Being a little blond girl in the late 70s was an interesting experience. Comparisons were made to the namesake First Daughter, but besides that, there were two other role models around. One was Blondie, aka Deborah Harry, which is honestly a tough act to live up to. The other was the lovely Farrah.

The kickass glamourous Charlie's Angel was inspiring, and we all rebelled in our own way when Jill was replaced by the lackluster Kris. At the tender age of whatever, people told me that I'd look like Farrah someday. Well, they were wrong, but that doesn't mean that we didn't all secretly want to be as strong and sassy as she was, even if we hated the hair. What we did do, some of us secretly, was follow Farrah throughout her life: her acting triumphs, her personal blahs. But she was always someone we respected, even if the only thing that the guys remembered was The Poster. Hey, it's a nice poster. I think one of my cousins had it up. One of the Roy boys. More likely the Biscoe.

A few years later, something happened that we could actually take part in without too much feathered hair. Egged on by radio and a new thing called MTV (which some of us had to watch at friends' houses), we discovered Michael Jackson. I remember Off the Wall, but Thriller was It. I stayed up half the night to tape Beat It off the radio, and by that I mean I had to hold the tape recorder, with its cheesy "microphone" square, up to the speaker of a radio, and inevitably the DJ or station call sign was mouthing over the intro. I listened to that song every night for months; it was my preteen lullaby. THAT, to my ten-year-old brain, was what I wanted life to feel like to me. That's what I thought life for a grownup felt like. That year, my younger sister and my friends and I choreographed dances to almost all the Thriller songs. I still know some of them. I remember heated debates between my older sister and my mother about whether Billie Jean was pro-life or not. Pissing contests in the schoolyard between Anjanette and Sherri about who was the biggest MJ fan.

Honestly, I stopped giving a fuck about Michael Jackson after Thriller, and Farrah, well, I guess I've only admired her from afar. So if I'm mourning, would it be selfish to say that I'm not mourning for them or their loved ones? Instead I'm mourning the world of 1978, the world of 1983, but mostly, I'm mourning the little girl who tried to make sense of it all, even though there probably wasn't any sense. Just some good marketing, a good beat, and a lyric or two.

RIP, Little Girl. And remember, no one wants to be defeated. Or have Farrah hair either.

Keys turned in, all the crap turned out. The place called home for two years and change, getting ready for a dog and some humans to take residence. It looks better empty.

As far as transitions go, this one was remarkably smooth. No crap with the landlord, loose ends as easy as a light-bulb and vacuum cleaner bag. Now, time to imbue the new place with some charm, some self, get used to the quirks. Oh, and the unpacking. But somehow it seems as if I'm always unpacking, no matter how long I stay someplace.

It is a milestone of sorts, but the significance is only gnawing on the edges of my mind, and hasn't quite taken root. Perhaps knowing that I'm not split between two places is enough for now. Who knows what comes next? I have plans and ideas, but all I know for sure is that it will involve long walks home with ice cream, and perhaps a whisky or two thrown in.

The cats have better window hunting here, and they might even be allowed out. IF they can keep their collars on. Yeah Iggy, I'm talking to you buddy. Now get off the table. The rules haven't changed.

Last year, Icarus, the Santa Fe Public Library blog, won Best Local Blog in the Santa Fe Reporter’s Best of Santa Fe contest. If you've forgotten, here’s something to jog your memory.

Well, it’s time to vote again. Right here. You can vote until May 15th. The only requirement is that you live in NM and have an email address.

Tom Waits, Nick Cave, and Roky Erickson.

No matter what, 2008 will go down as the perfect year.

Video of the award acceptance. My hair is horrific.

All I wanted for my birthday this year was a cake with flames.  The marvelous results are below.
Special thanks to Giano for his design skills, and an extra special thanks to Lincoln for braving Spanish Market for the pick-up.






Detail of the bat head.

Somehow this past week, my knee has turned a corner.  I've been able to cook a meal, do a little yoga, go days without my brace.  Do a little cleaning, perhaps walk in the park today or tomorrow, depending on the monsoon's mood. It still hurts sometimes, and full range of motion and stamina aren't there yet, but I'm a lot better this weekend than I was last weekend.  Yay me, yay knee!

In the meantime, I've been on an uncharacteristic non-fiction kick.  Usually nf is just a garnish, or a palette-cleanser between novels.  It started with Homage to Catalonia, proceded on to Desert Solitaire, and now I'm plowing through People's History of the United States.  This is providing lots of insights, beautiful language, disturbing facts.  They're an educational counterpoint to some novels I've read: For whom the bell tolls vs. Homage, People's History vs. Ragtime, etc.  In Monkeywrench Gang I'm told that Dams Are Bad: in Desert Solitaire he beautifully illustrates why Dams Are Bad.  Perhaps I'll keep on this non-fiction roll and tackle Gerda Lerner next.  Regardless, me and my big brain are happy, and the current book I'm reading is putting a rather interesting spin on the history I've lived through so far, and am living through now.

I'm open to other non-fiction suggestions.  The above list should illustrate the reading mood I'm in.

The surgery went remarkably well.  I didn't need crutches and can put some weight on it.  This morning I was even able to hobble from one side of the apartment to the other before I needed to put my knee up.  As for the pain, well, it doesn't look like I'll be tackling that 600 p. Pynchon novel I had my eye on, but I can probably read a Buffy comic book ok.  I'm also glad I stacked up on Monkees episodes. The only real bad part is that the cats think they need to act like circus freaks because Lincoln and I are home all day.

I wrote a long overdue breakup letter to Albuquerque yesterday.  It was quite liberating.

I'd post it here, but my lawyer advises me to wait for the settlement...