2013-19 Albuquerque

My student obligation behind me for the moment, I am passing the week as an instructor. Teaching is harder but more fun and you rarely doze off while teaching.

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“Back and forth.” Shouldn’t it be “forth and back?” Well perhaps not if it’s a government program.

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While discussing geopolitics with an old acquaintance of long duration, the thought occurred that politicians honestly seeking solutions – Reagan and Clinton come to mind, are positive forces moving the country forward. While the “in-your-face” crowd usually creates stagnation or worse. I can think of at least one from both political parties.

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There is a weed (not “the” weed) that grows wild in the West in large bushes that threaten to obscure sidewalk and trails. Near the Plaza this weekend a local entrepreneur has uprooted a bush, hung it upside down to dry, and was selling sprigs for $2 each. I applauded his innovative commerce but couldn’t help shaking my head at the tourists lined up to purchase.

His street office sported a hand lettered sign “support indigenous peoples,” I had to dig out my Funk and Wagnall’s to learn the precise definition, and I don’t think the Bronx qualifies.

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State employees on travel have two reimbursement choices: a modest per diem and “actuals.” What this “actually” means is that auditors recalculate allowed tips to the allowed penny, and woe onto those whose dinner receipt includes an adult beverage. These restrictions form the very tip of a large iceberg, so per diem it is for me.

This decision finds me in a modest but clean hotel in what has been described as a transition area buffering “affluent” and “never-to-be-seen-again" neighborhoods.

But yesterday at first light while stretching in preparation for my thrice-weekly run (euphemistic though that term may be – it was once a run, then a jog, now a slog) a van labeled “City Coroner” pulled up and entered a room several doors down. Not a promising sign. I normally do 5-k on the weekdays but voluntarily extended a bit to avoid whatever exited the room. Mercifully upon my return the vehicle had departed.

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I have noticed hereabouts a touch of “island syndrome.” Years ago on a family vacation in Hawaii I detected a disturbing sociological trend first manifested in a rental car office at the airport. As the family entered there came a chorus of “aloha’s”, and my young daughter was delighted to receive a lei from one of the clerks. For a moment it seemed as though the entire staff was putting on a “welcome to Hawaii” show for us. For a moment.

 

Reservation, license and insurance card entered into the computer, the signing ceremony complete, we were directed to spot A-3, “just outside the door,” by the saccharine sweet staff.

 

But A-3 housed a rinky-dinky, teeny-weenie imitation of an automobile, half the size we reserved, and a glance at the contract revealed that the price charged was that of the much larger vehicle we ordered.

 

Back inside it took but nano-seconds for the smiles to be replaced by a snarled ultimatum that “this is what we have and if you don’t like it you can stuff it.” Of course starting from scratch after a long flight with fidgety kids wanting to hit the beach (and their fidgetier father much in need of an adult beverage), was not a viable option, so we tucked our tails and crammed bodies and luggage into the clown car.

 

Driving away we opined that the glorious welcome was intended to blunt the unpleasant reality, but the scenario played out again several times as the week wore on, namely that all was sweetness and light until a concern was raised, one so innocuous as expressing mild surprise that the hotel restaurant in Kauai was “closed for repairs” and there was no other within miles.

And there is a twinge of island syndrome alive in Santa Fe. A hippy-dippy, kumbaya, love your neighbor atmosphere until the neighbor asks a question not filled with sunshine. But the humidity is very low!

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2013-18 Albuquerque

I am this week in “Albuquirky,” so named by the residents of Santa Fe in the grossly misbegotten belief that they, and not world surrounding them, are the true arbiters of truth and light. I will be here 3 out of 4 weeks this month, taking a class then teaching a class then presenting at the State annual DHS Conference.  Whoopie!

 

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We are outraged (inraged as well)! On the eve of Albuquerque’s annual balloon festival, France (France!) has claimed to have wrested from us the one hour balloon launch record (345) by setting off 408 on the occasion of their Fete de Balloon.

 

What? The French? What do they know about balloons? OK, there was that Montgolfier fella, but that was over 100 years ago. I smell something poisson-esque. Perhaps they were counting une, deux, trois, huit. In any event, come our festival October 5, locals vow to blanket the sky with canvas, perhaps to prove we have more hot air than the French, which would be quite a feat. Vive la balloon!

 

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I am certain there are those who would rise in indignation to dispute this assertion, but I do believe that Santa Fe is the “doo-dad” capital of the planet. Virtually every summer weekend the historic Plaza is roped off to vehicular traffic and replaced with stalls, there have to be 500+, merchandising a dazzling array of bric-a-brac, mostly jewelry and painting, all “in the tradition of the west,” which to me translates as gaudy.

And in the shade of the adobe overhang along East Palace, seated on the ground, wares spread before them on blankets, rest indigenous peoples hawking baubles at one third the price of identical merchandise displayed in the air-conditioned shops a block away.

Hawking may be a misnomer. In general they appear uninspired by the commerce they undertake, and mid-afternoon often finds them dozing until a tourist attired in blinding shades of chartreuse and fuchsia arouses them with an inquiry into price. I find the scene depressing, a stark reminder that despite the Government expenditure of billions designed to improve their lot, we have largely failed.

And I cannot traverse East Palace without grinding my teeth at the transformation of address 109 from the ancestral home of the Manhattan Project into a garish emporium of gewgaws, gimcracks, and thingumajigs.

 

Those who have not yet heeded my counsel should proceed post-haste to their local library or used book shop (or Amazon for the couch potatoes among you) to acquire “109 East Palace” by Jennet Conant. Even the pacifists among you should appreciate this comprehensive account of the birth of the bomb.

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I wonder what Santa Fe will be like when winter drives away the tourists and replaces them with ski bums? I am already starting to dither upon whether to reacquaint with my skis, although the $50 “old fogy” season pass is a temptation (when I was age 58, essentially free skiing was common for those 60 and above. As my age progressed so did the threshold, but I have finally caught up.)

 

A long-ago acquaintance and ski patrol team lead abruptly abandoned the sport at 70, saying the voices get louder and the fall and bounce at 20 gets you a free ride in a sled at 70. True. And even the exercise of caution, at which I show scant competence, does not protect against the buzzed (at 10am!) 250 pound out-of-control wingnut wreaking havoc on the slopes.  Stay tuned.

2013-17 Santa Fe

Those who know me will find unsurprising my silence on such cosmic issues as the birth of the anticipated future king of Great Britain. But I rise to note that I have some direct familiarity with St. Mary’s Hospital on Pread St., in the Paddington district of downtown London, where the “little prince” arrived.

 A family member spent some of her last days there, in a ward with dirty floors, dim corridors with light bulbs out or missing, a visitor’s bathroom that would rival the depths of any rural gas station privy on the planet.

I suspect princess Kate was in a different section, perpetuating the wisdom of the ages that the chosen fare better than the choosers. Brings to mind the behind-the-scenes attempts of “progressive” US lawmakers to insure their lofty medical insurance programs are not diluted by Obamacare which they tout so aggressively to we great unwashed.

And I bet the Royal family is unaware of a superb Chinese carryout just across the road from the hospital. Perhaps I’ll drop a line…

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In New Mexico I must present at least 5 pieces of identification (originals only if you please), one from list A, 2 from B, etc., to obtain a driver’s license. But in order to cast a vote for the President of the United States I need only declare that I have a right to do so. No questions asked, thank you very much. Show a picture ID? How dare you!

 

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Enjoying a beer in the garden of a local establishment last Sunday, an (obviously) tourist duo arrived and plunked down at a free table. Well, he did; she grimaced and walked inside, only to emerge with a sponge and a wad of paper towels and proceed to thoroughly wipe down what appeared to be a clean table. She closely inspected the glass in which her water was served and fidgeted excessively over what she clearly felt were unacceptable sanitary conditions.

As I departed, in keeping with my (partially) successful campaign to be more socially acceptable (or at least less disagreeable), it required all my willpower to refrain from glancing under her table and exclaiming, “my God, did you see the size of that rat.” Being a good citizen takes much fun out of life.

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Despite the excessively liberal nature of my surroundings, there is a pervading sense of humor present in many of the locals that can bring out an easy smile. I was informed by an aging Hispanic gentleman with a twinkle in his eye, that contrary to the accepted dictionary definition, mañana in New Mexico means “not today.”

And prominently displayed in an office near mine rests a sign that I wondered might affront some of my co-workers.

Calling an illegal alien an undocumented immigrant

Is like labeling a drug dealer an undocumented pharmacist

Despite a very politically correct workforce, the sign appears to generate no palpable offense.

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The monsoon rains have arrived, not the literal sheets of water that characterize the Asian variety, but a deluge nevertheless. High winds and flooded arrayos accompany the precip, but it does cool down the landscape.

2013-16 Santa Fe

Happy 4^th of July. With Cinco de Mayo behind us and Quatorze Juillet (Bastille Day) just 10 days hence, we are awash in jours fetes. But nobody does it quite like the Spanish. While assigned to the U. S Consulate in Barcelona long past, we incurred a month with some 10 Spanish holidays and one American. More days off than on.

One of my odysseys during that period involved a summer crossing Spain to witness its plethora of festivals, including Santiago de Compostello (with fireworks on metal wires exploding just overhead a packed square) and the crown jewel Pamplona with its infamous bull run.

I and amigo Archie, much to the consternation of his Israeli wife (in no small part as they were parents of 18-month old twins) vowed to participate in the running, the first iteration of which occurs on the 7^th hour of the 7^th day of the 7^th month.

It is de rigeur for runners to spend the night before in Hemmingwayesque fashion, drinking and bolstering courage through multilingual braggadocio. Somewhere in the early hours I slipped off the rails and regained consciousness to the sound of trumpets high in the hills heralding the release of the bulls.

Simultaneously I felt a rough passage over my midsection and looked up to see a street sweeper gently nudging me out of his cleansing path. It is my only instance of sleeping in the gutter, and I have often wondered if this was divine intervention or simply a drunkard’s folly. The latter most assuredly.

It was on this sojourn that Archie’s Ella and my companion departed to explore the town, leaving us with the twins on an Atlantic beach. Shortly after their departure we heard cries for help whereupon Archie and I leapt into the surf and rescued two pre-teen locals caught in a riptide.

We were roundly feted by the local populace, mostly with the presentation of jugs of vino tinto. When the women returned they were offended by the accumulation of jugs and totally unbelieving of our feat of heroism.

In fact Ella was sorely agrieved by her awareness that one of the improperly attended twins was ingesting large handfuls of sand. Not to worry, claimed Archie, he’ll figure it out in the morning and the lesson learned will remain for life.

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Though I am poorly equipped to do so, I am attempting to teach Spanish to Henrietta, the lady in my GPS. She is resisting. Lujan comes out “low-jan,” etc.

 

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Mooshie2 (named in honor of a former feline friend) hangs out around my ground floor balcony and is often curled up in my balcony sling chair when I arise around 04:30. There’s a rumor that s(he) – still haven’t got a good look at the south end – is feral, but as even the wild must eat I lay out the odd morsel.

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.