2013-15 Santa Fe

Back in the USSR ROC EOC (Emergency Operations Center, for the uninformed). We have been activated for over 2 weeks due to wildfires, mercifully burning mostly in uninhabited areas, no deaths, no reported loss of structure, minimal evacuations. Unlike Colorado that has at the moment 2 deaths and over 500 homes consumed.

A 10-hour shift last Saturday, and it was quiet, a good thing but a bit boring. As I am always “up” when the adrenalin flows, and increasingly (as I age) “down” when nothing is happening, I muse upon the plight of all who dwell in the realm of emergency. You certainly don’t want to sue for activity as it almost certainly means weeping and wailing and the occasional gnashing of dentures, while conversely a 10-hour shift can seem like a week when nothing is happening. Not as bad as the solo 12-hour 6-pm to 6-am odysseys I pulled as a county Watch Officer in a previous life. One night at 4-am Elvis sauntered in, but he was looking for a party and quickly departed.

The above was written a week ago and we are now back to steady-state operation, the EOC de-activated, and those once deployed have now returned to home base – they’re “ployed” I guess.

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The temperature here has been 90F+, but not accompanied by the 250% humidity suffered by friends back east, and thus generally tolerable.

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On the treadmill at 04:30 several mornings ago when the news broke that James Gandolfini succumbed to a heart attack at the age of 51. No deep thoughts here, but it did make the workout a bit more tolerable.

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We dress down here and jeans and collared polos are common for the masculine workforce. I have clung to the dress shirt until I discovered to my horror that laundering here is $3.50-$4.00 per shirt vice about $1.40 some 1500 miles eastward. But it may be a zero sum game, as I have found a brewery midway on my 10-minute commute home that has a happy hour with a quite tolerable pint of IPA for $2.50.

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Continuity, at least as practiced in government, is a slow and steady process, which provides time for contemplation. That and the fact that at the Cowgirl on Sunday a young woman offers a very passable rendition of the Janice Joplin classic “Me and Bobby McGee,” got me to wondering how Janice disposed of McGee’s body when “somewhere near Salinas, Lord, I let him slip away.” Hope she didn’t leave him curbside. If I’m ever in Kansas, I’ll ask around.

 

As one who has circumnavigated the globe a time or two, I say with some authority that I have rarely encountered so shopworn a populace as here in the Land of Enchantment. It might be the sun (which can be harsh), the wind (which I have yet to experience in extremus but which I am told can be fierce), or perhaps something else. After all, Roswell is just down the road.

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At the Cowgirl, where if you have been paying attention, you know I spend much of my free time, I have noticed that about 90% of the tables are same-gender and 5% are tourist families with progeny in tow who look like they would trade a double root canal for the experience.

Were I a more social individual, I might consider undertaking some cross-gender introductions. Well, perhaps not.

And yesterday while basking in the sun listening to Joe West and Friends, I was approached by a matron of a certain age who offered me sunscreen. Trying to think of a non- or minimally-rude response, I replied that I am not a fan of rubbing grease on my body, upon which she offered to undertake the application on my behalf. Cheech!  

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2013-14 Santa Fe

I have made note that my current digs are VERY quiet. That changed this morning as I returned bedraggled from my weekly 10-k. Immediately behind me, sirens a blaring, came the SFFD and an ambulance. Suddenly the lobby was alive with octogenarians.

“Who’s hurt?”

“I smell smoke.”

“I bet it’s Harry. Haven’t seen him for days.”

“Well, if it’s Mable, it’s her third time this year.”

Twenty minutes later the EMT’s departed and the lobby returned to its eerie quiet. I didn’t see whether it was Harry or Mable.

I guess I fit in with the majority agewise, although I do get stares when I come in from running and I have noticed some squints of curiosity as the early morning dog walkers look to ascertain what manner of imbicile could possibly be in the fitness room at 5:30am when no responsible tenant would be found there at noon.

But better the snoozers than a heavy metal band practicing at 2:30am.

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He sat next to me on the bus as I headed to the Plaza for Saturday refreshment and heaved a great sigh, the kind you know is precursor to conversation. Without prompting he volunteered “I’m not interested in the old gals and the younger ones are too fast for me.” Never thought of it that way but he did have a point. We rode several stops in silence, and as he rose to depart, “Higher maintenance, too.” Got that.

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I am working at adjusting my attitude toward interaction with strangers. Normally when approached I glower and keep on moving. On airplanes when seatmates insist on being social, I have been known to furl my brow and ask innocently, “Do I know you?” When the jabberwocky answers in the negative, I respond “WELL THEN WHY IN HELL ARE WE NATTERING ON LIKE LONG LOST COUSINS.” Works pretty well.

But I still find it disconcerting to be approached by a fellow shopper and asked my opinion of a particular food product. It takes all my willpower to refrain from a response like “gee, I wonder if that’s the cereal my dog got into just before the rabies.” I’m working on it, but it ain’t easy.

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I grew up in a blue collar suburb of Philadelphia, an Italian enclave attractive to upwardly mobile South Philadelphia residents. The Clifton Heights school system was by far the smallest in the area. It endured many challenges, not least of which was suffered by the high school band.

Unlike neighbors Darby, Eddystone, and Radnor, the Clifton Heights band was forced to form the double letters “C and H” during football halftime activity. There was always a frantic scramble to recruit band members to complete the formation, musical talent not required.

As a nerdy freshman I was thrust into this morass, and found myself the lone horizontal bar between the two parallel lines of the “H.” Many a frozen Friday night I staffed this critical post, clarinet poised, cheeks and fingers moving, no sound coming forth. We also serve who only march in silence.

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A constant source of annoyance (you may have noticed I have many) is the consistent refusal of politicians (of every stripe, persuasion, and affiliation) to provide reasonable answers to questions on talk shows, at press conferences, and community forums. Not only skirting issues, but wholesale refusal to offer a response remotely related to the question. Follows a short quiz:

Question: Do you favor a bill that would delay or eliminate sequestration

Answer:

A.   I have always supported our nation’s farmers and will continue to do so.

B.   We must secure our borders.

C.   The most vulnerable among us must be shielded from penury.

D.   I have answered that question many times, and my answer remains the same.

Now, match the answers with the profiles below:

1.    A Midwestern politician from either party

2.    Any of 535 plus untold state, regional, and local solons

3.    An inner-city liberal

4.    A southwest conservative

I am considering shopping a new concept to the cable industry. A program titled:

YNR – Yes, No, Refuse

Questions would be put to the politician who would have but 3 options. Answer “yes,” “no,” or “refuse” (to answer). Those selecting the first two choices would be given one minute to clarify their response. At one minute a red light would appear before the respondent. At 1 minute 10 seconds (assuming continued monologue) a substantial electrical charge would be directed to the respondent’s chair (greater entertainment value than simply cutting off a microphone). The electrical charge would also be used to remind wayward responders of the rules of the game.

2013-13 Santa Fe

Smoke is in the air!

 My 4^th day on the job and our State Emergency Operations Center (EOC) is activated. Three wildfires burning at the moment. The one closest to Santa Fe (15 miles away) has plowed through 6,000 acres and threatens local watersheds. It will be a proverbial long hot summer.

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Now the skinny on Santa Fe, for which you have been waiting patiently. B minus so far. Blue sky and clean air (or so it was before the fires). Restaurants aplenty, including the aforementioned Cowgirl BBQ with its open patio and backyard parking lot with weekend music in one or t’other, sometimes both.

Driving is a sport not to be taken lightly. Rather than describe the 3 accidents I have come across so far, I provide a stat to focus the issue. In the Washington, DC suburb of Fairfax County, VA I paid less than $50/year for uninsured motorist coverage. In Santa Fe that tariff is $350!

Commute time is 10 minutes or slightly greater if (when) accidents require detours.

The condo is large, eerily quiet, with a large pool that seems to hold little attraction for residents despite 90+ degree heat, and a well-equipped fitness room which I (and apparently no one else) frequent regularly. The free grilling area at the pool does attract an enthusiastic following.

The citizenry is excessively friendly. Hugs replace formal greetings among total strangers (or icy stares in places like New York and Paris). On the bus total strangers upon entrance hug upon departure (you know they are total strangers since if acquainted they would have hugged on entry). I sit in stony silence and while my lack of societal participation might invoke scorn, I am looked upon with pity, the assumption being that my hermitic posture denotes a mental deficiency.

At the Cowgirl yesterday I was approached by a damsel of a certain age who pointed to her  T-shirt “Kiss me, I’m Greek.” I replied that I’m German and we don’t kiss Greeks. She seemed not to understand and I beat a hasty retreat.

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The job will be interesting if only in its magnitude. An omnibus All Hazards document created in 2007 requires a number of programs be implemented, few of which have commenced, and all of which I will be expected to fashion in short order, if you please.

My Homeland Security department is education-centric and I am already signed up for a dazzling array of courses, including a FEMA week in Anniston, AL. I pled for Emitsburg, MD, on the theory that I have been to Anniston and no one should be subjected to such delight more than once. But to no avail. I’m told that the bus ride from Atlanta to Anniston is a scream.

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I have been issued a smartphone, much smarter than I it seems, as it keeps singing to and beeping at me, the purpose of which has not been revealed. The messages are cryptic and I will likely be disciplined for non-compliance in some required activity.

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It is somewhat embarrassing how television-centric I am, but I do live alone and the box provides a link (however tenuous) to the outside world. Comcast (as the only cable game in town {dishes not permitted by Condo Rules, page 37, paragraph 12}) treats customers pretty much the way Marshall Dillon would have handled a drunk in the Longbranch Saloon.

I was first informed that I could not be connected because I owe the company $900, despite the fact that I have never been a Comcast customer. This took 2 days to resolve when a “system error” was discovered (not a human one, mind you, but a “system” malfunction). I was then sent a box for self-installation that was as moribund as Congressional comity, and which took much convincing to the 12-year-old in customer service. “YES, I AM QUITE SHURE THE BLOODY THING IS PLUGGED INTO THE WALL.”

I then left work early (not something you want to do on your first week), and retrieved a new box (40 minutes in line behind a string of customers with concerns far more serious than mine – exploding boxes were mentioned by several – I plan to keep a gallon of water near mine, if I ever get a working model).

Took the new box home and sure enough it worked, but gave me a message on the tube that I didn’t quite understand, but which clearly deprived me of the picture and sound I so sorely craved.

A technician (read $50/hour and a half day wait) is now required. This was Friday. One could be dispatched next Thursday “during the day,” but miraculously they work weekends, so I opted for Sunday next “during the day.” And so another week to suffer in silence (did I mention the condo is REALLY quiet)?

If I get desperate I may call some of you. Chit-chat is not required, but a recap of world events would be appreciated.