well that I felt like I'd entered a time warp when I stepped into Room 10. Though cable TV is available in all the rooms, much appears as it might have half a century ago.

Kelly spent a lot of time in the Executive Business Center at the Blue Swallow.

Our room housed a tall Hogan Brevatherm short-wave unit that served as a TV stand, and an old telephone that actually worked.

We left Tucumcari mid-morning, bound for the Conchas Dam.

LIfe Lessons - Part 3

2007-07-03T23:08:00.000-06:00

There is so much to learn from Kelly. I can add another word to my list of necessary all-inclusive adjectives: "random."

The day started a bit too early for the two weary sleepyheads. Heavy rain in and around Dallas made the morning seem tedious. By lunchtime, the skies cleared and we made our way up the long, lonely, 300-mile road from Dallas to Amarillo. It was a day of cowboys, oil wells, big sky, juicy bugs smeared across the windshield, country music, and miles and miles of nothing. As Kelly said at one point, "...and I thought I lived in the middle of nowhere..."

The landscape changes so dramatically just before the New Mexico border on I-40. Kelly was bug-eyed when she caught her first glimpse of the real West. We escaped the interstate and followed old Rt. 66 all the way to Tucumcari.

The ghostly images atop the Llano Estacado are windmills.

Time to hit the hay and put this computer to bed as well. The wireless connection at the Blue Swallow Motel has one fatal flaw: the signal can only be picked up from a picnic table next to the office. The bugs this evening were enough to keep me from my email, and at this late hour I sit in the car typing in the dark, waiting for my laptop to shift and sound the horn.

The owner of this ancient roadside motel assured me doors needn't be locked and our safety is assured in this friendly little town in the middle of nowhere. It's good to be back in New Mexico, even though I miss the palm trees, salt air, and snowy egrets flying overhead.

Roadside Oddities

2007-07-03T23:00:00.000-06:00

Food for thought:

Only in America would Scooter Libby's sentence be commuted, but Texas vending machines are sent to prison.

Life Lessons - Part 2

2007-07-02T19:41:00.000-06:00

The descriptive adjectives "nice," "awesome," "sweet," and "cool" cover just about any situation. I am learning that one's gray matter can be needlessly cluttered with an excessive amount of adjectives. Disciplining oneself to use only these four adjectives frees the mind for loftier pursuits, like calculating how much fancy granola one can eat on a road trip before feeling ill, or solving the crisis of world hunger.

We drove through four states today and made it all the way to Tyler, TX. This blogger accidentally left her beloved goosedown bed pillows in the hotel in Mobile and realized it 100 miles later. Fortunately the hotel staff retrieved the pillows and promptly shipped them to Albuquerque. The rest of the day, however, was defined by my relentless search for a replacement pillow. It wasn't until we reached Tyler and I made a dinner run to Olive Garden for take-out that I discovered the large Bed Bath & Beyond that had just the pillow I needed.

Our drive through Mississippi this morning was relaxing. We stopped at a place called "Shoes Shoes Shoes" that advertised "Clean Rest Rooms" (they were), so it seemed like a good opportunity to shop for footwear.

We passed many locals selling their melons at the side of the road. The most interesting point-of-sale rig was this customized school bus painted in bright John Deere colors. Most others were selling from the beds of rusty pickups.

I couldn't pass up this photo op.

In Vickburg, MS, we stopped to view the Mississippi River and Louisiana on the opposite bank.

Kelly checked out a cannon in this historic Southern town, whose centerpiece is a National Military Park commemorating the 1863 siege and fall of Vicksburg.

The 47-day "Siege of Vicksburg" was a significant Civil War event in which the Union gained control of the entire Mississippi River. The capture of Vicksburg and the simultaneous defeat of Lee at Gettysburg marked the turning point in the Civil War.

It was raining when we arrived in Shreveport late this afternoon, crossed the Red River, and landed in Tyler an hour later. Kelly has already made new friends and been invited to a party in the hotel later this evening. (She declined, of course...) I, on the other hand, am quite content to sit in our modest room and read the phone book.

Tomorrow: The Texas Plains and New Mexico!

Life Lessons - Part 1

2007-07-01T21:28:00.000-06:00

Kelly and I are driving back to Albuquerque together. A Florida resident, she's hitching a ride to New Mexico and will fly back after exploring the desert. Unaccustomed as I am to sharing close quarters with a teenager, I am learning a geat deal from her.

1. Grape is the finest of all artificial flavors.
2. Sour Skittles are not all that sour.
3. It's easier to be happy than sad.
4. Life is one big photo op.
5. Unicycling helps expand one's social circle.
6. Snacking could be a competitive sport.
7. Wearing one's hat to bed calms brain waves.
8. Given a choice, even farm girls like to sleep in.
9. The more pillows, the better.
10. Bowling For Soup is a band.

Traveling with Kelly may prove to be very educational, but I'm not sure how I feel about Bowling For Soup.

Tomorrow's agenda includes Alabama, Mississipi, Louisiana and Texas. Seems like a tall order at the moment. I hope to have photos for my next post.

The Sunshine State

2007-06-27T21:03:00.000-06:00

Day Three

It's a short 50-mile hop from Mobile to Pensacola Bay. The sight of all that turquoise water reminded me that my dolphin spirit hungers for the sea. The third and last day of my journey blasted a horizontal path across the Florida Panhandle and then carved a straight shot south on I-75 from Lake City to Port Charlotte. 75 was even faster than I'd remembered, and trying to keep up with 90 mph traffic took my breath away. I arrived an hour and a half early due to unavoidable high-speed travel. Driving the speed limit would have been more dangerous than keeping up with traffic. It was only when traffic slowed to 80 just south of Tampa that I loosened my white-knuckle grip.

For the past five days I've been visiting with the parents, force-feeding myself large meals mid-afternoon, and spending inordinate amounts of time sleeping. This morning I went for a long walk on Venice's Caspersen Beach, one of the most beautiful beaches in the U.S.

"The Shark Tooth Capital of the World," Venice is one of the few West Coast Florida cities without a barrier island. Millions of prehistoric shark teeth wash up on the beaches of Venice annually. Sharks of all species continually shed their teeth and grow new ones. They have 40 or more teeth in each jaw. Behind the functional rows of teeth are seven other rows of teeth developing into mature dentures to replace teeth as they are shed or lost. In ten years, an average Tiger shark can produce as many as 24,000 teeth. The fossilized Miocene Epoch shark teeth found on Venice beaches are between 5 and 25 million years old. I find it staggering to think that the little teeth I've found in the sand might be as much as 25 million years old. They don't look a day over 15 million.

I scored an impressive shark's tooth - Mako, I think - in Papa's Bait Shop on the Venice Pier. It would have been more fun to find it free-diving in the Gulf, but it will still make a nice addition to my shark tooth collection, and I can wear this one.

Blew Bayou

2007-06-27T20:01:00.000-06:00

Day Two

With the long stretch of Texas high plains behind me, I headed east toward Louisiana and the Deep South (the scary states), tired but hopeful to make Mobile by nightfall. At the Louisiana Welcome Center, I stopped for an hour to dig through the cooler for hard boiled eggs, cinnamon mini-muffins, grapes, and a smoothie. After this tasty picnic repast, I grabbed some zzzzz's in the parking lot, and in a short while was once again cruising down the highway.

Crossing the Mississippi at Vicksburg, MS, the possibility of making Mobile by dark seemed quite doable.

There's something a little creepy about driving through the southern states, especially Louisiana. You just never know what will crawl out of those bayous. I guess I watched too many swamp thing movies in the 50's. Mississippi isn't much better, only in the Magnolia State it isn't reptilian creatures, but state troopers, that scare the bejeezus out of me.

I pulled into Mobile at 6:30, bought a basket of juicy peaches at a roadside stand, rented a deluxe room with jacuzzi, and spent the evening hopping between spa and bed. Thoughts of palm trees and not having to drive anywhere for at least a week lulled me into a deep sleep.

Cowboy Blues

2007-06-27T19:18:00.001-06:00

Day One - Continued

The 300 mile drive across the high plains from Amarillo to Dallas took me through small, run-down Texas towns. Endless flat vistas punctuated only by the occasional grain silo made the drive seem much longer. Signs of civilization were absent for much of the ride. In Childress I found a Wal-Mart and stopped for some picnic necessities. It was the only big box store I found for several hundred miles. This in itself makes U.S. 287 a national treasure.

The sun went down before I got to Dallas, home to the World's Worst Drivers.

After 715 miles and a grueling passage through Dallas, I found a room in Terrell, east of the city, at a less-than-desirable Day's Inn. The pickings were slim: this was the third place I'd stopped at and I was prepared to sleep in the car if necessary. Room 162 possessed an unpleasant, palpable aura of humanity sheltered within its walls over the years, and I was happy to have brought slippers so my feet would not have to touch the grimy carpet. I slept only 3 hours, skipped the unremarkable "breakfast" served in a corner of the dingy lobby, and escaped early in the morning bound for Mobile and, with luck, better accommodations.

Signs of Life

2007-06-23T21:05:00.000-06:00

Emerging from an intense work binge that has consumed my life for two months, I look around and wonder where I am. Physically I'm in Florida, after a three-day, marathon 1900 mile drive from Albuquerque to Port Charlotte. But the last few days my head has been in the Twilight Zone. This is largely due to lack of sleep and 80 hour work weeks since late April. "Ungrounded" doesn't begin to describe the depletion I'm experiencing.

Day One

It was fun traveling without human and canine companionship--just me and my CDs on the open road. The first day was probably the most interesting. I enjoyed the drive from New Mexico to Texas on I-40, eventually saying goodbye to tumbleweed and mesas that yielded to cattle ranches and grain silos.

East of Tucumcari I stopped to grab a smoothie out of the cooler and caught a glimpse of the Llano Estacado. Part of the High Plains, the Llano Estacado, or "palisaded plains," straddles New Mexico and Texas along the border. This large mesa occupies 37,500 square miles. As I haven't yet perfected the art of levitation, this aerial photo isn't mine, but it's probably better than anything I could have shot from the ground.

I noticed something odd in the distance as I approached Amarillo.

This strange site was just too compelling to ignore. At the next exit I doubled back to check out Cadillac Ranch, a unique work of art that sits on the sprawling ranch belonging to eccentric Stanley Marsh, 3. (He uses "3" because he feels "III" is "too pretentious.") Ten Cadillacs buried in the earth and heavily layered with graffiti decorate the horizon. Children and adults armed with spray paint and Magic Markers were gathered around these rusty relics to leave their marks. Discarded cans littered the ground and the air was heavy with paint fumes.

After a quick examination of the colorful display, I hurried back to the car to see what else Texas had in store for me. I didn't have to travel far.

But the strangest sight of all was the herd of camels grazing in lush grassland outside of Wichita Falls. That's right, dozens of camels staring at passing cars. Dromedaries. One hump.

To be continued...

Warning: Do Not Take Hallucinogens Before Watching

2007-06-06T09:49:00.001-06:00

Lately, I feel a bit like the woman in this video, reshaping myself every few seconds to suit the needs of my clients, all of them having immediate, pressing needs. Like that old 60's song says, "Bend me, shape me, anyway you want me." Work has been impossible lately. I love my work, but after 15 or 16 consecutive hours of sitting at the computer, I'm ready for a break. I haven't taken a real weekend in a month. Meals have been missed, phone calls ignored, and friends forgotten. My entire universe has revolved around a 19 inch computer monitor these past few weeks. I'm ready for a vacation.

Ironically, it's that very ability to meet my clients' needs quickly that has opened many doors and helped me land new business, so I'm reluctant to change my ways in any significant fashion. Admittedly, though, some days are rough. Some tell me I'm not good with boundaries and don't know how to say "no." Others applaud my efforts to meet deadlines and commitments. I suspect there's a middle ground someplace in this vortex where I can be kind to myself and helpful to clients. In the present moment, however, that place eludes me. This shapeshifter is bone tired.

Enjoy the video. You will be hearing more from me in the coming days, when I hit the road, alone, for a very long drive to Florida to visit loved ones and stock up on raw orange blossom honey to bring back to New Mexico.

Friday's Widget

2007-06-01T11:02:00.001-06:00

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Happy June, everyone! Thought for today: Live every day as if it's your last, because one day it will be.

A Song For Russ

2007-05-29T15:19:00.000-06:00

Here's a little blast from the past...

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Another Day

2007-05-24T23:26:00.000-06:00

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Last night's blog whine about my inability to sleep actually helped me settle into six hours of slumber. While it wasn't the best night's sleep I'd ever enjoyed, it seemed a more substantial chunk of rest than I'd expected. Everything's relative.

Murphy and Telly have been playing in the dirt for the past two mornings, appearing at the back door covered with thick dark mud. A few weeks ago I found a five foot wading pool for Murphy at the politically incorrect Wal-Mart. I relaxed my boycott long enough to purchase the pool, squeeze it into the back of the van, and rush home to fill it for my big guy. Murphy loves his pool, but I'm learning that it needs to be emptied nightly. Otherwise, he splashes in the water early in the morning, rolls in the dirt, and then wrestles with Telly. The result? Two dogs caked with dry, hard mud. Murphy is easy to hose off, but Telly thinks water comes from the ninth circle of Hell. Removing mud from Telly--a wiggler and perpetual motion machine--is a job for only the fearless.

The back yard resembles a mine field these days. Telly is a digger. Yesterday Murphy chewed a hole in the water line running from the backyard spigot to the rooftop swamp cooler. Caught up in other distractions, I didn't realize water was spraying all over the backyard. Telly made an effort to remedy the situation by digging up the yard so the water could collect in a large hole rather than flood the back yard. By the time I went outside to check on them, Her Majesty was proudly lying in a deep muddy hole, covered from head to paw, panting and smiling. It took half an hour to clean the dogs and dry them off.

This morning was a repeat of yesterday. Life is too short to spend all this time hosing off the dogs. Did I mention the pointy seed pods that embed themselves in the dogs' fur? We've so much wild growth in the back, it will take a chain saw to weed the yard. Rototilling may be our only remaining option. My fantasy of desert living didn't include weeds that grow two inches a day.

Last August, Mayor Chavez declared a "War On Weeds." The City of Albuquerque's weed gestapo regularly hands out citations for weeds exceeding four inches in height. Worse yet, the city's website provides a form encouraging citizens to file complaints and turn in recalcitrant neighbors who refuse to weed. Evidently "weeds" and "litter" are synonymous in Duke City. Personally, I find them noxious, especially goatheads. Last week, Joseph Crumb, a regular columnist for the Albuquerque Tribune, penned the following lines:

There are three things friends and relatives never mention when they talk about what a wonderful place New Mexico is to live: the wind, the ants and the goatheads. Consider the goathead: Few weeds can rival its perniciousness. Some goathead seeds, aka "stickies," have spines measuring a half centimeter or more, powerful enough to puncture bicycle tires. (link added)

Murphy and Telly present their paws daily for goathead removal. I know what it feels like. I've removed the barbed thorns from my own feet as well.

It's time to face another night. Everyone else in the house is sleeping soundly while I sit alone on the sofa--wakeful, restless, pensive.

Another day. Just breathe...

I'm So Tired

2007-05-23T22:59:00.001-06:00

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Sleep eludes me these days. Most nights I'm lucky to get three or four hours. The dogs, on the other hand, sleep about 18 hours a day. I generally don't disturb their rest, even though they rarely return the favor. After 20 years of sleeping only a few hours a night, I'm beginning to accept it as "normal."

My materal grandmother slept only a few hours a night. She often listened to New York talk radio in the wee hours, and then called relatives way before dawn to let them know what they were missing. I was just a teenager at the time. Thankfully there was no phone in my bedroom.

They say that most Americans are sleep deprived. One wonders if the high rate of insomnia is directly proportional to the popularity of Starbucks and other "high energy" beverages. I, for one, do not drink coffee. Caffeine renders me completely ungrounded, so much so that I'm apt to levitate after only one cup.

Other than feeling ragged and dopey most of the time, the worst part of chronic insomnia is not having anyone to call in the middle of the night when I'm wide awake, except friends eight time zones to the East, and that's a pretty expensive call even at 3AM. It's lonely being the only one awake in the night. Even the dogs are reluctant to join me in my early morning peregrinations. Grandma never let that stop her from reaching out by land line to disrupt a loved one's rapid eye movements.

Will I sleep tonight? Is tonight the night I finally get some deep, restorative rest? The prospect of breaking the sleepless cycle fills me with anticipation. I feel like a pre-teen on the first day of school. Or will tonight be like all other nights of counting sheep and listening to Murphy snore next to me? Over the years I've tried just about everything, including acupuncture, acupressure, visualizations, reading, not reading, journaling, singing, laughing, watching TV, not watching TV, homeopathics, sleeping pills, massage, meditation, new pillows, valerian root, hops, catnip, kava kava, skullcap, lemon balm, passion flower, warm baths, hot milk, cold beer, turkey sandwiches, brandy, new mattresses, warm fuzzy movies, magnets, a glass of wine, aromatherapy, psychotherapy, melatonin, tryptophane, stuffed animals, vigorous exercise, yoga, prayer and positive thinking. Maybe I just love life too much to waste all that time sleeping. The fact is, I just don't want to miss anything. I need to be awake to hear those things that go bump in the night.

My eyelids are heavy. It must be time to extinguish the light and give it another shot. Am I the only insomniac? Your turn.

Sheila Takes A Vacation

2007-05-20T20:49:00.000-06:00

A few days ago, my best buddy from college flew to Albuquerque from Newark (and boy, were her arms tired), to spend a few days with her old pal from Long Island. We spent three days traipsing around New Mexico. First and foremost, Sheila was in awe of Albuquerque's five volcanoes located on the West Mesa, and hoped they wouldn't spontaneously erupt in honor of her first visit to New Mexico. I assured her the possibility was remote.

I was delighted to show Sheila the Petroglyphs on Friday, after a brief tour of the West Mesa. It was a beautiful day and the sky was a brilliant blue. Sheila opted for the less strenuous trail, using inappropriate footwear as an excuse to take the easy path. Next time she visits I will have a new pair of Nike cross-trainers waiting for her arrival. She insists she doesn't "hike," but I reminded her that "hiking" is actually "walking."

Friday morning we spent some time in the Rio Grande Nature Center, where we saw several roadrunners, hummingbirds, turtles, geese, a grebe, and widgeons. It was National River Clean-up Day, and the Rio Grande was full of inflatable boats occupied by happy volunteers cheerfully bagging debris. It looked like a good time, and for a good cause.

Later that day, after a restorative nap (one of many), we wandered around Albuquerque's Old Town, stopping for a bite to eat at a charming outdoor bistro in the shadow of chile ristras decorating a balcony overhead.

Today we drove to Santa Fe and enjoyed brunch at the Tesuque Village Market. With our bellies full, and in spite of threatening skies, we took off to explore the hills of Tesuque.

By early afternoon we were checking out the sights, sounds and smells of the Plaza in Santa Fe.

Our meanderings took us to Canyon Road, not far from the Plaza and home to many fine art galleries. Santa Fe is the second largest art market in the United States.

No Southwest vacation would be complete without a Margarita. (Photo enhanced to protect the guilty.)

Tomorrow my friend returns to New Jersey. And just when we were starting to have some fun...

Kasha-Katuwe Tent Rocks National Monument

2007-04-29T20:22:00.000-06:00

Located on the Pajarito Plateau, the Kasha-Katuwe Tent Rocks National Monument is less than an hour's drive from home. Cone-shaped "tent rock" formations that resemble teepees are the products of volcanic eruptions that occurred nearly seven million years ago, leaving deposits over 1,000 feet thick. Kasha-Katuwe means "white cliffs" in the traditional Keresan language of Cochiti Pueblo.

We opted for the less challenging of the two trails, the Cave Loop Trail, which wound through the canyon and gave us spectacular views of the rock formations. Murphy was delighted with his first desert hike, followed by a cooling swim in Cochiti Lake. We spotted piñon jays, a coyote, and colorful desert wildflowers along the trail.

At the apex of the trail, a small cave is visible, the product of erosion.

The cries of red-tailed hawks and coyotes echoed in the canyon as we hiked over hot sand. Murphy had his first encounter with a cactus, but survived the experience with the help of his human hiking companion, who gently removed several slender spikes from one of his paws.

In places the walls of the canyon are 200 feet high, but only a few feet wide.

After our hike we rehydrated and enjoyed a light lunch at a shaded picnic table before heading to Cochiti Lake, and then home to Albuquerque.

Desert Heat

2007-04-27T21:18:00.000-06:00

As far back as I can remember, there's a period of adjustment when the weather turns sharply cold, and again when the sun produces sudden, surprising heat. Today brought an unexpected summer day in April, a perfect day to spend a little time in Old Town poking around galleries, enjoying the warm air. By late afternoon I realized it was time to go home and brew a pitcher of iced tea. It was HOT walking around Old Town, in part because of my jeans, heavy socks, sneakers, and extra layers. I'm not even sure where I stashed all my shorts.

The perfume from this tree was intoxicating. Hundreds of bees flew from blossom to cascading blossom, buzzing with delight.

Old Town is in full bloom.

These colorful mosaics decorated a clock tower and the wall bordering the lot where I parked the Caravan.

The garden within the walls around San Felipe de Neri Church is peaceful and inviting.

Though unplanned, I will spend some time this weekend packing away my winter wardrobe and unearthing hot weather duds. I'll swap turtlenecks for tanktops, corduroys for cottons, ski socks for sandals. I haven't done this, it seems, for years. Florida living requires just one wardrobe, with an extra sweatshirt always on hand for cool winter days.

More heat is on its way this weekend. I love the heat. It will be a good weekend. Get out the sunscreen!

A Walk Through the Nature Center

2007-04-26T20:05:00.000-06:00

I've been having trouble writing lately. To my faithful blog readers who have sent me emails and called me on the phone expressing concern, yes, I'm OK. Just uninspired. I've had a bad case of writer's block. So for today, I offer you photos in lieu of my usual pithy essay. I'll be back soon. Don't give up on me yet.

The Rio Grande Nature Center is a mere five minutes from home. It's been weeks since I did anything "fun," so I decided to take the afternoon off, run a few necessary errands, and visit the Nature Center with my good friend of nearly 40 years, Russ, who's visiting from St. Louis. He's spent the better part of this week exploring the Sandias and Petroglyphs while I've tried to get a handle on my heavy work load. It felt good to take some time for myself today.

It was also refreshing to get away from the dogs for an hour this afternoon. While Murphy is a perfect middle-aged gentledog--easy to manage and a joy to walk, Telly is a toddler with exceptional energy and missing manners. Training is a continuous process and I often grow weary of having a puppy bouncing off the walls all day. Telly forces me to never let my guard down. If I do, she instantly challenges my position as pack leader. I love this little dog, but she wears me out. Next time I want another pet, remind me of the joys of keeping goldfish.

The Nature Center was peaceful and warm today. Many of the birds have begun their northward migration, so the walk was quieter than my last visit in November. Additionally, the riparian environment of the bosque is, I'm sure, more lively at dawn than mid-afternoon. The silence was broken by the unmistakable chatter of hummingbirds, telling me they've returned from their winter vacations in warmer climes. I'm eager to hang my hummingbird feeder from the tree on the other side of the dining room window.

The turtles and Canada Geese enjoyed the warm sun on the pond this beautiful spring day in Albuquerque. Even with a few ripples, the water reflected the image of this goose perfectly.

We walked to the Rio Grande and heard lots of things scurrying in the underbrush. A flowering tree caught our attention. I wish I knew what it was.

Russ looks good in his "roadkill hat." He sports a healthy desert glow these days, in spite of sunblock.

Vernal Break

2007-04-07T16:03:00.000-06:00

SATURDAY. Large signboards in front of public schools in Albuquerque announce the Easter holiday with two words: "Vernal Break." This is a new one for me. In a city that's predominantly Christian, I'm not sure why the word "Easter" was pre-empted for the secular "Vernal."

According to the American Heritage Dictionary, "vernal" has Indo-European roots deriving from the word meaning "spring." Easter Sunday is the first Sunday after the full moon following the Vernal Equinox. No matter what your religious or spiritual tradition, there's no argument that this time of year is all about new beginnings, new growth and a fresh start.

Lately, I've been thinking a lot about the idea of starting over. In a sense, every moment is a point of empowerment where a fresh start is possible. Louise Hay tells us, "The point of power is in the present moment." This implies an incredible dynamism in our lives: there is virtually no end to unlimited newness with every breath we take. Yet for many on this planet, change is elusive. Familiar, comfortable old ways protect us from the pressures of a relentlessly-advancing technological society that fosters physical isolation in service of electronic communication. Are we really alone? My inner voice says no, we are all connected in spite of the illusion of separation. Humankind hungers deeply for understanding and renewal at many different levels.

Spring comes much earlier in Albuquerque than in the Northeast. Much of March was warm and breezy, but this morning snowflakes fell for several hours, reminding me again that I'm not in Florida anymore. It was cold and windy this morning, as a massive cold front moved through New Mexico. I trust (and pray) this was winter's last gasp.

Murphy and Telly don't care. They adapt to any temperature and don't seem to mind the wind and snow. Telly spends her days chasing little white moths that flit from weed to weed in the back yard. Murphy is content to lie in the sun and dream about swimming.

I've spent the last three days working on websites and setting up MySpace pages for myself and a client. I never quite understood the MySpace concept, but now that I'm up to my eyeballs in it, I'm fascinated and intrigued by this internet community. Nearly 170 million people have MySpace pages. The more I explore it, the more hooked I become. The world is much smaller online. The drawback is that it's very addictive.

There's a new kid in the blogosphere. It's called Twitter. This service caters to "microblogging" -- blogging (or writing) in 140 characters or less. It's done in real time, kind of like text messaging, and your message is sent to the entire Twitter community so everyone knows what you're doing at that moment. Microblog: "I'm eating a chocolate chip cookie. It's good." Microblog: "I'm sleepy. I think I'll take a nap." Are we so self-absorbed we think others need to know this stuff? Is it important that complete strangers know our bathroom habits? Has humankind regressed to age twelve? Some people have way too much time on their hands.

More distressing, however, is that this may be symptomatic of an alienated society whose members long for connection. Blackberries, emails and iPODS have taken the place of face-to-face interactions. We are becoming a nation of isolated strangers desperately seeking anonymous ways to reconnect. Have we forgotten how good it feels to look into someone's eyes and communicate without a keyboard?

In this moment of self-renewal, on the day before the "Vernal Holiday," I vow to never microblog. I promise to change my socks every day so my feet feel renewed. I will accentuate the positive and eliminate the negative. I will never feed my dogs Old Roy. And of course, I'll brush after every meal.

However, I will probably always be a nerd, so it's futile to try to change that aspect of my personality. I took a test today that confirmed my nerdiness.

Happy Easter, Happy Passover, and Happy Vernal Break to all. May you all rejoice in rebirth and renewal that Spring offers us every year.

Food For Thought

2007-03-27T07:51:00.001-06:00

Fun With Tennis Balls

2007-03-23T22:12:00.001-06:00

Honda Meets Rube Goldberg

2007-03-22T22:38:00.001-06:00

This two-minute film called "Cog" is a Honda commercial that took months to complete. After 606 takes at a cost of $3 million, it worked. All it took was one gear, value or tire not moving as planned to start the whole process over. When the film was successfully completed, the film crew popped some champagne. It reminds me a little of Mousetrap, that game I played as a kid. No computer graphics were used in filming. It's a classic Rube Goldberg machine.

Spray Paint Art

2007-03-20T11:23:00.000-06:00

TUESDAY. In my web meanderings this morning, I came across this fascinating nine-minute video. For more info on this Slovenian artist and his technique, visit his website.

Life Goes On

2007-03-16T22:38:00.000-06:00

FRIDAY. I haven't blogged in a very long time, or so it seems. For me, blogging is akin to breathing. When I don't blog, I feel as if a piece of me is suffocating. The challenge is finding something to blog about when I'm either in the doldrums or feeling decidedly uninspired. I blame both for my recent wordless hiatus.

Telly's hormones have kicked in. She's been "in season" for the past week and a half. Evidently unaware he was neutered five years ago, Murphy has turned our backyard into an X-rated playground. In all honesty, the blame doesn't rest solely with Murphy. An insatiable and incorrigible tease, Telly aggressively encourages Murphy's participation in this ritual, despite his total inability to breed. He seems most willing, nonetheless. I've spent the better part of a week trying to keep them apart so they don't "tie." (For more info on canine reproduction, click here.) Today I threw caution to the wind and relaxed my vigil. No strange dogs or coyotes have shown up all week, so I think it's safe to leave her outside unattended, but the urge to check on her every 10 minutes consumes me. Our four-foot fence is quite jumpable for an eager male suitor. Telly, herself, demonstrates daily how easily she can scale the fence, but thus far she jumps only if we're on the other side of it. Otherwise she's content to remain prisoner on our property. However, that premise has not been tested with an intact male dog waiting in the street for her escape over the Great Wall of Confinement.

The worst part of this is the undignified diapers Telly must wear during this three-week cycle. We traded the poorly-designed disposable whites for a more stylish and sturdy flannel-lined blue denim garment with disposable liners. Tres chic! The denim keeps our off-white carpets stain-free and does double duty as a cotton chastity belt. [The latter function is, at best, dubious. Murphy is not the least bit discouraged by Telly's hotpants.]

The prospect of raising a litter of puppies in our too-small kitchen gives me palpitations and cold sweats. M has threatened to spay the dog in the back room if I don't take care of it soon, or at least before Telly's next heat. Veterinary responsibilities fall on my side of the tote board, as I'm the one with flexible daytime scheduling options.

I'm starting to get caught up on projects long overdue. Health challenges and computer setbacks have slowed my work flow for several weeks. My work doesn't go away when I fall behind. It waits for me. This is both a blessing and a curse. Projects pile up on my desk like mountains. Hopefully I'll be caught up in less than a week, though I'm sure it will require forfeiting part of my weekend.

Our Albuquerque weather has been unusually warm this past week. Relaxing in the back yard after work each day has been delightfully soothing. Deep blue, cloudless skies provide a restful backdrop for the hot blanket of sunlight that pierces the bone-dry desert air. I try to ignore the dogs, but I'm easily distracted by their irrepressible drive to mate, in spite of the apparent futility of their efforts. The polite thing would be to turn away, but my curiosity always wins out. Let the record show that male dogs do not (repeat, do not) lose their urge to procreate when neutered. Murphy is powerless to resist the lure of our young canine in estrus. Mother Nature must be laughing up her sleeve.

Our record-breaking winter in Albuquerque has been intense, but brief. The trees have taken on the pea-green hue of leaves joyfully unfolding in early Spring. Dogwood and forsythia blossoms hang from delicate limbs, and daffodils stand at attention in neighborhood gardens. Though cooler temperatures are predicted for the coming week, the welcome mat is (unofficially) out: Spring is knocking at our door. Even sparrows are mating in our dusty front yard.

Life goes on. It's one of the few things on which we can depend. The sun rises and sets, the seasons change like clockwork, creatures make babies, birds migrate, and time marches on, relentlessly. During moments when there's not much else going on, nature hums like a well-oiled machine, we the casual observers of perennial rhythms. All we need do is slow down and notice. I'm one who embarasses easily when asked, "What's new?" and I've nothing to report. I wonder--just maybe--if it's enough to be content with answering, "Nothing at all." There's great richness hiding behind the illusion of an uneventful and (erroneously-assessed) boring life. Spring is around the corner. (I know that sounds impossible to folks in the Northeast chipping away thick ice after yesterday's storm.) I invite you to "stop and smell the roses" with me. Look for the wonder in Nature and her unstoppable cycles. It can't hurt.

Two black dogs sleep peacefully this evening, side by side, Murphy's paws resting gently against Telly's back. Two peas in a pod, gentle giant and half pint, forever friends. Ob-la-di, ob-la-da, life goes on.

Enjoy the tune. It's one of my favorites.

Casualties of War

2007-03-05T14:24:00.000-07:00

We shall never stop war, whatever machinery we may devise, until we have learned to think always, with a sort of desperate urgency and an utter self-identification, of single human beings.
-Victor Gollancz

MONDAY. For the past year and a half I've been monitoring a website that accepts contest submissions to win a personal guitar lesson with Esteban. My job is collecting and reviewing contest entries, confirming submissions, and preparing them for consideration by contest judges. In January the Grand Prize was awarded to Dustin Gould, a young Marine serving in Iraq, whose contest entry told how Esteban's music and inspiration had carried him through a very difficult time. He was due home in early Spring from his fourth tour in Iraq. I promised him we'd delay his guitar lesson with Esteban until his safe return.

Early this morning, I learned that 28-year-old Dustin was killed last Friday in Al Anbar Province, Iraq, along with Navy Hospitalman Lucas W.A. Emch, 21. Both were scheduled to return to the U.S. this month. Though I'd never met Dustin, we'd exchanged several emails after I notified him that he'd won the contest. He was very excited and wrote that having the opportunity to meet Esteban was "a dream come true." He couldn't wait to get home and have the chance to learn from his idol, and hoped we wouldn't be inconvenienced because he wouldn't be home for several months.

I mourn the loss of another sweet, innocent, brave soul who died supporting Operation Iraqi Freedom. I keep asking myself why--half expecting an answer, but knowing at the deepest possible level there simply ARE no answers. Staff Sgt. Dustin Michael Gould, a bomb technician, was killed instantly while handling an explosive device he discovered on the road. He died trying to save his platoon. Over the weekend, his mother told the AP that her son was a kind, gentle man who loved animals and was very generous. She went on to say her son was proud of what he was doing as a Marine, but was "sick of the way things were."

A native of Norman, Oklahoma, Dustin attended high school in Longmont, Colorado, where he enlisted in the Marines ten years ago. Assigned to the 7th Engineer Support Battalion, 1st Marine Logistics Group, 1st Marine Expeditionary Force, Dustin was stationed at Camp Pendleton, California.

Dustin's contest entry reads:

My review is not about winning the contest even though it would be such an honor to thank the person that helped me through the most difficult adjustment in my life through his music. I am a U.S. Marine and my job, in civilian terms would be best described as being on the bomb squad. I have done over 2 deployments, equaling around 18 months in Iraq. I have seen things most could never imagine; or want to. Anyway, this last time I came back around May I was having a hard time adjusting back to our society. The amount of depression and anger I locked inside of me was unbearable. Including the nightmares. On a Saturday mid morning I pulled myself out of bed and turned on the TV. As I flipped through some channels I caught the end of Boogie Woogie on HSN and listened to Esteban talk about this great deal. It was his Limited Signed Edition Midnight Steel Acoustic/Electric guitar with amp, stand, and instructional DVD's. Well I had always wanted to learn to play but I wanted to see how good of a deal it really was. So I got onto the internet and found the Esteban website I heard the two songs that had meaning and poised fire into me. The songs were Fernando and Malaguena. So I got on the phone and ordered the complete guitar package. I have been playing now for a month, and my guitar is never far away. Learning to play has kept my mind occupied but has given me a sense of peace and excitement each time I play. I can only imagine how I will feel when I can play better. The guitar I have, the Midnight Steel, is not only beautiful, but the sound is crisp and immaculate. The instructional DVD's are broken down to the lowest level to where anyone, even with no music background, can play. I strongly recommend everyone to get one of Esteban's guitars and instructional DVD's. Engulf yourself with the passion that is music. And to Esteban from the bottom of my heart. THANK YOU.

Dustin, here are the Esteban songs that inspired you, along with a few others, to carry you on your journey home.

I am one of those people who don't understand war. It makes no sense to me. The hardest thing is realizing that Dustin is one of over 3,100 Americans who have died in Iraq since this pointless war began on March 19, 2003. Every one of them had a story. Every one of them had loved ones whose lives were forever changed. Dying in combat seems the ultimate sacrifice, one that touches all of us. But I'm ashamed to admit I sometimes wrap myself in a veil of forgetfulness, like many others, just so I can function on a daily basis. Eventually reality hits me square in the face, like this morning, and I realize I can no longer hide behind my denial.

As we approach the four year anniversary of the start of the war, may we be mindful of how war ruptures our society, our families, our individual lives. There is no glory in war. May we all live peaceful lives and pray that somehow, sometime, our personal peace will translate to a global level. May this war end soon, so the dying stops. May we all embrace, as Victor Gollancz suggests, an attitude of "desperate urgency and an utter self-identification, of single human beings." Dustin Gould was a single human being, as are all casualties of war. The courageous freedom fighters in Iraq are heroes deserving our greatest respect and support.

A.J. Muste writes, "There is no way to peace. Peace is the way." As you contemplate terrorism, genocide, escalating crime in our cities, and conflict in Iraq and other parts of the world, consider the possibility that peace begins at home--in your family, in your community, but more importantly, in yourself. Find that inner peace. Live peace. Teach peace. Be peace. Who knows what might happen? You've nothing to lose. Expect the miracle of peace. As brothers and sisters in the human family, peace is our birthright.

Dustin leaves a wife of eight years, Elizabeth; his father, David; his mother, Karen; a sister, Bethany White; and his grandparents, Bob and Inez Gould. Dustin's half brother, Army Spc. Jason Corbett, 23, died January 15 of injuries sustained in a firefight in Karmah, Iraq.

Rest in peace, Dustin. Your mission is complete.

I hate war as only a soldier who has lived it can, only as one who has seen its brutality, its futility, its stupidity.
-Dwight D. Eisenhower

A Lunar Eclipse

2007-03-03T19:03:00.001-07:00

The lunar eclipse of August 27, 413 B.C., affected the outcome of a battle in the Peloponnesian War. The Athenians were ready to move their forces from Syracuse when the Moon was eclipsed. Frightened by this celestial omen, the soldiers and sailors were reluctant to leave. Their commander, Nicias, consulted the soothsayers and postponed the departure for twenty-seven days. This delay gave an advantage to their enemies, the Syracusans, who then defeated the entire Athenian fleet and army, and killed Nicias.

SATURDAY. I'm experimenting with a new streaming music service, and you, my faithful readers, are my guinea pigs. Today's audioblog offering is a potpourri of world music. If this genre isn't your cup of tea, you have my blessings to leave without listening. If you're up for an audio adventure to exotic places, welcome aboard!

I put this little broadcast together in honor of the lunar eclipse visible this evening on all seven continents, from all corners of the planet. I hope you enjoy this eclectic playlist of music from around the globe, hand-selected from my sizeable CD collection. I created this playlist so I could listen while I work. If you dare to join me, press the start button. If you don't like what's playing, drag the progress slider (that little turquoise bar on the left) all the way to the right to advance to the next tune. The volume control is at the far right.

A broadband connection is essential for listening. This broadcast is approximately one hour 45 minutes long.

OK, I get the message...

2007-02-25T21:06:00.000-07:00

SUNDAY. People are getting nervous. I haven't posted anything for days. Emails are flooding in. "Are you OK?" some ask. "I'm worried," others say.

I'm parked in front of the TV this evening watching the Academy Awards -- something I rarely do. Don't worry because I haven't blogged lately. Worry because I'm watching the Oscars. Three hours into this show, my brain, I fear, is turning to pudding. A recovering TV addict, my appetite for mindless entertainment wanes daily, inversely proportional to my quest for inner peace. I know that sounds trite. The truth is, these days television is taking a back seat to personal work and a relentless search for meaning. Some days I don't have to look far.

The dogs are wrestling in my unlit bedroom. I hear them thumping about in the dark, batting marrow bones with their paws like hollowed-out hockey pucks. I think the doggie goalposts are somewhere in my closet. No longer a lap dog, our young pup is growing. She believes, however, she's still a lap dog. The sight of this exuberant bundle of glee depositing herself, ungracefully, on an empty lap is not for the faint of heart. We are increasingly reluctant to invite anyone to our home, until she fully understands she's a big dog, or more to the point, a baby dog in a big body. To make matters worse, she jumps on people and lunges on lead. Bad habits are hard to break. Lately, Cesar Millan is a frequent supporting actor in my dreams, which are eerily reminiscent of Cecil B. DeMille productions. I really must stop eating all that chocolate before bedtime. A hundred and one dalmations bouncing in my brain do not make for restful sleep.

On the plus side, Telly doesn't chew my shoes, beg at the table, or misbehave as puppies often do. She's completely housebroken. She's affectionate and plays nicely with others.

Dogs are great teachers. Murphy, my Canine Zen Master, continuously demonstrates patience and peace. He is my rock. Telly, an aspiring Master, always welcomes the day with tremendous joy, though her humans don't always grasp this concept before morning tea. Murphy and Telly live in the moment. They don't worry about their next meal, unpaid bills, deadlines, illness, war or climate change. My best days are those in which I fully embrace their enthusiasm and resonate with their simple joy, ignoring the mud they track on the carpets, tissues they pluck from wastebaskets and shred, furniture cushions askew, and puddles in the kitchen (they really are sloppy drinkers). Rather than endless reprimands to teach them to conform to our obsessive ways, I cover the furniture with sheets to protect each piece from dirt and mud. Carpets are vacuumed often, and once a day I pick up the scraps of paper and chewed toys off the floor, reminders of happy playtimes. I'm grateful they are both not only non-destructive of things that don't belong to them, but clever enough to know the difference. I love watching dogs be dogs and find comfort in realizing Telly will one day mellow and leave puppyhood behind. Only then can we have friends in for dinner.

N.B. We should have named the puppy "Adobe." Her coat is frequently caked with hard desert mud.

***

I've spent the past few weekends retiring one computer and preparing a new machine to be used for work. Data transfer is laborious and time consuming. Reconfiguring and reinstalling a lot of printers and peripherals, not to mention all that software, is taking way too much time. So for those who are wondering what's become of me these past several weeks, please know I'm waist-high in bits and bytes.

Maybe tomorrow will be the day I finish this data transfer. Maybe then I can take Murphy for a swim and dust off my camera again. I'll have time to begin serious training with Telly. She needs to learn that counter-surfing is not an endearing trait. Why have computers become so complicated? Files are much bigger now, and data invades hard drives like an octopus moving in on prey. Transferring everything from one computer to another used to take about 4 hours. Now it's taking ten times as long. I need to finish this project so I can get back to blogging, living, and enjoying my free time.

This is why people call Geek Squad. Perhaps I should have as well.

Happy Valentine's Day!

2007-02-14T18:14:00.000-07:00

Building A Fire

2007-02-13T18:05:00.001-07:00

TUESDAY. Yet another snowstorm crawling across the Southwest is headed toward New Mexico this evening. It's nothing like the monster Nor'easter (already dubbed the "Valentine's Day Blizzard") about to descend on friends and family in New York and New England. We'll see less than a half-foot of snow, but in my humble opinion, that's six inches too much. Recent history tells me schools will close and once again Albuquerque will be paralyzed until the sun has its way with the snow and reduces the white stuff to mere puddles.

The firewood is impressively stacked near the back door, a uniform corral of piñon and cedar. It's shielded from anticipated overnight snow by several tarps, braced for strong winds with two-by-fours rescued from the scrap heap in the back yard. I've been building more fires lately. Adjacent to the fireplace room, my office feels toasty in the dry, radiant heat. But building fires isn't about heat. It's about ambience. We don't normally sit in the fireplace room. There's nothing there but a fireplace and a tall tower of empty moving boxes in a distant corner. Bright flames are visible, however, from the far end of the long corridor that runs east to west in our adobe house. I glance at the flames each time I cross the corridor on my way to the kitchen.

There's something about building a fire that evokes an ancient, primal memory bursting with ritual and rich symbology. First, the wood is stacked--methodically, thoughtfully, meditatively. A carefully arranged cord of wood is a thing of beauty, the oddly shaped pieces wedged tightly like puzzle pieces. Next comes the fire building--the deliberate placement of tinder and kindling, applying flame to tinder, watching the magic happen as the flames grow, and then, at just the right moment, placing the first big log on the fire. For me, there's usually a prayer involved in this last step. Though my fire-building skills are reasonably adequate, I've built a few duds that fizzle, pop and die, leaving semi-charred logs in the fireplace. Divine intervention is occasionally mandated, and when the logs ignite, there's cause for celebration.

The aroma of smoke puffing from chimneys is different in this part of the world. Reminiscent of cinnamon, high-elevation piñon pine fires cast an intoxicating spell. When you see, hear and smell combustion in a New Mexican fireplace, you realize the experience is indisputably unique to the Southwest, and the distinctive scent enhances the romance of a well-crafted fire.

Gazing into a fire can be deeply spiritual. In addition to providing warmth and a means for cooking, fire is a metaphor for purification in many religious traditions, as well as a symbol for overcoming challenges and removing fear. Studying a roaring fire, watching flames flicker and dance hypnotically--seductively--is supremely soothing and cleansing. Even the dogs seem to enjoy a respectable blaze. Lately I've felt the need for healing at many levels. I'd like to think laying a fire at 6AM is going a long way toward pointing me down the road to recovery.

One wonders whether global peace might simply be a matter of gathering world leaders around a fire, where they could discuss their wars and conflicts in an atmosphere of peace, enjoying hot cocoa and Mozart.

I'm eager for winter to end, but I look forward to cold nights well into Spring. It will give me an excuse to build more fires. Let the healing begin...

Another Tune For Sammie

2007-02-07T20:09:00.000-07:00

I'm too tired to write, so instead I offer you some calming music. This is a piece I listen to when I need to refresh and be peaceful. These days, with an insane young puppy, I'm tempted to record a loop of this and play it 24/7, even while I sleep.

A Little Night Music For Sammie

2007-02-06T20:40:00.000-07:00

Bouncing Back

2007-02-06T07:00:00.000-07:00

TUESDAY. Lately, a lot of people seem to be leaving the planet way before their time. The truth is, it's hard losing important people in our lives no matter what their age. That urge to pick up the phone and call them persists long after they've moved to that cosmic zip code in the sky. Somehow, though, we usually find the strength to carry on. In time the pain and shock lessens and we find the courage to delete their numbers from speed dial. I often keep numbers on my cell phone long after their usefulness disappears, as if deleting a number is symbolic of deleting all my memories of the departed. It isn't. If anything, it's a gesture that says I'm coping. I'm moving on. I will survive.

I was introduced to Elisabeth Kubler-Ross's five stages of grieving many years ago, when "fun" meant curling up with a thick, juicy psychology book. (I'm happy to report that self-help and psych books no longer amuse me.) Kubler-Ross's five stages of grief are denial ("this can't be happening"), anger ("why me?"), bargaining (attempting to make deals to change the loss), depression (hopelessness) and, finally, acceptance. What I need is a self-help book that tells me how to skip stages 1-4. The tomes on grieving tell us we MUST go through the first four stages before reaching acceptance, and that takes a lot of time. Personally, I dispute this notion because, like everything else in our human existence, it's based on our belief. Because today is the first day of the rest of my life, I intend to zip through stages 1-4 by lunchtime, and hit stage five before sunset.

Watching the dogs live in the moment is a real education. There's no past, no future. Everything is in the NOW (especially it if involves food). Yesterday I realized it's time to have Telly spayed, after finding Murphy (neutered since 6 months of age) humping her in the back yard. I'm told this behavior is mostly about domination, not procreation, but it's hard to accept this explanation knowing how submissive Murphy generally is. To my knowledge, he's never mounted another dog (or human leg). I distracted them both with cookies and that was the end of it. Despite our male dog's inability to reproduce, other dogs in the neighborhood are quite fertile. Telly is able to jump our fence easily. This scenario does not bode well for a puppy who has reached sexual maturity. The last thing I want, or need, is a kitchen full of puppies.

Telly continues to be fiercely protective, barking and growling at perceived threats, like the meter reader, UPS, ringing telephones, the mailman, and neighborhood kids. She loves all people, and wags her tail while she barks and growls in a schizophrenic display of manic energy. Nearly seven months old now, her energy is off the charts. I keep slipping her "Mellow Mutt" treats I purchased at Bow-Wow Blues, our neighborhood pet food store. It's made with chicken, lavender and hops. It puts Murphy to sleep, but Telly continues to raid the waste baskets, shred tennis balls, and do her Stirling Moss thing around the house in spite of the soporific treats.

I'm thinking of crumbling up a Mellow Mutt treat to mix with my scrambled eggs this morning. I need a vacation.