I must confess I like snow Albuquerque-style.  Which is to say

"Hey, did you see the snow?" 
"No, I was in the bathroom."

If I have to have snow, that's the kind of snow I prefer.  As in not much and not for long.  Yes, it's lovely up there on the mountain, and it's even pretty to look at in the city so long as I'm indoors looking out at it.  Walking in it, traveling in it, not so much.  Annoying.  Hellish, even.  I prefer to set out across a parking lot relatively secure in the belief that I'll make it to the car without risking head trauma or a shattered elbow.  The aesthetic pleasure is not worth my deductible.  Once a few years ago I was trapped indoors for three days when a freak snow storm dumped on Portland.  The city ground to a muffled halt and many businesses (including my employer) closed to wait for the thaw.  All of our friends lived in the same apartment community, which was situated at the top of a fairly steep hill that made travel precarious, so our apartment became the hub of activity.  These were very good friends, see, and I still considered eating them if the food ran out, less for the nutrients than for the quiet.  The joy of snow is lost on me, is what I'm trying to convey.

I'm dreaming of a dry Xmas.  Yeah, call me a grinch.  Now watch.  Our arrival here in Albuquerque will coincide with five or more years' worth of 2006-level snowfalls.  To those snow-lovers among you:  you're welcome.



In the "Is thems the thoughts of cows?" department of Continued Education, the missus and I have decided to learn Spanish, with the aid of a workbook I discovered at Goodwill.  I say "have decided", present tense, because we purchased the book two weeks ago and have thus far only managed to identify a few household objects ("¿Que es eso?"  "Eso es la lampara!").  Any qualitative progress at this point is nil.  We always seem to find something else we'd rather do or must be done.  It's disheartening to find at the age of fifty that I'm no better a student than I was in high school, but then again, having abused my hearing with Led Zeppelin on earphones turned up to eleven, smoking my brains out for thirty years, and here and there drinking way more than is good for me, it's really no mystery as to why my cognitive skills aren't quite as elastic as they once allegedly were.  Still, it slightly galls me that, other than our eighteen years in the Northwest, I've spent most of my life in environments (Puerto Rico, Texas) where it would have been so easy to apply myself to learning Spanish and instead just frittered away the opportunities.  

I suppose we're lucky to try to learn it here; from what I've been told, the style of Spanish spoken in Albuquerque is a style that's not afraid to take it's time.  In contrast, one young volunteer I know at my workplace has intimated that Mexican Spanish is spoken at breakneck speed, leaving newly-educated speakers confused and wallowing.  At any rate, I should actually just be content if I can learn to muddle my way to Spanglish, which to my understanding is a mutually-agreed-upon compromise, but that's not my goal.  I really hope to speak it thoroughly and well enough to avoid barks of laughter.  I think I have the accent down, anyway.

(What is quite interesting is that it's immediately apparent which words in English and Spanish share a common root -- "lampara"/"lamp", "pintura"/"picture" -- and which do not, like "reloj"/"clock", the word "clock" actually being derived from Celtic origins.  Yes, this blog seeks to educate as well.)

Today we are going to the Verizon store to drop off the wife's cellphone charger and manual for the phone she donated yesterday.  We'd gone there yesterday to have my old cellphone converted to her number since she hated hers and liked mine, which I in turn hated and had opted to replace (I'm so over the clamshell flip style, so I bought a snazzy new flat one.  Pause for yawns.)  After that, the missus wants to take a tour of the Nob Hill area.  We like to drive (or better yet walk when the opportunity exists) different neighborhoods when we can, because we'd rather be residents of a city than just residents of one neighborhood in a city.  I'm a bit hamstrung when it comes to navigation due to a malady I like to call directional dyslexia, so I'm very happy to be living where there's a conveniently looming mountain with which to orientate.  Along with fluidez en español*, we also would like to have a good overall knowledge of Albuquerque, because who knows when we'll move next and where?  I'd like to think that any area in this city is a potential home.  Oh, yeah, about that...

...we'll most likely be moving AGAIN into another apartment on the ground floor soon after the first of the year, this time because SWMBO has decided she should get over her security anxieties for the sake of becoming weary and fed up with trudging up and down a flight of stairs bearing laundry and groceries.  This is fine with me except

(A), the cats will have to be leashed when they venture out to the patio ("cats" and "leashed" are funny together in any sentence in ANY language, unless of course you're the one doing the leashing/unleashing, so laugh it up), and

(2), my bicycle will have to come indoors, I don't care if I have to take it's place chained up out on the patio.  Which is quite likely, should I choose to wage that particular battle with my formidable spouse.  As a former Portlander, I'm conditioned to believe that leaving my machine out of sight is an invitation to grief.  No. Way.

The floor plan the missus wants happens to be the same as the one just vacated across the breezeway from us.  Talk about a dead-easy move.  But it's still upstairs.  Dammit.

Time to become productive, lest I gather the disapproving gaze of my mate as she bustles about behind me in a house-keeping frenzy.  L8trzville.

(* I cut and pasted that from a Spanish translation website.  I'm lazy but honest.)

Know what's awesome? Not in the continent-forming, solar flare, oceans rising to conquer the land sense, but in the d00d! sense of the word as it's used in parlance these days?



Road trips. Road trips rock.

Give me a car (and while you're at it, a competent driver, because I don't like to eat and drive at the same time and we should all be grateful for this), a couple of Micky Diaz's sausage bisquits, a tallish coffee, and a strip of asphalt that goes a ways, and I'm guh-roovin'. Particularly if the asphalt wends it's way across an American state made for said wending. Like, say, New Mexico.

It's not a surprise that the apogee of our rolling orbit was Roswell. I hesitate to say "destination", because the best road trips don't have destinations, they have only filling stations and rest stops and restaurants offering fried delicacies in grease-sodden wrappers, good solid American road food that necessitates a knowledge of the whereabouts of the establishment's defibrillator or set of jumper cables. The missus and I didn't want to focus on an end point. We wanted to glide through the landscape and absorb.



The Willamette Valley in Oregon reveals it's emerald secrets a little at a time as one follows a writhing road, and even the clouds conspire to keep it under wraps. It's a tease, like a flirtation. New Mexico's eastern plains are like a Sumo belly bump. It's here and it's there and it's way over there, and it resists cuddling and it demands awe and respect. It's worked damned hard over the course of millenia to be what it is, you betta recognize. And that glorious, dangerous sunlight just pours over all of it.



I've read that one of the ways New Mexicans identify Texans is by how they pronounce Ruidoso "Reeyo-dosa", and that's exactly how the missus pronounces it. Forgive her, please. She lived in Texas even longer than me. Ruidoso is beautiful and surprisingly Oregonish in places. And touristy. Ah well. We don't gamble (well, I don't) but next time we'll hike some trails there.



Roswell. What can I say? Well, I can say that my first home town* needs to get shy of quite a few bug-eyed mannequins and posters and crap. When I lived there, Roswell had no need to look to the mysterious heavens for revenue. It had Walker Air Force Base, where my dad was stationed. Alas, Walker shut down in 1967 and we moved to Ramey AFB on the magical isle of Puerto Rico, and in my absence the town was over-run with unearthly kitch. Aliens on shop windows. Alien heads on lamp posts. Aliens selling coffee and beer. Inflatable ETs hawking furniture and books. A "UFO Museum" (that was actually in the silly-but-cool category even with the cheesy fifth-grader dioramas, and cudos to the optimistic nerds who've managed to grow it into quite the going concern and are living the dream) that will soon move into an even larger facility thanks to the donations of like-minded sky-gogglers and conspiracy fans. It's all just too too much. The citizens of the town of Corona, which is actually closer than Roswell to the alleged crash site, should daily face southeast and raise their hands and voices in gratitude.

Underneath all the otherweirdly junk is a pleasantly modest, lived-in-looking town. In ways Roswell reminds me of Abilene, Texas (my second home town, and another place I hope to visit soon). I can actually visualize myself living in Roswell again (although I'd be divorced; I have this on good authority). Of course I had to find the house I lived in as a kid, so that's what we went looking for first. I just pretty much asked my wife to head in a general direction, and said something like "We'll have to find a map somewhere, it's not like I know my way around anymore..."

And we went right to it. Spooky.



Those of you who've followed this blog for awhile will probably recognize the house, but this time I was the one taking the picture. At the last second I couldn't bring myself to step out of the car because I thought it was suspicious-looking enough to be snapping photos from the car without actually strolling the sidewalk like I owned it. People get twitchy about that kind of thing, and twitchy people call the police, and REALLY twitchy people might reach for a baseball bat. As it is, I kind of hope no one in that neighborhood reads this, because even though it's part of a cherished memory, I still felt like an intruder.

As we rounded a corner at the far end of the street I was pointing out things I remembered that no longer existed. A friend's house, the friend's name long forgotten; the corral fence that bordered his front yard, and now girded only by cracked curb; the vast open pit across the alley that we used to call the boondocks, full of dirt mounds and roots called devils horns and junked and rusting cars, now mostly filled in and a lot smaller than I recall; the Piggly Wiggly that once stood just a couple blocks away now replaced with a Dollar General.



After a tour of the UFO Museum, we had lunch at a Cattle Baron restaurant (over-priced and nothing special), and then got directions to Valley View Elementary School from two cheerful young waitresses. Again, we had no trouble finding our way.



Except for the newish playground equipment, it looked just how I remembered it. I don't recall the sign being there, but it may have been.



In my day our classes had Halloween parties, not "Fall festivals". Dang fundy-mentals.

Finally, we chased the sun homeward, watched the day fade into gold and then into sepia.



Great trip. I might even go back and spend a weekend in Roswell sometime soon.


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I usually get up at 5 a.m., and I'm at the gym by six at least two or three mornings per week. The other mornings, I hit the sidewalk and walk for an hour.

Weight-lifting is good for you, it's a good way to lift your metabolism and maintain tone. It's also a sort of hydraulic fake labor, convenient only because it beats keeping boulders to throw around in your back yard (front yard if you're a show-off). Lifting is necessary to stave off the middle-age blobular silhouette, but no way is it FUN.

Walking is fun. And mood-enhancing. And educational. And spiritual.

On one walk I saw three coyotes cross Eubank and intersect my path (or maybe it was two coyotes, one of them twice). As I walked further and turned down the North Piño Arroyo Trail, I was paced by roadrunners and bunnies and lizards in the underbrush. On another walk I discovered neighborhoods near home that had escaped the fauxdobe glut by some miracle, and I strode the sidewalk wide-awake past slippered and still-groggy newspaper collectors and a few dawn patrol dog-walkers. Not one looked in my direction. Maybe most folk aren't quite ready to be assailed by the presence of other humans that early, who knows? Once upon a time I was the nocturnal sort and didn't gaze upon the world before noon willingly, so I guess I can relate. I try not to miss a sunrise now, though. An hour's walk and then home to greet the missus with a cup of coffee as she levers herself upright to seize the day. That's the stuff.

I recommend going for a walk.

(* I was born in Cuyahoga Falls, Ohio, but I don't count that as my home town because I feel you should be able to do more in your home town than dribble on yourself. Thus, Roswell was my first home town.)

This morning's breakfast: a lump of pumpkin bread. I say "lump" because I have over the last two days eroded it's loaf-shaped goodness, picking at it until it looks less loaf-y and more asteroid-y. An asteroid of pumpkin bread would rock, I think.

I took a few photos of balloons last weekend before BOTH cameras' batteries died (of COURSE).









No, we didn't go into the park; too many people too close together. Instead we parked on I-25 with every other luckless soul who thought they would surely find a superior vantage point within 25 miles of the place. Well, not exactly "parked" per se, but I'm pretty certain our forward motion could have been outrun by various forms of lichen. You'd think we would have been peeved at this, but it did turn out to be a good balloon-gazing spot, plus it was kind of pleasant to witness so many automobiles on the freeway that weren't trying to break the effin' sound barrier. I'm not a big fan of freeway driving anyway, but I've found that many motorists here up the ante considerably by refusing to use turn-signals, so driving amongst these hurtling blinker-phobes is a lot like Han Solo threading the needle through the asteroid field.

Two asteroid references in as many paragraphs. Did NOT see that coming.

Anyway. I can attest to the fact that seeing photos of many balloons in the sky and actually witnessing it personally are two vastly different experiences. Beautiful. Also eerie. I can see why animals would be spooked by these huge craft; even birds make noise, but balloons just hover there as if pondering a judgement. Every once in a while they make this *hhhhhhhhhh* as the pilots adjust altitude, but otherwise they're silent as a secret. I hate to use the overworked and abused word "awesome", but that is what it is to watch these gliding marvels.

All that last was mostly for the benefit of my PDX pals. Maybe many of the 'Burquenos (is that right? Or am I underlining my n00bness here, good citizens?) reading this are thinking "Yeah, balloons yadayada *YAWN!*" I hope not. I hope I don't live here so long that such a wonder becomes boring. It feels much as I used to feel when on a clear morning in Portland I would stand on my balcony with my coffee and gaze at Mt. Hood. You get tired of something like that, go find y'self a sturdy shovel and commence ta diggin'. Yer done.


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From the bowels of the "Why I'm Hopeless At Nearly Everything" department: Lately I've been regretting not having learned how to play a musical instrument when I was younger, particularly the guitar. I took a class in junior high school -- Lincoln Junior High, in Abilene, Texas -- in an abortive attempt to learn to play the recorder. Stupid name for an instrument, and I proved to be as ham-fisted with that as I did with virtually any tool I'd handled in wood shop (yeah, I sucked at that too). I had good intentions, I approached the task of learning with all seriousness at first (except for the couple of times I tried to practice at home in front of the mirror, standing on one foot a la Ian Anderson, just to see what I looked like; surprise! I looked like a DORK*), but t'was for naught. I'd have made more pleasant noise stepping on a squirrel. The musical bent I apparently had not. After awhile I tried turning the recorder into a blowgun. My parents were somewhat less than proud.

The reason this yen for guitar-god musicianship has reared it's dexterity-deficient head is that the FM rock stations here in the Duke City seem inordinately fond of '80s metal. Heretofore I wasn't really a fan at all, gravitating to the more eclectic fare of KINK 101.9 FM, perhaps Portland's best station. Here I've found no radio station that quite fits that bill, so when in the car or at work (I installed my own stereo in my work room, go me!) I most often listen to one of three interchangeable rock stations, and godz help me, I've aquired a taste for hair metal! If cities had to decide on a song that represented the collective musical tastes of it's citizenry, Albuquerque's would be The Scorpions' "Rock You Like A Hurricane", because if I bounced to and fro between these three radio stations I would hear that song twenty times in one day, I no keed.

Impromptu Top Seven Guitar Godz List, No Particular Order Except The First Two And That's Debatable Between Them (this is SO youtube-lolz-wtf-geeky I wouldn't blame anyone for rolling their eyes and refusing to read it, but d00dz, just RAWK with me kthx):

Jimi Hendricks
Stevie Ray Vaughan
Eddie Van Halen
Jack White
The Edge
Pete Townsend
Skwisgaar Skwigelf

'kay, that is all.



(* This made me feel better, dork-wise. Thanks, Ian. You're still one of my musical heroes.)

It's Pancake Sunday! Been awhile since we've had a breakfast o' flapjacks, so I'm looking forward to it. I'm hoping we still have the Snoqualmie Falls pancake mix. What restaurants in Albuquerque make good pancakes? Anyone? Anyone?

Oops, and flapjacks aren't really pancakes. Thanks, Wikipedia.

I have a bone to pick, and hopefully that bone I seek to pick won't be (a), MINE, and (b), plucked from the side of a motor vehicle. My consternation has to do with this: WHY must I share a bike lane with passenger-side rearview mirrors? What is it about many motorists in this fair city that leads them to drive so far right of the freakin' crown of the road? I realize I have a bias here; Portland motorists by and large skirt bike lanes by a fat margin because of the amount of bicycle traffic, and those who ride bicycles in Portland are a vocal and litigious lot (and USUALLY rightly so, although some are all too eager to pick a fight). There is, however, in my mind no excuse. A bike lane is a bike lane no matter in what city it may be found. It is NOT a bonus space for automobiles, demarkated to show motorists just what a deal they're getting, like a line on the outside of a cereal box showing how much less cereal you'd get if it weren't for the graciousness and largesse of the producer. "Dang! Looka this, honey! Twenty percent MORE ROOM on the right!"

Don't misunderstand, please. As a vehicular cyclist I have found that sometimes bike lanes aren't the optimum path to safety, and so I will eschew the confines, and pedal outside the lines, for broader avenues the cyclist he pines (awright, knock it OFF). Often, when they lead where I want to go, I'll be on the many and delightful trails 'twixt the ditches anyway since they're scenic and fun to ride. However, while I'm IN the bike lane, it's MINE. I'm thinking the law itself says so unless New Mexico's traffic laws are very different from Oregon's. Please keep all your metal and glass bits to yourself and well to the left, because if you don't and I get clobbered by your mirror or any other part of your vehicle, I WILL try to get some of my blood on your physical person. STAY OFF MY PATCH.

That issue aside, I've had an easy time commuting to work. Now I have to gird my loins and start riding more often AND ride home FROM work as well. So far one thing or another has made riding home impractical, but I'll be honest here and state that the few times I could have ridden homeward, I didn't. Shame on me. Not warrior-like at ALL. This next week I'll make the effort to ride round-trip on my commutes. What does not kill me makes me stronger, once I've stopped heaving behind the shrubbery.


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We recently discovered the Bear Canyon Arroyo Trail a mere two miles or less from our front door. Excellent place for a walk and to see lots of animals and flora. Now I know where those prickly pear things come from.









There are always roadrunners, rabbits, lizards, and birds everywhere, just as on all the trails we've walked. And QUIET. The kind of quiet that makes cresting the path beside the dam overlooking Juan Tabo Blvd. somewhat startling when the sound and sight of traffic reassert themselves. Actually, everywhere seems a might quieter; is it possibly the rarer air? Or the fact that we aren't hugged on all sides by hills?

My friends in PDX are gonna get awfully bored with me waxing rhapsodic about the Southwest but I mean to say, even the SKY is a wonder here. The clouds are soaring sculptures suspended in the fathomless blue.



Our favorite time to take walks is at dusk, watching the sun go down and set the clouds aflame on the horizon. Truly stunning.

One last note. I keep hearing a gotta go to this place, and now I see THIS.




Gotta go. It's been real.

Sunday is traditionally house-cleaning day at der Garrisonhaus, and these days there's lots less acreage to cover now that we've down-sized living space. Unfortunately that means we gave up the washer and dryer provided in the larger apartment and must now use the community laundry rooms.

Cripes. I hate picking up after other people, man. It's like our neighbors just moved here from the Pleistocene epoch, when people wore mostly dirt. Why must I get elbow-deep in somebody else's lint? You know when you walk into a laundry facility and the tops of the machines aren't sticky, the floor is swept, and the lint traps are clean? That's because I live in your complex. Say "Hi". I promise never to leave my detritus for you to wade through, nor anyone else's after I've left, most likely. I also will never leave my clothes in the dryers until they're dusty and have to be washed all over again. One thing that separates us from the beasts of the field is our ability to TELL TIME, see? I've always found it funny that people would dare get huffy when someone else had to haul their wet junk out of a washer because it sat in there for three hours. Did they assume everyone else had just left the planet for the day?

I won't say that I "love" my fellow humans, but I'll always respect them, and I'll always shake my head (or my fist) when I meet people who refuse to think past their own immediate needs.

Okay, rant off.

Last Sunday (I am SUCH a lazy blogger guy), The wife and I drove into Cibola National Forest and up to Sandia Crest.





Isn't that just awesome? This was taken from Sandia Crest. Notice that there is NO RAILING. I find it refreshing that visitors are required to look after themselves and those in their charge, don't you? No railing, and therefore no reason for you to be this close to the edge. No mollycoddling here, boy. Watch your step.








Since the trail continued along the very brink of the precipice, and the missus is not fond of heights (nor am I, truth be told), our hike came to an abrupt halt. We'll come back and hike it another day, or I will while the little woman dials our insurance agent, as she has less faith in my middle ear than I do. Besides, there were thunderclouds and lightning in the distance and we had no desire to tempt the godz. We've read of something like ten people being struck by lightning since we moved to Albuquerque . I love to watch lightning storms (Portland sees something like three per millenium) but when you get worried just walking to your car in the parking lot, that's a tad creepy, gnome sane?

These warm sunny days have been a balm, but I'll admit I'm looking forward to autumn. Autumn was once my favorite season, before I moved to a part of the country where it rains almost incessantly between September and May (and NO, I won't forget that's part of what makes Oregon so lush and beautiful), so I hope to recapture that romance now that we've settled once again in the Southwest where it precipitates in the spring and summer as is proper.

Earlier this morning I took a virtual walk past Valley View Elementary, the school I attended in Roswell, via Google Earth. The photo I'd zoomed into looked as if it had been taken in the fall or winter and I was immediately struck with the scent of dry, brittle grass on the playground. My schoolmates and I staged mock superhero battles at recess, sprawling on that grass and later taking it home with us in the folds of our jackets for our mothers to tut over. Y'know, I can't even remember what superhero I chose to be back then. I'm sure he was cool, though.

I'm sitting at the desk with a cup of coffee, earphones on listening to AC/DC ("Who Made Who?") on Pandora.com. This is one of my very favorite things to do on an early weekend morning before the world brightens and stirs.

Actually, any day that starts with music and/or a bike ride puts me in a fine state of mind. I need that these days, seeing as how my present job has me knee-deep in tediousness and miopic management foofraw much of the time. Pardon me, just a little rant, missing my old job and comrades. At least I can say my week days go by really fast because to accomplish ANYTHING I have to be at a fair trot. Fancy "managing" and "coordinating" individuals who don't have to do what you ask of them and who don't have anything like the desire you have to GET SH!T DONE. And you can't yell at them or call them names. this is like my seventh circle of Hades. I can hear my old work-mates guffawing over their fish tacos as I speak. Type. Whatever.

Perhaps I should state here that I feel fortunate and grateful to be employed. This is me doing that now.

We're finally in the new apartment, and it's one of our better decisions. Small? Oh yeah. We haven't lived this small since the early days of our marriage. It's just the right size, though. I don't know why we felt we needed a separate office space. *snort!* "Office", like I really worked in there. The "office" was where I slaughtered enemy zombies and Nazis and watched YouTube videos. Yeah, it's like I just stopped maturing at fifteen years old. Except we didn't have this stuff when I was fifteen. We youngsters had to stage G.I. Joe® Apocalypse in the back yard in real time, with real fire, by gawd. I love the smell of singed plastic in the morning. The parents, and my kid brother whose G.I. Joe® I incinerated, not so much.


I wasn't a troubled child. Everyone else seemed a lot more bothered than me.

I digress.

I love this new place. It's orderly and efficient and just all-around more livable than the previous space. Our next-door neighbor can't park his damned Volvo to save his life, and directly above us live a troupe of clog dancers, but having been a cliff-dweller for most of my adult life it doesn't bother me. Oddly, nobody lived in any of the other apartments around us in the old unit; the entire block was vacant except for us and we never have found out why. I kept expecting to be waylayed by former tenants in the parking lot, waving shaky fingers at the building and moaning "Noooo! Do not abide there!" and warning me of little girls from beyond who don't brush their hair.

Speaking of things that go *bump* in the night...I know it's a subjective thing and anyone is free to comment au contraire, but apparently about the only thing liable to go *bump* in the night in Albuquerque is drunk drivers. Don't get me wrong, 505'ers, I'm a YUGE fan of this city, but compared to my old stomping grounds (that being Portland, Oregon, natch) there's nary a whiff of the mystic here. Portland is Spook Factor Ten, Mr. Sulu. All that lovely misty rain and fog, silent side streets lined with old houses, mossy sidewalks, and looming bridges and trees make for quite the eerie atmosphere. It's reflected in the citizenry too, what with the dark clothing and the gloomy demeanor. Maybe it's different in the fall and winter months, but Albuquerque seems doomed by topography and meteorology, bereft of the kind of ambience that turns one's thoughts to the night side of Nature.

I'm sure these folk would disagree. Perhaps I should do some research before I shoot off my fat fingers. I don't mean to say that I believe in the occurrence of paranormal phenomena in the absence of empirical evidence (of which I've read and experienced none), but I have an open mind and I'm a sucker for atmosphere. Now that I mention it, judging by my reaction to an experience I had with a waking dream many years ago (an apparition in blinding-white robes standing by the bed as I lay paralyzed in terror after an afternoon nap), open mind + sucker for atmosphere = susceptible to suggestion = first guy in the group to jump out the window after soiling his trousers. Maybe I should just research from HERE.

A long day of loafing awaits, to end with a nice twilight stroll through the neighborhood this evening. L8erz.

In another couple of weeks we're moving AGAIN.  There is nothing else I loathe worse that I seemingly do so often.  That it's MY idea this time, and for a practical reason, won't lessen the misery either.

The impetus this time is almost purely economic; this apartment is more expensive in rent than we care to afford (and the floorplan sucks, too).  We have a mind to do all we can to become debt-free[ish] within five years, and tossing cash at an apartment we don't like isn't fiscally sound.  So we're moving across the parking lot to a 1bdrm/1bath, for an eventual savings of $260 per month.  I say "eventual" because the corporate (pirate) entity that runs this community insists upon another deposit and a 30-day waiting period for the refund of the original deposit we paid for this unit, instead of merely transferring.  Plus some other little fees and expenses here and there.  Thanks so much, and may I point out that in some nations of the world a bullet-pocked wall in the central square has often been the response to this sort of crap?  Just a cultural-slash-historical aside offered for edification.

Other than the slogging of possessions across hot pavement for hours on end (how can two people amass so much junk?  Excuse me, how can ONE person amass so much junk?  These "curios" are NOT mine), I'm looking forward to living in a smaller space.  Let's say "more utile space" instead.  The living area and balcony are actually somewhat larger and much more arrangement-friendly in the smaller unit.  No more shoe-horning my bike in and out of a cramped space (what, you thought I stored my bike OUTSIDE?  Dudes!  I'm from PDX!) AND there's a breeze-way right outside the front door where I can clean it under cover.  Sweet.

One slight disadvantage: no washer and dryer in the unit.  This bothers the missus more than me, but I told her I'd gladly take care of the laundering.  I prefer doing laundry in an hour-and-a-half rather than four anyway.  Makes for a less-noisy household, too.  Freakin' dish washer is bad enough.  I haven't checked out the laundry facilities here, but should they be inadequate (surely not, in a "luxury" community) I'll need to find a decent laundromat in the neighborhood.

Other quibbles that I'll make someone else's problem if they aren't addressed:  what's with the cheap plastic base moulding in a "luxury" apartment?  And the soot on the ceiling next to the vent?  And the debris shoveled into the storage closet?  Are we in Green Acres here?  I've been a cliff-dweller most of my adult life, so I don't expect faeries and chocolates every time I rent in a complex, but if one's brochure suggests filet mignon, one better not be slingin' Hamburger Helper. 

Ever seeking the easiest way to do any damned thing, I've hit upon an idea for moving our stuff.  Rather than boxing up the books and kuhnick-kuhnacks, I'll use a few of the canvas grocery bags we've accumulated.  This will mean a lot of trips to and fro.  Oh well.  I'd rather do it this way than spend a bunch of time filling unwieldy cartons to carry up and down flights of stairs (of COURSE we're moving into yet another second-floor unit to appease the little woman's security anxieties; I swear next time I'll just offer to install punji sticks in all the windows).  We'll have to hire a couple of guys for the big stuff because the wife can't carry anything that heavy and I'm not about to Ferrigno a sofa by myself; my middle-age insecurities don't yet extend quite that far.

One interesting bit is that this "office" will have to be incorporated into the dining area.  This prospect pleases me more than I would have once thought.  I spend too much time in this room with my back literally turned to everything and everyone else, and I need seriously to break the habit.  This honkin' yuge desk is going away too, and it's about time.  I've broken this thing down to relocate it so often it's a wonder it doesn't fly apart as I type on the keyboard.  Time to go find a new and smaller (and cheaper) one.

Another purchase in the offing:  a king-size mattress set.  We ditched our old one a couple years ago in favor of a friend's plushy queen that she had replaced.  Nice, comfy mattress, but we've subsequently found that both of us reading in bed leads to elbow wars, plus the cats are missing the no-man's-land, plus the woman stored it on it's side and leaning against a wall so that it's all warped (what IS it with people?).  We shopped a couple of mattress shops and have decided to put a king set on lay-away so that when 2020 rolls around we'll have a brand-new bed that I hope will float because I expect we'll all be under water by then unless some kindly aliens drop by to save us from ourselves.  Klaatu barada nikto.


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I'm pleased to relate that so far I've had nary a curse nor beer bottle cast in my direction since I've taken to Albuquerque's streets on the bicycle.  I was "honked at" (more of a "please don't" than a "HOW DARE YOU, WORTHLESS TWO-WHEELED HUMMER-LESS PINKO!" kind of honk, really) once last week when I was looking to segue to the left lane on Ellison with the intent to turn onto Jefferson (I didn't make it; this was at roughly 9:15 a.m. on a weekday morning and there was just enough overtaking traffic to warrant a safer transit at the crosswalk.  So far I feel just as safe as I did in Portland, and my route to work is actually a LOT more fun.

I've had two flats so far (one rear, one front), and neither of them were attributable to the dreaded and despised goat-head or any other roadway hazard.  In both cases the tube simply gave way around the valve.  I was told this might be due to the drier air and friction (I now use talc when replacing tubes).  The missus went to a bike shop while I was at work to purchase a couple of spares for me (I always carry two) and came home with a pair of thorn-resistant tubes, the cartons of which stated they were sized 35c to 43c.  Oops.  I use 32c hard-case tires, so I'd asked her to request 28c-32c; every tube I've ever purchased indicated this sizing.  She was repeatedly assured that they would fit when she voiced concern.  Guess what?  It was like trying to stuff an anaconda into a garden hose.  WTF?  I am not a dab hand at changing tubes, I'll admit, but I actually ruined one tube trying to get it seated properly.  We took them back and we received full refund for them, but the fellow stated again that this was the size recommended, and they had no other size range.  Weird.  I'll try another shop later this week.

I'm outtie.  Enjoy the week.

It's Sunday.  I have been without benefit of spouse for most of three days now.  Can't say I care for it.

The missus is visiting relatives from South Carolina (or is it North Carolina?  It's one of those drawl-y, humid states), and a new job and pet care considerations have dictated that I stay home.  That sounds great, doesn't it?  Love her as I do, she and I shouldn't have to be in each others' pockets all the time, have to have some free-and-clear private and personal time, correct?  So relax, dude.  Watch bad tv, eat what you want, drink more than is good for you, hey?

Y'know?  That's good for, like, four hours.  I was pretty much done with waving my freak flag by noon yesterday.  I'd even entertained the notion of treating myself to dinner out at Los Cuates (preternaturally great New Mexican food!) but talked myself out of it because it felt like I'd be cheating on my wife in a way.  You just DON'T go to a restaurant alone that you've always previously visited with your mate.  It just. isn't. done.

I've watched a lot of CNN and MSNBC, which, if you watch for two hours, is basically the same as watching the same half-hour program four times in a row.  It's true, apparently this big ol' wide world doesn't provide quite enough news of the easily-digestible sort that we Americans demand (two minutes of shaky video showing unrest in Iran followed by the awwww-inspiring story of the rescue of a flushed kitten to wash that tart taste of social concern out of your mouth).  I should have tuned to BBC America for news; at the very least, news reported in that plummy accent at least SOUNDS more interesting and important.  They don't have Nancy Grace, either.  I wish they did.  No I don't.  That's just mean.  To the British.

(I'm happy to report that the local news is by-and-large pretty inoffensive, at least as evidenced by channel 7.  There IS this one guy who has a hairstyle that makes him look like Eddie Munster: The Anchorman Years, but that's not offensive at all.  Maybe I'M offensive for pointing it out.)

I watched a Lifetime movie.  Yes, a Lifetime movie.  Angie Harmon and her family find out their neighbor placed video recording equipment in the attic of their house and taped them without their knowledge.  Creepy.  I can't say that it was a "good" production (other than blurry, back-and-white Angie nudity) in that I felt no compulsion to ring people up and say "You HAVE to see this!", but it was effective.  Boy, was I mad at that creepy neighbor guy.

Then I watched a documentary about UFO mania, hosted by Peter Jennings.  Since Peter Jennings himself beamed up four years ago, it's obvious this program wasn't terribly fresh, but I'll say it was the best examination of the subject I've seen so far.  That's actually not saying very much, as most television fare on the topic tends to owe a debt to the Erich von Däniken School O' Mystic Science-y Stuff.

I could just give you a quick run-down of our weekly viewing schedule too, if you like.  No?  FINE.


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I love this town for bicycling.  Portland, Oregon has one very good MUP (Multi-Use Path, and it is VERY good one) called the Springwater Corridor, and a superior network of bike lanes and routes (ah, but for how much longer?).  Albuquerque's infrastructure seems more organic, though.  Perhaps it's because most paths seem to stretch from greenspace to park to neighborhood along arroyos and natural contours in the landscape.  Maybe it's because of the wide-open views.  Maybe I'm just still dazzled by the scenery.  I can't say anything definitive other than I'm diggin' it.  Today I'm going to drop off some books at Cherry Hills Library and then pedal onward to explore a possible route to work.  If our observations are correct, using paths through Heritage Hills Park and along the North Pino Arroyo will take me most of the way, to within a mile and a half or so of my workplace on Office Blvd.  There's a segue point at Ellison and I-25 that looks a leetle sketchy, but it won't scar my psyche all that much to use a crosswalk for safety's sake, I imagine.  Anything to keep the missus from having to walk to the hospital from the airport Tuesday night.

Gotta get to it.  L8rs.

Tomorrow I hope to hear that I'm even more gainfully and happily employed.  I submitted to a drug screen last Wednesday as the final step in the acceptance process.  Barring the inadvertent ingestion of poppy seeds, I should have no problem there.  I'd hoped to hear from them Friday, but it looks like Monday now. 

That whole idea, of a drug test gone horribly wrong because I ate something that tripped a positive result, makes me wish I'd showed up at the clinic with a small bag of hair and nail clippings too, maybe a cheek swab, my bath towel, anything to demonstrate good faith, y'know?  Certainly they'd look at me askance, but there'd be no doubting my sincerity, right? 

I have a letter of resignation ready to go for the contract job I hold now.  I dread delivering it.  I don't take rejection very well myself, so I always cringe at the thought of conveying dissatisfaction to other people.  This is why I no longer go to the ASPCA; my wife has to bring home all the replacement pets because when I look into the cages at all the animals I want to take ALL of them home and so when we choose only  one it feels as if I've leveled a finger at all the others and thundered "I FIND YOU WANTING!".  Kills me.  Can't do it.

I've been very fortunate in mining the job market here, since I've actually only interviewed for two jobs (I don't count the two or three on-line applications I submitted) since moving to town and got both of them.  I'm particularly pleased with this second opportunity because I'll be working for a non-profit company in aid of a public welfare cause.  That'll be a new experience for me.  The missus has expressed an interest in volunteering her time and effort for the organization as well (the company relies quite heavily upon volunteers), so it's entirely possible that we'll be in essence working together two or three days per week.  Can't beat that.

So now I must find a route that I can ride to work.  I'm feeling a lot more confident on the bike now, thanks to a couple of cruises I've pedaled on Tramway and the Riverside Trail (VERY nice riding, by the way).  The goal now is to find the route offering the best odds for survival to and from work.  Where we live now it'll be a six-and-something-mile ride one way.  That may change within a year because we're going to move from the apartment community in which we live to somewhere a bit more economical (and roomy, and without a fireplace taking up one whole wall in an already undersized living room, thus forcing us to Picasso our furniture in somewhat awkward juxtapositions, culminating in a need for physical therapy to alleviate muscular distress from simply watching our damned television.  Godz save us all from architects who insist upon rooms that have more than four corners.  Gimme a box.  I can create my own "visual interest", 'kay?).

I digress.

We already have another apartment community in mind, should it be necessary in ten months' time to move to yet another apartment, but we hope to find a decent house to rent or a manufactured home to purchase in a good park.  Yes, I said manufactured home.  Or call it a mobile home, or a trailer, I don't care.  At our age, "investing in a home" is just another way to pay for something that, in the end, stays above the ground while you get to lie in a box under it.  Our tastes (other than for broadband access and cable television) are modest.  I'd like a porch or balcony from which I may watch the sun set as I enjoy a beverage with my wife after a day's work.  We aren't that choosy as to what said porch is attached as long as we aren't treated to daily viewings of Domestic 911 or meth fumes.  We like the Northeast Heights area just fine, the fauxdobe generic style notwithstanding, but when I read the words "located in the prestigious Northeast Heights" in real estate brochures my Inner Trotsky starts hurking his hairballs of indignation.  No offense.  I'm just saying that these vague declarations of class distinctions make me uncomfy, and I'm not all that neurotic about where and in what I abide as long as it doesn't necessitate the wearing of Kevlar to fetch my newspaper.

Today I have to change a flat tire on the bike.  Why it's flat I have not a clue.  The tire itself looks no more molested than before I rode the Bosque Trail, but the tube won't accept air.  I even tried a Schrader adapter on the off-chance the Presta port on my pump was malfunctioning; nope.  (Non-cyclist peeps may Google these terms if they desire to know what the Hell I'm talking about, but yeah, I wouldn't either probably.)  These are Bontrager Race Lite HardCase tires I bought specifically to combat the perils of Portland's rubble/glass/syringe-strewn streets, and so goat-heads aside I have trouble believing a few cracked sections of pavement here would breach them.  I suspect the tube simply unsealed, perhaps at the valve seam. (Non-bikers: Zzzzzzzzzzzzz)  I'll find out.  OF COURSE it's the rear tire, and I suck at changing flats anyway.  Grr.

After that, a walk along the North Pino Arroyo Trail through Heritage Hills Park.  We discovered it yesterday from the Cherry Hills Library lot.  It's awesome.

But first, the household chores.

Get out and enjoy the day!

Adios.

It's time to get busy, judging from last week's tragi-comic bicycle adventure (or Miss Adventure, as it's obvious our relationship is not on a first-name basis).

Call it an acclimation proclamation, a call to harms.  In short, I'm going to have to go out on the bike and hurt myself over and over again.  It just needs doing, else I'll remain standing beside the road sniveling "Mommy!  The stupid old air HURT me!"

The facts are these:  Last week I kitted up (that is, I donned some tatty bike shorts, a pair of cut-off sweats for modesty, a jersey, a flapping LOUD aloha shirt, and a helmet with blinking bike light affixed; it's the sort of oufit that had even Portlanders snorting into their lattés, which is fine because if you're laughing at me it means you SEE me), slathered on a layer of 30 SPF, and carried my trusty steed (a 2004 model Trek 7500FX) down the stairs.  My wife agreed to drive SAG for me in the event my effort flagged OR the bright red of our Toyota Yaris was needed to distract a Hummer whose rutting ground I might inadvertently invade.  Turning out of the parking lot, I pedaled my way to Academy Blvd. and turned east toward the Sandias.  The goal was to reach Tramway Blvd, where I would turn north and ride as far as time allowed.

I made it two miles on Academy.  At the most.

As I stood on the sidewalk waiting for the missus to circle around to collect me, as the blackness slowly receded from the edges of my vision, as the slight pink mist of exhaled lung tissue emanating from my gaping mouth abated little by little with each gusting breath, I had some time for reflection, a few minutes of interior dialogue.  Much of it was profane, and I'm really trying to cut down on the coarse language.  Basically the conversation ran thusly:

You have GOT to be [farmin'] kidding me.  You used to commute ten miles a day to and from work with energy to spare, you take a couple of months off, and you only manage TWO MILES, if that?  [Melon farmer]!

Hey!  These aren't the plump, juicy air molecules they grow at sea level, a'ight?  These here are, like, tiny spiky samurai dudes.  Who hate you.  And look, who was it decided that because he wasn't working he didn't see a reason to go out and ride?  What kind of [stuff] is that?  You could've kept it up at least for fitness' sake or better yet, FUN, but oh NO, hand me another [farmin'] doughnut!  This is YOUR [gosh-danged] fault, Humongulus!

I was still castigating myself for my slothful ways when the missus reappeared and pulled over at the curb.  This was humiliating!  Depressing!  Logic, ever timid and too polite, tapped lightly upon my cognitive processes and suggested that of course not all of this regretful situation was due to laziness, that I simply wasn't prepared for the toll the elevation and the rarer air would take, but it really didn't make me feel better.  I was, and still am, very annoyed with myself.

Over the next week my lungs rattled like a plague victim's, my back and chest hurt like Hell, my calves threatened to cramp just walking across the room.  Although I recently -- well, five or six months ago -- had a physical exam and was declared reasonably fit (for a fat-air sucker, at least), it feels as if I've been betrayed by my aging shell of flesh.  Well NUTS TO THAT.  Acclimate I will.  Today I'm going out again, and I'll keep going out until I either conquer the atmosphere, or my colorfully-attired corpse decorates a curb (Ooh pretty!  Is it a shrub?  No, it was moving a little and then it stopped.  Did you hear that noise it made?  Like a cartoon steam shovel!)


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If you're vegetably-inclined (I used to eschew -- as in "not chew" -- anything that grew from the ground, but I've learned better habits these last few years), I can recommend the farmer's market on Eubank Blvd NE.  We discovered it this last week and Holy Cr@p does it smell good in there!  The markets we visited in Oregon were all open-air affairs, so this indoor market really concentrates the aromas, chief of which were from fresh green chiles.  We took some home and the missus made her very first batch of green chile chicken enchiladas.  I about made myself sick.  There's still some left in the fridge, so breakfast this morning will be atypical I think.  Anyway, aside from the chiles there were strawberries that were among the largest and tastiest I've yet eaten.  This kind of place could turn you vegetarian. 

Today we'll be touring the city again, seeing what's to see and familiarizing ourselves with our adopted city.  Maybe get further west of I-25, park the car and stroll Old Town.  This is IF I haven't been collected from the roadway and medivac'd to the nearest hospital before then.

I'm off to read the morning paper and have a bite with the spousal unit.  Enjoy your day.