Final resting place of Isaac the Butcher
Thursday, January 27, 2005
Wednesday, January 26, 2005
Sunday, January 23, 2005
blue over yellow
Plaza Escalante is located in downtown Albuquerque at 414.5 Central Avenue SE. These intriguing adobe shops were constructed in the early 1930s by W.E. Anderson. According to my sources, Anderson was a carpenter by trade and lived in the adjacent Neo-Classical Revival house at 412 Central Avenue SE that he built around 1907. You can buy cookies there today that are as pleasing to the tummy as they are to the eye.
Wednesday, January 19, 2005
Archaeology Recipes 101
Curiously, people expressing a newfound interest in the daily routine of archaeologists almost always get around to asking, “What do you eat?” I guess they think we all eat chilled monkey brains as depicted in Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom. In reality, archaeologists tend to consume normal food just like regular people. Possibly, archaeologists do drink more beer.
I’ve heard that cooking blogs are all the rage these days, so I thought I’d pitch in and include a few recipes of my own in an attempt to kill a few mockingbirds with a single stone tool. Of course I don’t intend to post them all at once, as I wish to make interested readers feel like they have reasons to return and check out future installments.
First up is the Excavation PB&J Sandwich. Personally, I find the name somewhat misleading, as this classic sandwich makes for ideal eats on practically any archaeological project- be it an excavation, survey, research, or even while hidden away from the rest of the world in the belly of an archaeological laboratory. (Incidentally, people who work in archaeology laboratories oftentimes refer to themselves as “lab rats.”)
Preparation time averages about 3 minutes, assuming of course that you concentrate on the sandwich and don’t get distracted, or drawn into a lengthy argument with your co-workers about which came first- the pot or the shard. The key to making the perfect Excavation PB&J Sandwich is being prepared and having the essential ingredients on hand. Minimally, this includes bread, peanut butter, jelly, and raisins.
Bread: Use two slices of practically any type of bread, except garlic. If you’ve blown your per diem at one of the local bars and find yourself short of cash near the end of a 10-day field session, it is perfectly acceptable to gather uneaten slices of toast from the continental breakfast bar from your hotel in the morning. If you are too shy to do so while the rest of the crew is present, wait till everyone is in the vehicle and tell your crew chief that you forgot your compass and run back inside. An added benefit of that maneuver is that the vehicle will be well on the way to having been warmed to a comfortable temperature by the time you return.
Peanut Butter: Use Skippy! Skippy’s 16-ounce plastic jars fit easily into even the most moderate-sized dig kit without overcrowding. Forget those other name brands, and whatever you do, avoid anything that claims to be 100% natural. You’ll spend more time trying to stir the oil back into their butter to make it halfway spreadable, and regardless of what you may have been told by those lunatics on NPR… it won’t taste nearly as good.
Jelly: I won’t even begin to recommend a flavor since there are so many. Yet, grape, blackberry, and mixed fruit come to mind. Experienced archaeologists realize that traveling with glass jars of jelly or jam is as hazardous as it is impractical. Thus, it is recommended that you grab a handful of those little plastic jelly packets whenever you see them on your table at a restaurant. Free jelly is one of the earliest indications that a society is evolving into a socialistic mode. I bet you didn’t know that!
Raisins: You’ll want a handful of these little buggers for sure since constructing an Excavation PB&J Sandwich without raisins is paramount to making a pitcher of Kool-aid without water. Sure, you CAN do it, but why on earth would you want to? Both Sun-maid and Dole offer raisins in convenient travel-sized boxes, but those are usually cost prohibitive. Your hard earned per diem would be much better spent buying raisins in the rectangular 8-ounce boxes. Again, if you find yourself low on funds, odds are very good that you will be able to sweet talk one of the members of your crew out of a few raisins from their Trader Joe’s Trail Mix. Don’t worry if they have chili flavored trail mix. You can still salvage the raisins by soaking them in Coke. Use the peanut butter jar lid for this purpose, but be sure to rinse it off before screwing it back onto the jar. Otherwise, you’ll soon have a dig kit filled with ants. Be sure to begin the soaking process as soon as possible as the longer they are allowed to marinate in the Coke, the tastier your sandwich will be when you eat it.
You should take care to not offend anyone who offers you more trail mix than you actually want. If they should press you after you say “No thanks,” I find that it is generally easier to accept the offer with gratitude. Later you can always discard the unwanted materials in your back dirt pile when no one is looking.
Okay, with all the necessary ingredients gathered together, you are ready to construct a delicious Excavation PB&J Sandwich!
First, you’ll need to position your two slices of bread on a relatively clean surface. I normally employ my field notes for this purpose, but you may substitute any USGS 7.5 minute topographic map.
(I also use my handy weatherproof clipboard as shelter during light rain showers to prevent my bread from becoming soggy.) Anal-retentive people tend to make sure the slices of bread are laid out to mirror each other. Although this doesn’t really affect the overall taste, it could be important if you are concerned with presentation.
Next, trowel a glob of peanut butter across the exposed surface of the slice of bread that is either furthest north or west (obviously depending on how you are situated at the time). You should apply the peanut butter liberally to a depth of not less than 3 millimeters, making sure you end up with a level surface, but not necessarily “smooth.” A good rule of thumb is to add an additional millimeter of peanut butter for each increment of 10 degrees as temperatures plummet below 70 degrees (Fahrenheit).
Then, open three jelly packets and dump the contents onto the surface of the other slice of bread. You may substitute only two packets of jelly if you wish, but four packets is really too many. You will want to spread the jelly around on the bread using your trowel as before. There is no need to clean off any remaining peanut butter before this step, but I should mention that you WILL want to make sure you clean the majority of attached sediment from your trowel BEFORE you begin the peanut butter phase. Don’t sweat it if you didn’t since a little (hanta virus-free) dirt isn’t likely to cause long-term health problems. Besides, is it really a SANDwich if it is completely grit free?
With the slices of bread covered with appropriate lenses of peanut butter and jelly, it is time to add the raisins. If you’ve got them soaking in Coke, this would be the time to remove them from that container. Make sure that you always add the raisins to the jelly side of the sandwich. Sprinkle a handful across the jellied surface evenly, or if time permits, create an interesting design or likeness of a particular artifact you wish to find once you get back to digging. For instance, I’ve been known to add my raisins in the shape of a Clovis projectile point.
The final step involves lifting and flipping the slice of peanut buttered bread and placing it (peanut butter side down) on top of the jellied slice. Although you are likely starving at this point, it is very important that you take your time and complete this phase with a steady hand. One slip and the whole thing can land face down in the dirt, and will be reduced to food for ground monkeys. Also, don’t let anyone kid you into trying to flip the jellied side onto the peanut butter half. Previous studies have proven that this methodology is both flawed (Smuckers 1987) and “highly inefficient” (Goober and Peas 1992).
Now you are ready to kick back and enjoy one of the tastiest lunches known to mankind. Wonderful complements to this sandwich include Poore Brothers potato chips, Little Debbie brand snack cakes, and strawberry Twizlers.
A word on substitutions… I’d say that once you are comfortable with the process, go for it! As expressed previously, you really shouldn’t mess with the peanut butter. Bread is also an essential ingredient, but if you are REALLY in a fix, you may substitute plain strawberry Pop-tarts for the bread (and reduce the jelly to say a single packet). Also, you might enjoy substituting either candy corn or chocolate chips for the raisins, or honey for the jelly.
Dig in, and enjoy!
I’ve heard that cooking blogs are all the rage these days, so I thought I’d pitch in and include a few recipes of my own in an attempt to kill a few mockingbirds with a single stone tool. Of course I don’t intend to post them all at once, as I wish to make interested readers feel like they have reasons to return and check out future installments.
First up is the Excavation PB&J Sandwich. Personally, I find the name somewhat misleading, as this classic sandwich makes for ideal eats on practically any archaeological project- be it an excavation, survey, research, or even while hidden away from the rest of the world in the belly of an archaeological laboratory. (Incidentally, people who work in archaeology laboratories oftentimes refer to themselves as “lab rats.”)
Preparation time averages about 3 minutes, assuming of course that you concentrate on the sandwich and don’t get distracted, or drawn into a lengthy argument with your co-workers about which came first- the pot or the shard. The key to making the perfect Excavation PB&J Sandwich is being prepared and having the essential ingredients on hand. Minimally, this includes bread, peanut butter, jelly, and raisins.
Bread: Use two slices of practically any type of bread, except garlic. If you’ve blown your per diem at one of the local bars and find yourself short of cash near the end of a 10-day field session, it is perfectly acceptable to gather uneaten slices of toast from the continental breakfast bar from your hotel in the morning. If you are too shy to do so while the rest of the crew is present, wait till everyone is in the vehicle and tell your crew chief that you forgot your compass and run back inside. An added benefit of that maneuver is that the vehicle will be well on the way to having been warmed to a comfortable temperature by the time you return.
Peanut Butter: Use Skippy! Skippy’s 16-ounce plastic jars fit easily into even the most moderate-sized dig kit without overcrowding. Forget those other name brands, and whatever you do, avoid anything that claims to be 100% natural. You’ll spend more time trying to stir the oil back into their butter to make it halfway spreadable, and regardless of what you may have been told by those lunatics on NPR… it won’t taste nearly as good.
Jelly: I won’t even begin to recommend a flavor since there are so many. Yet, grape, blackberry, and mixed fruit come to mind. Experienced archaeologists realize that traveling with glass jars of jelly or jam is as hazardous as it is impractical. Thus, it is recommended that you grab a handful of those little plastic jelly packets whenever you see them on your table at a restaurant. Free jelly is one of the earliest indications that a society is evolving into a socialistic mode. I bet you didn’t know that!
Raisins: You’ll want a handful of these little buggers for sure since constructing an Excavation PB&J Sandwich without raisins is paramount to making a pitcher of Kool-aid without water. Sure, you CAN do it, but why on earth would you want to? Both Sun-maid and Dole offer raisins in convenient travel-sized boxes, but those are usually cost prohibitive. Your hard earned per diem would be much better spent buying raisins in the rectangular 8-ounce boxes. Again, if you find yourself low on funds, odds are very good that you will be able to sweet talk one of the members of your crew out of a few raisins from their Trader Joe’s Trail Mix. Don’t worry if they have chili flavored trail mix. You can still salvage the raisins by soaking them in Coke. Use the peanut butter jar lid for this purpose, but be sure to rinse it off before screwing it back onto the jar. Otherwise, you’ll soon have a dig kit filled with ants. Be sure to begin the soaking process as soon as possible as the longer they are allowed to marinate in the Coke, the tastier your sandwich will be when you eat it.
You should take care to not offend anyone who offers you more trail mix than you actually want. If they should press you after you say “No thanks,” I find that it is generally easier to accept the offer with gratitude. Later you can always discard the unwanted materials in your back dirt pile when no one is looking.
Okay, with all the necessary ingredients gathered together, you are ready to construct a delicious Excavation PB&J Sandwich!
First, you’ll need to position your two slices of bread on a relatively clean surface. I normally employ my field notes for this purpose, but you may substitute any USGS 7.5 minute topographic map.
(I also use my handy weatherproof clipboard as shelter during light rain showers to prevent my bread from becoming soggy.) Anal-retentive people tend to make sure the slices of bread are laid out to mirror each other. Although this doesn’t really affect the overall taste, it could be important if you are concerned with presentation.
Next, trowel a glob of peanut butter across the exposed surface of the slice of bread that is either furthest north or west (obviously depending on how you are situated at the time). You should apply the peanut butter liberally to a depth of not less than 3 millimeters, making sure you end up with a level surface, but not necessarily “smooth.” A good rule of thumb is to add an additional millimeter of peanut butter for each increment of 10 degrees as temperatures plummet below 70 degrees (Fahrenheit).
Then, open three jelly packets and dump the contents onto the surface of the other slice of bread. You may substitute only two packets of jelly if you wish, but four packets is really too many. You will want to spread the jelly around on the bread using your trowel as before. There is no need to clean off any remaining peanut butter before this step, but I should mention that you WILL want to make sure you clean the majority of attached sediment from your trowel BEFORE you begin the peanut butter phase. Don’t sweat it if you didn’t since a little (hanta virus-free) dirt isn’t likely to cause long-term health problems. Besides, is it really a SANDwich if it is completely grit free?
With the slices of bread covered with appropriate lenses of peanut butter and jelly, it is time to add the raisins. If you’ve got them soaking in Coke, this would be the time to remove them from that container. Make sure that you always add the raisins to the jelly side of the sandwich. Sprinkle a handful across the jellied surface evenly, or if time permits, create an interesting design or likeness of a particular artifact you wish to find once you get back to digging. For instance, I’ve been known to add my raisins in the shape of a Clovis projectile point.
The final step involves lifting and flipping the slice of peanut buttered bread and placing it (peanut butter side down) on top of the jellied slice. Although you are likely starving at this point, it is very important that you take your time and complete this phase with a steady hand. One slip and the whole thing can land face down in the dirt, and will be reduced to food for ground monkeys. Also, don’t let anyone kid you into trying to flip the jellied side onto the peanut butter half. Previous studies have proven that this methodology is both flawed (Smuckers 1987) and “highly inefficient” (Goober and Peas 1992).
Now you are ready to kick back and enjoy one of the tastiest lunches known to mankind. Wonderful complements to this sandwich include Poore Brothers potato chips, Little Debbie brand snack cakes, and strawberry Twizlers.
A word on substitutions… I’d say that once you are comfortable with the process, go for it! As expressed previously, you really shouldn’t mess with the peanut butter. Bread is also an essential ingredient, but if you are REALLY in a fix, you may substitute plain strawberry Pop-tarts for the bread (and reduce the jelly to say a single packet). Also, you might enjoy substituting either candy corn or chocolate chips for the raisins, or honey for the jelly.
Dig in, and enjoy!
Monday, January 17, 2005
Saturday, January 15, 2005
electronic bumper stickers
People are funny. Unfortunately, not in the Steve Martin style of funny, but more in an Andy Rooney sort of way. About as funny as driving down a road dotted with speed bumps after you’ve eaten too much spicy food at a Mexican restaurant.
What prompted this outburst is an email I recently received from some random person who had happened across Blog Kabin Fever. To make this entry longer than necessary, I’ll be referring to this mysterious person as “Mouth Breather.” I guess Mouth Breather assumed (incorrectly I should preface) that because I live in New Mexico and maintain my own blog, that not only would I agree with their political views and agendas, but that I would also be quite happy include a hyperlink in my cyberspace that would direct my own misguided readers to their blog where YOU would be completely assaulted with bizarre suburban myths and conspiracy theories so grand that nothing comparing to them has been heard (or in this case, read) since the latter days of the 2004 presidential race.
I think what bugs me most about this particular email, is wondering whether Mouth Breather even bothered to read my entries before cutting and pasting the insanity into an email and sending it my direction. I’m beginning to think that unwanted emails are the 21st century’s reincarnation of the phrase “AVON calling.”
Seriously… I can’t figure out this whole blogging trend. I do realize that I’m part of the problem rather than a solution. Friends and family are constantly sending me links to other blogs they find interesting. To be honest, I don’t read other blogs. Heck, I barely have time to write this one, let alone wade through the hundreds of thousands of other electronic journals floating around in the etherworld just waiting to suck.
Wasn’t it Benjamin Franklin who coined the phrase, “Read much, but not too many blogs?”
What prompted this outburst is an email I recently received from some random person who had happened across Blog Kabin Fever. To make this entry longer than necessary, I’ll be referring to this mysterious person as “Mouth Breather.” I guess Mouth Breather assumed (incorrectly I should preface) that because I live in New Mexico and maintain my own blog, that not only would I agree with their political views and agendas, but that I would also be quite happy include a hyperlink in my cyberspace that would direct my own misguided readers to their blog where YOU would be completely assaulted with bizarre suburban myths and conspiracy theories so grand that nothing comparing to them has been heard (or in this case, read) since the latter days of the 2004 presidential race.
I think what bugs me most about this particular email, is wondering whether Mouth Breather even bothered to read my entries before cutting and pasting the insanity into an email and sending it my direction. I’m beginning to think that unwanted emails are the 21st century’s reincarnation of the phrase “AVON calling.”
Seriously… I can’t figure out this whole blogging trend. I do realize that I’m part of the problem rather than a solution. Friends and family are constantly sending me links to other blogs they find interesting. To be honest, I don’t read other blogs. Heck, I barely have time to write this one, let alone wade through the hundreds of thousands of other electronic journals floating around in the etherworld just waiting to suck.
Wasn’t it Benjamin Franklin who coined the phrase, “Read much, but not too many blogs?”
Friday, January 14, 2005
the boy who cried BLOG!
For those of you scoring at home or the office, I finally have some news regarding what some circles describe as my “abdominal concern.” Given that this topic has pretty much preoccupied my mind for a period not less than a number of weeks, I figure I should jump right into it and forget about trying to think of something interesting to write about.
The results of the previously discussed CT scan failed to indicate anything that could be causing pain or discomfort. With that in mind, my doctor referred me to a general surgeon to discuss options. I met with him this week, and after reading my chart and a general laying on of the hands, he announced that he didn’t detect anything in my gut that he could “fix” by cutting me open. Although I was in no position to argue with the man who said EXACTLY the words I wanted to hear, my brain couldn’t help comparing his examination with my newest trick of determining whether or not our mailbox contains mail simply by listening to the echo produced when I slide the key into the lock assembly.
We decided to just give it more time and see if the condition changes one way or the other. He did indicate that he could always stick a scope into my belly and see what he can see, but nobody really thinks that is warranted.
A couple of weird moments worth typing about played out in the office before I met with the surgeon. First, after the nurse weighed me in, she mentioned in passing that she probably should have asked me to remove my boots. I thought how strange that statement was to hear in this crazE, mixed up post-nine-one-one universe- as if I was thinking about using my boots to blow up their scale or something.
While taking my blood pressure, the same nurse asked, “So, have you ever had heart trouble?” Almost before I could begin thinking the worst, I replied “No.” Then she said that my pulse was barely 60, and suggested that that was outstanding for a person of my age. I laughed when she asked if I exercised often, as my normal daily routine is from bed to shower to truck, from truck to desk, back and forth between my desk and a Coke machine twice a day, then back to my truck, and finally… from my truck to the living room couch. What a workout! To think that it was nothing for me to survey at least 10 miles of highway a day for a decade and a fifth before becoming so sedentary.
Curious about the heart rate, I later looked online and learned that the average pulse for a relaxed adult is 72 beats per minute. So, unless my math is wrong, that means my heart has beat approximately 1,261,440,000 times in my lifetime- or 252,288,000 less than the average joker born under the same moon. Given that people always appear dumfounded when they discover how old I am, it makes me wonder if one of the tricks of looking younger than you are is related to having a slow heart rate and poor circulation. Undoubtedly, one of the best ways to look and feel older is to worry about things that you have absolutely no control over.
That said, you can stop wondering about my health, as I will have by the time I post this entry. Obviously with just over 79 days left until the beginning of baseball season, it is time to begin thinking about more pressing issues including whether or not the Albuquerque Isotopes will field a decent pitching staff.
The results of the previously discussed CT scan failed to indicate anything that could be causing pain or discomfort. With that in mind, my doctor referred me to a general surgeon to discuss options. I met with him this week, and after reading my chart and a general laying on of the hands, he announced that he didn’t detect anything in my gut that he could “fix” by cutting me open. Although I was in no position to argue with the man who said EXACTLY the words I wanted to hear, my brain couldn’t help comparing his examination with my newest trick of determining whether or not our mailbox contains mail simply by listening to the echo produced when I slide the key into the lock assembly.
We decided to just give it more time and see if the condition changes one way or the other. He did indicate that he could always stick a scope into my belly and see what he can see, but nobody really thinks that is warranted.
A couple of weird moments worth typing about played out in the office before I met with the surgeon. First, after the nurse weighed me in, she mentioned in passing that she probably should have asked me to remove my boots. I thought how strange that statement was to hear in this crazE, mixed up post-nine-one-one universe- as if I was thinking about using my boots to blow up their scale or something.
While taking my blood pressure, the same nurse asked, “So, have you ever had heart trouble?” Almost before I could begin thinking the worst, I replied “No.” Then she said that my pulse was barely 60, and suggested that that was outstanding for a person of my age. I laughed when she asked if I exercised often, as my normal daily routine is from bed to shower to truck, from truck to desk, back and forth between my desk and a Coke machine twice a day, then back to my truck, and finally… from my truck to the living room couch. What a workout! To think that it was nothing for me to survey at least 10 miles of highway a day for a decade and a fifth before becoming so sedentary.
Curious about the heart rate, I later looked online and learned that the average pulse for a relaxed adult is 72 beats per minute. So, unless my math is wrong, that means my heart has beat approximately 1,261,440,000 times in my lifetime- or 252,288,000 less than the average joker born under the same moon. Given that people always appear dumfounded when they discover how old I am, it makes me wonder if one of the tricks of looking younger than you are is related to having a slow heart rate and poor circulation. Undoubtedly, one of the best ways to look and feel older is to worry about things that you have absolutely no control over.
That said, you can stop wondering about my health, as I will have by the time I post this entry. Obviously with just over 79 days left until the beginning of baseball season, it is time to begin thinking about more pressing issues including whether or not the Albuquerque Isotopes will field a decent pitching staff.
Sunday, January 02, 2005
My first archaeological dig
Okay, not really. These photos taken in Toulon, Illinois during my formative years (ca. 1967) actually depict me playing in (or near) the sandbox that I shared with my older brother and sister, stray cats, and numerous squirrels.
Early discoveries included mostly short-haired Barbie doll heads, fragments of Tonka trucks, acorns, and kitty scat. Although my documentation efforts were significantly hampered by my inability to read or write, it is obvious that even at a very young age, I had a great desire to dig.
Many years would pass before I would fill my first 5 gallon bucket with sediment to be screened for cultural artifacts.
Friday, December 24, 2004
blog and run
Okay, so I’m listening to Liz Phair as I compose this entry. Sue me if you don’t like it.
I fired up the new camera after work this evening and began the process of learning how everything works. Included in this entry are a couple of the first photos I took with my shiny new Nikon D70. I believe they mark the beginning of a very promising working relationship.
This first image is a shot of a reproduction of a Margaret Keane painting from 1961. My wife likes this style of art, whereas I tend to gravitate more towards the drawings of Gary Larson and Berkeley Breathed for inspiration. If asked to name my favorite living painter, I would respond by asking if you are familiar with the works of Bev Doolittle.
This other image is of a draft horse figurine that I recently obtained from my grandmother. My grandfather collected these things for many years before he passed away, and I always thought they were the koolest! I’m very pleased to have one of my own now.
I’m not a big horse person, so I may have a few holes in my history facts. I understand that draft horses peaked as the dominating source of industrial power across the United States around 1920. It makes sense then, that my grandfather would have fond memories of draft horses as he would have been familiar seeing them working on the farm and helping build roads and used in other construction projects when he was a kid. No doubt he would have noticed their rapid decline in popularity as they began being replaced by the automobile when he was about 8 years old.
I’m taking tomorrow off work so I can get a haircut and take care of any last minute Santa-related preparations that need tending to. The pending haircut reminds me of my favorite barber joke…
Q: “What’s the difference between a good haircut and a bad haircut?”
A: “About two or three days.”
Before you post a comment explaining how lame you think that joke is, please keep in mind that I never typed that it was funny. I tend to laugh at lots of things that aren’t that funny.
I fired up the new camera after work this evening and began the process of learning how everything works. Included in this entry are a couple of the first photos I took with my shiny new Nikon D70. I believe they mark the beginning of a very promising working relationship.
This first image is a shot of a reproduction of a Margaret Keane painting from 1961. My wife likes this style of art, whereas I tend to gravitate more towards the drawings of Gary Larson and Berkeley Breathed for inspiration. If asked to name my favorite living painter, I would respond by asking if you are familiar with the works of Bev Doolittle.
This other image is of a draft horse figurine that I recently obtained from my grandmother. My grandfather collected these things for many years before he passed away, and I always thought they were the koolest! I’m very pleased to have one of my own now.
I’m not a big horse person, so I may have a few holes in my history facts. I understand that draft horses peaked as the dominating source of industrial power across the United States around 1920. It makes sense then, that my grandfather would have fond memories of draft horses as he would have been familiar seeing them working on the farm and helping build roads and used in other construction projects when he was a kid. No doubt he would have noticed their rapid decline in popularity as they began being replaced by the automobile when he was about 8 years old.
I’m taking tomorrow off work so I can get a haircut and take care of any last minute Santa-related preparations that need tending to. The pending haircut reminds me of my favorite barber joke…
Q: “What’s the difference between a good haircut and a bad haircut?”
A: “About two or three days.”
Before you post a comment explaining how lame you think that joke is, please keep in mind that I never typed that it was funny. I tend to laugh at lots of things that aren’t that funny.
Thursday, December 23, 2004
yule blog
I made a quick stop at the grocery store on my way home this evening after a LONG day at the office. I picked up a few essentials and made a beeline for the express lane. Although I was under the 15-item limit, my purchases were large and heavy enough to require me to utilize a shopping cart.
I pushed the buggy (I call shopping carts “buggies”) across the frozen parking lot and unloaded my items into my truck. I was going to abandon the cart where it was parked… not so much because I’m lazy, mind you, but because it was freezing outside. Besides, I already know what I’m getting for Krismas. I figure, how good do I have to be at this point?
At any rate, I quickly scanned the parking lot to see who (if anyone) was watching me. I’d hate to leave a cart in the middle of a parking lot, only to see myself on the evening news portrayed as “part of the problem.”
I noted that the Salvation Army bell ringer wasn’t concerned with my buggy etiquette, then observed a man sitting behind the steering wheel in an old white pickup truck. This dude looked exactly like the robot gunslinger from the movie Westworld, and he was looking right at me. His icy stare seemed to slice right through the winter wind, my coat and flannel shirt, and right through my Generation X veins. I decided I didn’t want to take any chances with this fellow, so I pushed the buggy an extra 35 feet over to the aluminum corral where I left it all by it’s lonesome.
While driving home, I wondered what I would do if I wake up tomorrow only to discover that I’m just a character in a new Michael Crichton novel. If that should be the case, I’m going to definitely quit my job and sleep in.
I pushed the buggy (I call shopping carts “buggies”) across the frozen parking lot and unloaded my items into my truck. I was going to abandon the cart where it was parked… not so much because I’m lazy, mind you, but because it was freezing outside. Besides, I already know what I’m getting for Krismas. I figure, how good do I have to be at this point?
At any rate, I quickly scanned the parking lot to see who (if anyone) was watching me. I’d hate to leave a cart in the middle of a parking lot, only to see myself on the evening news portrayed as “part of the problem.”
I noted that the Salvation Army bell ringer wasn’t concerned with my buggy etiquette, then observed a man sitting behind the steering wheel in an old white pickup truck. This dude looked exactly like the robot gunslinger from the movie Westworld, and he was looking right at me. His icy stare seemed to slice right through the winter wind, my coat and flannel shirt, and right through my Generation X veins. I decided I didn’t want to take any chances with this fellow, so I pushed the buggy an extra 35 feet over to the aluminum corral where I left it all by it’s lonesome.
While driving home, I wondered what I would do if I wake up tomorrow only to discover that I’m just a character in a new Michael Crichton novel. If that should be the case, I’m going to definitely quit my job and sleep in.
Wednesday, December 15, 2004
ticket to BLOG
I heard this week that Paul McCartney is scheduled to perform during this season’s Super Bowl halftime show. I guess if anything positive resulted from last year’s fiasco, it is that the people in charge were forced to bite the bullet and hire a professional entertainer. Still, it leaves me wondering… whatever happened to Wings?
I was thinking about John Lennon earlier this afternoon. I think it had something to do with having watched a special about the Madrid train bombings this past March on the tellE the previous evening. I wondered what message John (okay, and Yoko) might have had for the terrorists if he were still alive today. After considerable pondering, I decided that although I couldn’t predict with any degree of accuracy what he might have said (after all, I’m no John Lennon), I felt comfortable with my assessment that he would have delivered his message in a funny accent, and it would have almost certainly rhymed. Would his statements or reclusive love-ins serve to stop acts of terrorism? Highly unlikely, but his entertaining hijinx would have been a welcome distraction nonetheless.
In keeping with the Beatles “theme,” I should mention that I am excitedly anticipating the arrival of a DVD from Netflix in the mail entitled “Concert for George.” This movie is a live recording of a concert held at Royal Albert Hall in London in 2002- marking the one-year anniversary of the death of George Harrison. I’m led to believe that this film contains some outstanding performances by musicians including Eric Clapton, Tom Petty, Ravi Shankar, and Jeff Lynne (to name a few). Supposedly, they will be performing the songs of George Harrison- perhaps the most talented of the Fab Four. If you catch yourself smirking or scratching your head while reading that last statement, let me remind you that it was George who gave us Time Bandits.
And what blog entry discussing the Beatles would be complete without a statement about Ringo Starr?
This one!
I was thinking about John Lennon earlier this afternoon. I think it had something to do with having watched a special about the Madrid train bombings this past March on the tellE the previous evening. I wondered what message John (okay, and Yoko) might have had for the terrorists if he were still alive today. After considerable pondering, I decided that although I couldn’t predict with any degree of accuracy what he might have said (after all, I’m no John Lennon), I felt comfortable with my assessment that he would have delivered his message in a funny accent, and it would have almost certainly rhymed. Would his statements or reclusive love-ins serve to stop acts of terrorism? Highly unlikely, but his entertaining hijinx would have been a welcome distraction nonetheless.
In keeping with the Beatles “theme,” I should mention that I am excitedly anticipating the arrival of a DVD from Netflix in the mail entitled “Concert for George.” This movie is a live recording of a concert held at Royal Albert Hall in London in 2002- marking the one-year anniversary of the death of George Harrison. I’m led to believe that this film contains some outstanding performances by musicians including Eric Clapton, Tom Petty, Ravi Shankar, and Jeff Lynne (to name a few). Supposedly, they will be performing the songs of George Harrison- perhaps the most talented of the Fab Four. If you catch yourself smirking or scratching your head while reading that last statement, let me remind you that it was George who gave us Time Bandits.
And what blog entry discussing the Beatles would be complete without a statement about Ringo Starr?
This one!
Friday, December 10, 2004
roadside distractions
Shadows of the Mother Road
Sorry, really no time to think of much of interest to write once again as I've been spending my free time researching what camera I want to buy. (Settled on the Nikon D70) I will be posting photos taken with the new camera before the new year strikes.
I also have been working through a few serious issues with my commercial website, but that all seems to be under control now.
medical update: News from the radiologist and doctor indicates that my abdominal pain is "real," although it has yet to be determined what sort of treatment will be required beyond drinking beer and trying not to think about it.
Thursday, December 09, 2004
Thursday, December 02, 2004
KAT scan fever
Well, I guess we’re either all friends here, or strangers, so this topic should be appropriate for this forum. After dealing with an intermittent “pain” in my right abdomen for the past several, well, let’s call them “months,” my doctor has tentatively diagnosed my condition as having an “incisional hernia.” The best way I can describe the sensation is having a pulled muscle that seems to get better, only to begin throbbing again. Basically, the belief is that the area surrounding the location where I had abdominal surgery as a toddler has become weak, and I may be in danger of literally spilling my guts to the world. Okay, perhaps not quite literally, but when it comes to doctors and medical procedures, I tend to paint pictures with my most dramatic brush.
With that in mind, today I went in for a CAT scan (or CT scan for medical purists). I should add that I had talked to enough people who had had one (or more) before hand to really make me uncomfortable with the waiting process. The waiting was undoubtedly the worst part as it allowed the crock pot of my overactive imagination to nearly boil over, spilling uncertainty and doubt all over the countertop.
No wait, the WORST part of the whole deal was having to drink this milky krap called “Ready-CAT” (or something along that line). The liquid is a contrast material that I suppose coats your innards in order to allow for the clearest and most accurate images. I was told to drink almost a full liter of this white fluid in two sittings about an hour before my scheduled appointment. As it turned out, my valve and gag reflex conspired to make it take me a full three hours to get about 98 percent of the stuff down my gullet. Luckily I had plenty of time to get it down though since things don’t always go as planned.
I would imagine that any of you who have already experienced a CT scan would just as soon enjoy your web surfing time by looking at photos of my outrageous kitties than continue with this particular ranting. But for the rest of you…
A CT (computed tomography) scan, uses special x-ray equipment to obtain image data from different angles around the body. Then computers take those data and process them in order to depict cross-sections of body tissues and organs. When it comes to studying the abdominal region of the human body, I’m told that this is the next best tool besides a very sharp knife. CT scanning is also apparently very good to help diagnose problems inside the chest, identifying cancers, aiding in the treatment of spinal problems and injuries to the skeletal structure.
Although many hospitals have dedicated CT scanners in their emergency room to help quickly identify internal injuries for trauma cases, I learned the hard way today that that isn’t always the situation, and oftentimes, hospitals only have one CT scanner. If you MUST go, I think my best advise is to tell you to be prepared for a wait. If waiting isn’t possible, I suppose you might consider crashing your car into a light pole in the parking lot near the emergency room door as that would almost certainly grab someone’s attention.
The hospital I went to is in the middle of a large reconstruction project, which lent areas of the place a surreal, almost wartime quality. I believe that was the most interesting observation I had inside the hospital. Nevertheless, I was taken to a mobile CT scanning unit in the parking lot behind the hospital. It reminded me of the semi-truck used to haul Evel Knievel's bikes around the country in search of the next great jump location. “Fine,” I thought, “I’ll do the CT scan here, but if it is determined that I need surgery, I’ll shop around as I’m not overly keen on the idea of being opened up in a parking lot with the sign from a Burlington Coat Factory in clear view."
As instructed, I wore comfortable, loose-fitting (yet moderately stylish) clothing for my CT scan. I wasn’t issued a gown, and since they were only interested in my stomach, I was even allowed to leave on my eyeglasses and ring. I suspect I could have left on a gold chain had I been wearing one at the time.
The CT scanner is a large, square machine with a hole in the center, something like a doughnut. I was made to lie still on a table that moves up and down, and also slides into and out of the center of the hole. Covered with a sheet with my jeans pulled down to my ankles, my feet were propped up on a heavy pillow. I was so comfortable at that point, I do believe I could have dozed off if not for the fact that I was waiting to have an iv jabbed into my arm. I was told that the iv is used to administer iodine into my bloodstream that would enhance visibility. The technician also told me that I would experience a few moments of heat spreading throughout my body and a metallic taste in my mouth. Possibly, she added, I would experience itching, hives (those are always fun), shortness of breath, or swelling in my throat.
As the table began moving and inserting me into the doughnut feet first, I took one last “good” swallow and did my best to relax. I opened my eyes and found myself staring directly into the General Electric logo on the front of the scanner. Trying to further relax my body, my brain offered in its Robert Heinlein robot voice “This brief taste of your own mortality is brought to you by GE.” I didn’t laugh, but somehow it did manage to make me feel more at ease.
The next few minutes went quickly. I was moved in and out of the doughnut on the magic table as the x-ray clicked and whirred all around. First it was above me, then below, then to my left, then to my right, and then again to my left but slightly behind… Whew, I soon gave up trying to keep track of what it was doing, and concentrated on my new game of pretending that I was levitating and making myself move back and forth by sheer will alone.
I was still quite cold, and hadn’t tasted any metal when the technician reappeared from wherever it is technicians disappear to, and began apologizing for having stuck me in the arm when I didn’t actually require the iodine injection. I forgave her immediately when I realized that she was informing me that I was done and could go home. Funny, I suspect I would have argued with a mechanic if I went to pick up my truck and he told me they had accidentally rotated the tires when all I wanted was an oil change.
Now I’m back to the old waiting game- to see how the radiologist and my doctor interpret the results, and to find out whether my stomachache is actually located in my head.
In the meanwhile, I do believe that today’s dose of radiation already has me feeling better.
With that in mind, today I went in for a CAT scan (or CT scan for medical purists). I should add that I had talked to enough people who had had one (or more) before hand to really make me uncomfortable with the waiting process. The waiting was undoubtedly the worst part as it allowed the crock pot of my overactive imagination to nearly boil over, spilling uncertainty and doubt all over the countertop.
No wait, the WORST part of the whole deal was having to drink this milky krap called “Ready-CAT” (or something along that line). The liquid is a contrast material that I suppose coats your innards in order to allow for the clearest and most accurate images. I was told to drink almost a full liter of this white fluid in two sittings about an hour before my scheduled appointment. As it turned out, my valve and gag reflex conspired to make it take me a full three hours to get about 98 percent of the stuff down my gullet. Luckily I had plenty of time to get it down though since things don’t always go as planned.
I would imagine that any of you who have already experienced a CT scan would just as soon enjoy your web surfing time by looking at photos of my outrageous kitties than continue with this particular ranting. But for the rest of you…
A CT (computed tomography) scan, uses special x-ray equipment to obtain image data from different angles around the body. Then computers take those data and process them in order to depict cross-sections of body tissues and organs. When it comes to studying the abdominal region of the human body, I’m told that this is the next best tool besides a very sharp knife. CT scanning is also apparently very good to help diagnose problems inside the chest, identifying cancers, aiding in the treatment of spinal problems and injuries to the skeletal structure.
Although many hospitals have dedicated CT scanners in their emergency room to help quickly identify internal injuries for trauma cases, I learned the hard way today that that isn’t always the situation, and oftentimes, hospitals only have one CT scanner. If you MUST go, I think my best advise is to tell you to be prepared for a wait. If waiting isn’t possible, I suppose you might consider crashing your car into a light pole in the parking lot near the emergency room door as that would almost certainly grab someone’s attention.
The hospital I went to is in the middle of a large reconstruction project, which lent areas of the place a surreal, almost wartime quality. I believe that was the most interesting observation I had inside the hospital. Nevertheless, I was taken to a mobile CT scanning unit in the parking lot behind the hospital. It reminded me of the semi-truck used to haul Evel Knievel's bikes around the country in search of the next great jump location. “Fine,” I thought, “I’ll do the CT scan here, but if it is determined that I need surgery, I’ll shop around as I’m not overly keen on the idea of being opened up in a parking lot with the sign from a Burlington Coat Factory in clear view."
As instructed, I wore comfortable, loose-fitting (yet moderately stylish) clothing for my CT scan. I wasn’t issued a gown, and since they were only interested in my stomach, I was even allowed to leave on my eyeglasses and ring. I suspect I could have left on a gold chain had I been wearing one at the time.
The CT scanner is a large, square machine with a hole in the center, something like a doughnut. I was made to lie still on a table that moves up and down, and also slides into and out of the center of the hole. Covered with a sheet with my jeans pulled down to my ankles, my feet were propped up on a heavy pillow. I was so comfortable at that point, I do believe I could have dozed off if not for the fact that I was waiting to have an iv jabbed into my arm. I was told that the iv is used to administer iodine into my bloodstream that would enhance visibility. The technician also told me that I would experience a few moments of heat spreading throughout my body and a metallic taste in my mouth. Possibly, she added, I would experience itching, hives (those are always fun), shortness of breath, or swelling in my throat.
As the table began moving and inserting me into the doughnut feet first, I took one last “good” swallow and did my best to relax. I opened my eyes and found myself staring directly into the General Electric logo on the front of the scanner. Trying to further relax my body, my brain offered in its Robert Heinlein robot voice “This brief taste of your own mortality is brought to you by GE.” I didn’t laugh, but somehow it did manage to make me feel more at ease.
The next few minutes went quickly. I was moved in and out of the doughnut on the magic table as the x-ray clicked and whirred all around. First it was above me, then below, then to my left, then to my right, and then again to my left but slightly behind… Whew, I soon gave up trying to keep track of what it was doing, and concentrated on my new game of pretending that I was levitating and making myself move back and forth by sheer will alone.
I was still quite cold, and hadn’t tasted any metal when the technician reappeared from wherever it is technicians disappear to, and began apologizing for having stuck me in the arm when I didn’t actually require the iodine injection. I forgave her immediately when I realized that she was informing me that I was done and could go home. Funny, I suspect I would have argued with a mechanic if I went to pick up my truck and he told me they had accidentally rotated the tires when all I wanted was an oil change.
Now I’m back to the old waiting game- to see how the radiologist and my doctor interpret the results, and to find out whether my stomachache is actually located in my head.
In the meanwhile, I do believe that today’s dose of radiation already has me feeling better.
Sunday, November 28, 2004
he's not heavy
If asked, I would say that I tend to see a lot of movies. My wife might argue that we don’t see nearly enough. Thus, someplace between the two answers is logically the truth of the matter. Interestingly, I rarely have much to say about movies, even about one I’ve just seen. Normally during our walk home, the best I can manage is to say that the movie was “Okay,” or list a number of reasons why it sucked and was a complete waste of film. “Cold Mountain” is a great example of what I’m talking about… the feeling that you’ve been cheated out of two hours of your life.
However, this evening we saw a film that blew my mind away. And, we watched it from the privacy and warmth of our home. I sat stunned from pretty much beginning to end of “Brother's Keeper.” This movie was released some 12 years ago, but I only recently ran across it on Netflix while searching for something in the neighborhood of “Crumb” and “American Splendor.” (Note: I'm NOT writing about the Jeanne Tripplehorn movie by the same title that was released in 2002. Please do not mistakenly rent that one!)
“Brother’s Keeper” is a documentary about the events surrounding, and personalities involved, in the trial of Delbert Ward, an aging New York dairy farmer, who was charged in the early 1990s with murdering his older brother William- supposedly in the bed they shared on the farm where they have lived with their stepbrothers Roscoe and Layman since the late 1930s (give or take a few years). To use the words “odd,” “eccentric,” “illiterate,” “unfortunate,” or “suspicious” to describe these fellas, would be like trying to hack your way through an Amazon rainforest using rusty toenail clippers!
Like I said, I sat without speech more or less for the entire movie, unable to look away except during two scenes. The first was during the second appearance of the medical examiner while offering his “expert” testimony as to William’s cause of death. I’m thinking, “Is this guy for real?” How on earth can this guy who would make for a completely unbelievable character even on “Six Feet Under,” be anything other than a fictional person discovered beaten, robbed, and left for dead in the middle of a Lou Reed song?
The other scene that disturbed me to no end, was the slaughtering of a hog. I think I understand WHY the filmmakers put that part in the movie, but I won’t go into my theory here and now as I wish to avoid biasing anyone who hasn’t seen this movie YET.
This movie is a fantastic medium to help you explore our justice system. It is also an anthropologist’s dream as the people watching is first rate!
When you rent this movie, I recommend you grab the 10th Anniversary Edition (1992) as it contains a bunch of extras, including footage of the first (and likely only) trip the Ward brothers made to Manhattan- and the original movie trailer that consists of an appearance by Spaulding Gray who undoubtedly saw a brief replay of the film recently after he leapt from a bridge. I must say, the shot of the brothers sitting in the shadows of the World Trade Center towers discussing whether or not they wanted to ride the elevator up to the observation deck is a jaw-dropping piece worthy of inclusion into any time capsule where the intent is to baffle future historians as to the reality of pre-9/11 America.
So forget about Shrek’s I or II, or the newest holiday film. Instead, rent “Brother’s Keeper” and settle back with a nice bottle of Wild Turkey and let the fun begin. I’m betting you will feel better about your station in life before the end credits begin rolling.
However, this evening we saw a film that blew my mind away. And, we watched it from the privacy and warmth of our home. I sat stunned from pretty much beginning to end of “Brother's Keeper.” This movie was released some 12 years ago, but I only recently ran across it on Netflix while searching for something in the neighborhood of “Crumb” and “American Splendor.” (Note: I'm NOT writing about the Jeanne Tripplehorn movie by the same title that was released in 2002. Please do not mistakenly rent that one!)
“Brother’s Keeper” is a documentary about the events surrounding, and personalities involved, in the trial of Delbert Ward, an aging New York dairy farmer, who was charged in the early 1990s with murdering his older brother William- supposedly in the bed they shared on the farm where they have lived with their stepbrothers Roscoe and Layman since the late 1930s (give or take a few years). To use the words “odd,” “eccentric,” “illiterate,” “unfortunate,” or “suspicious” to describe these fellas, would be like trying to hack your way through an Amazon rainforest using rusty toenail clippers!
Like I said, I sat without speech more or less for the entire movie, unable to look away except during two scenes. The first was during the second appearance of the medical examiner while offering his “expert” testimony as to William’s cause of death. I’m thinking, “Is this guy for real?” How on earth can this guy who would make for a completely unbelievable character even on “Six Feet Under,” be anything other than a fictional person discovered beaten, robbed, and left for dead in the middle of a Lou Reed song?
The other scene that disturbed me to no end, was the slaughtering of a hog. I think I understand WHY the filmmakers put that part in the movie, but I won’t go into my theory here and now as I wish to avoid biasing anyone who hasn’t seen this movie YET.
This movie is a fantastic medium to help you explore our justice system. It is also an anthropologist’s dream as the people watching is first rate!
When you rent this movie, I recommend you grab the 10th Anniversary Edition (1992) as it contains a bunch of extras, including footage of the first (and likely only) trip the Ward brothers made to Manhattan- and the original movie trailer that consists of an appearance by Spaulding Gray who undoubtedly saw a brief replay of the film recently after he leapt from a bridge. I must say, the shot of the brothers sitting in the shadows of the World Trade Center towers discussing whether or not they wanted to ride the elevator up to the observation deck is a jaw-dropping piece worthy of inclusion into any time capsule where the intent is to baffle future historians as to the reality of pre-9/11 America.
So forget about Shrek’s I or II, or the newest holiday film. Instead, rent “Brother’s Keeper” and settle back with a nice bottle of Wild Turkey and let the fun begin. I’m betting you will feel better about your station in life before the end credits begin rolling.
Saturday, November 27, 2004
one road that doesn't lead to Chaco
As part of my commute to and from my day job, I drive along a ca. 7-mile-long stretch of historic Route 66 (pre-1937 alignment) between Alameda and Bernalillo, New Mexico. I travel along this corridor through a decidedly rural setting on average between 4 and 10 times per week depending on my mood. I find this section of old highway to be relaxing, especially when contrasted to traveling along the parallel alignment of Interstate-25 through the same area. When I take the freeway, I find that I’m so busy taking defensive actions to avoid collisions with innumerable morons making their commute between Albuquerque and Santa Fe, and I often miss seeing interesting things afforded by the more leisurely State Route 313.
These things I enjoy looking at include cows and horses grazing in pastures, locals from the Sandia Pueblo gathering wild squash and other vegetation from the adjacent ditches, freshly cut hay fields, and the few ghostly remnants of the aged Mother Road such as abandoned filling stations, dilapidated billboards, and old highway construction features. (I know, I’m easily entertained.)
There is also a road sign that makes me smile because it reads “313 SOUTH.” For those of you who don’t know/remember, I spent the vast majority of my childhood in a house at 313 South Miller Street, in Toulon, Illinois. That’s it. It’s really a simply connection, but isn’t that really what nostalgia is all about?
I’ve been tempted to pull over and snap some photos of that signage, but I’ve resisted the urge given that there is virtually no place to pull safely off the roadway. That is, until recently. You see, the past couple weeks, I’ve been monitoring the progress of construction workers from the Sandia Pueblo who have been keeping themselves busy blading the shoulders of the roadway flat.
On the one hand, this type of thing is needed in the worst way as the road really has very few places where motorists can pull off the road in times of emergency. On the other hand, it is strange to experience how different the old corridor is beginning to “feel” with the new, wide (and flat) shoulders. I’m certain that people who believe that roadways are significant cultural properties that must be preserved “as-is” will be outraged by the modifications.
Then this week the workers began applying asphalt to the shoulders. This process results in traffic being stopped completely for extended periods of time (say 15-20 minutes) to allow the big machinery to move about without fear of crushing someone’s Nissan. So if I’m in a hurry, I’ll take the freeway. Otherwise, I’ll still take NM SR 313 just to see what happens. Sitting parked on a roadway for a quarter of an hour makes me think back to my experiences of conducting archaeological surveys along highways. You REALLY can see so much more when you walk a highway corridor than you can while driving through it. Perhaps that seems obvious to some of you, but it is funny how I tend to forget this fact.
Now I’m wondering if the roadway construction plans include resurfacing the entire deal. If so, I can kiss my leisure route goodbye as I’m sure traffic will increase by leaps and bounds, and the old artery will filled with new blood racing to create clogs in the heart of the Land of Enchantment.
For train watchers… there is one bend in the road and adjacent railroad tracks that is guaranteed to bring out the hobo in the best of us. Certainly during the warm days of Indian summer, I was tempted to blow off work and hang out on the side of the road and watch the bright orange B.N.S.F. diesel engines chug along the tracks pulling their cars loaded with freight to that magical spot on the horizon where turquoise blue meets green and all is gone.
These things I enjoy looking at include cows and horses grazing in pastures, locals from the Sandia Pueblo gathering wild squash and other vegetation from the adjacent ditches, freshly cut hay fields, and the few ghostly remnants of the aged Mother Road such as abandoned filling stations, dilapidated billboards, and old highway construction features. (I know, I’m easily entertained.)
There is also a road sign that makes me smile because it reads “313 SOUTH.” For those of you who don’t know/remember, I spent the vast majority of my childhood in a house at 313 South Miller Street, in Toulon, Illinois. That’s it. It’s really a simply connection, but isn’t that really what nostalgia is all about?
I’ve been tempted to pull over and snap some photos of that signage, but I’ve resisted the urge given that there is virtually no place to pull safely off the roadway. That is, until recently. You see, the past couple weeks, I’ve been monitoring the progress of construction workers from the Sandia Pueblo who have been keeping themselves busy blading the shoulders of the roadway flat.
On the one hand, this type of thing is needed in the worst way as the road really has very few places where motorists can pull off the road in times of emergency. On the other hand, it is strange to experience how different the old corridor is beginning to “feel” with the new, wide (and flat) shoulders. I’m certain that people who believe that roadways are significant cultural properties that must be preserved “as-is” will be outraged by the modifications.
Then this week the workers began applying asphalt to the shoulders. This process results in traffic being stopped completely for extended periods of time (say 15-20 minutes) to allow the big machinery to move about without fear of crushing someone’s Nissan. So if I’m in a hurry, I’ll take the freeway. Otherwise, I’ll still take NM SR 313 just to see what happens. Sitting parked on a roadway for a quarter of an hour makes me think back to my experiences of conducting archaeological surveys along highways. You REALLY can see so much more when you walk a highway corridor than you can while driving through it. Perhaps that seems obvious to some of you, but it is funny how I tend to forget this fact.
Now I’m wondering if the roadway construction plans include resurfacing the entire deal. If so, I can kiss my leisure route goodbye as I’m sure traffic will increase by leaps and bounds, and the old artery will filled with new blood racing to create clogs in the heart of the Land of Enchantment.
For train watchers… there is one bend in the road and adjacent railroad tracks that is guaranteed to bring out the hobo in the best of us. Certainly during the warm days of Indian summer, I was tempted to blow off work and hang out on the side of the road and watch the bright orange B.N.S.F. diesel engines chug along the tracks pulling their cars loaded with freight to that magical spot on the horizon where turquoise blue meets green and all is gone.
Tuesday, November 23, 2004
Careful with that blog Eugene!
I hope you have finished all your shopping for Thanksgiving. I won’t even drive by a supermarket tomorrow or Thursday morning, as that would be begging for frustration. Instead, I think I’ll share a Thanksgiving story with you. (The moral of this story is “not all cops take holidays”).
The year was 1989 (or 1988). Seriously, who can remember those kinds of details anyway? I woke up “late” on Thanksgiving morning after spending the majority of the previous evening at the Midway Tap in Kewanee, Illinois with co-workers from S&W Associates. We made balloons at that factory. Although that fact has nothing whatsoever to do with THIS story, I think it is interesting enough to be worth mentioning.
After a quick shower, I grabbed my backpack of clothes, a package of strawberry pop-tarts, and a couple cans of Coke- hitting the road to my grandparents’ house right at 9:30 am. I was facing a 2.5 hour drive to Versailles, Illinois, which would get me there right around noon. I figured I could make up enough time to guarantee that I would not arrive late if I took a couple of blacktop roads I was familiar with. It has always been surprising how minimally some of those roads are traveled in America’s heartland… especially given that they are oftentimes aligned straight as an arrow.
Nevertheless, I settled behind the wheel of my 76 Ford Torino with my hangover as co-pilot. We made excellent time, listening to Neil Young, Pink Floyd, and Arlo Guthrie on the tape deck, and portions of the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade on the AM radio. The only time I took my hands off the wheel was to primp my mullet in the manner that only a person who has had a mullet (or HAS one… or WILL have one) can understand.
About 10 miles from my grandparents’ village limits, I glanced at the clock and discovered that I was going to arrive with a full 30 minutes to spare. I barely had time to get excited about that when I noticed a car pull into range of my rear view mirror. Yeah, it was a cop, and his flashing lights indicated that he had something of importance to discuss with me.
If you’ve been pulled over before, you can pretty much imagine how the next several minutes passed. If you’ve never been pulled over for speeding, well, what on earth are you waiting for?
A $52 fine later, I arrived at my grandparents’ house directly at noon. The entire family was already there. No time was wasted parking since the kids normally played basketball in the driveway after eating, and the adults had been trained that they wouldn’t have to go outside and move the cars if they parked along the curb before hand. I entered the house right as my grandfather was putting the finishing touches on his apple salad, which he more or less made specifically for me. With everyone talking at once, I immediately forgot about the speeding ticket, and to be honest, was relieved to not have to think about it- or explain the event to my family.
Possibly the worst thing about family gatherings are the inevitable drop-in visitors. Several hours after dinner, we were playing cards when the doorbell rang. It was my grandmother’s second cousin stopping by for a chat, a cup of coffee, and a wedge of punkin’ pie. I swear, the woman hadn’t even gotten her coat off when she asked who owned the green car. (Okay, my Torino was green. Do you find some sort of pleasure in knowing that?)
When everyone looked in my direction, she added that she and her busybody husband had seen my car pulled over by the county police earlier in the day when they were driving back from visiting her friend in the nursing home in Quincy. Obviously at that point, I had some ‘splaining to do, and endured a considerable amount of ribbing.
And that is my story of the Thanksgiving of 1989. Or was it 1988?
Now if you don’t mind, I need to get back to designing my NEW website. Stop by and check it out when your boss isn’t looking!
The year was 1989 (or 1988). Seriously, who can remember those kinds of details anyway? I woke up “late” on Thanksgiving morning after spending the majority of the previous evening at the Midway Tap in Kewanee, Illinois with co-workers from S&W Associates. We made balloons at that factory. Although that fact has nothing whatsoever to do with THIS story, I think it is interesting enough to be worth mentioning.
After a quick shower, I grabbed my backpack of clothes, a package of strawberry pop-tarts, and a couple cans of Coke- hitting the road to my grandparents’ house right at 9:30 am. I was facing a 2.5 hour drive to Versailles, Illinois, which would get me there right around noon. I figured I could make up enough time to guarantee that I would not arrive late if I took a couple of blacktop roads I was familiar with. It has always been surprising how minimally some of those roads are traveled in America’s heartland… especially given that they are oftentimes aligned straight as an arrow.
Nevertheless, I settled behind the wheel of my 76 Ford Torino with my hangover as co-pilot. We made excellent time, listening to Neil Young, Pink Floyd, and Arlo Guthrie on the tape deck, and portions of the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade on the AM radio. The only time I took my hands off the wheel was to primp my mullet in the manner that only a person who has had a mullet (or HAS one… or WILL have one) can understand.
About 10 miles from my grandparents’ village limits, I glanced at the clock and discovered that I was going to arrive with a full 30 minutes to spare. I barely had time to get excited about that when I noticed a car pull into range of my rear view mirror. Yeah, it was a cop, and his flashing lights indicated that he had something of importance to discuss with me.
If you’ve been pulled over before, you can pretty much imagine how the next several minutes passed. If you’ve never been pulled over for speeding, well, what on earth are you waiting for?
A $52 fine later, I arrived at my grandparents’ house directly at noon. The entire family was already there. No time was wasted parking since the kids normally played basketball in the driveway after eating, and the adults had been trained that they wouldn’t have to go outside and move the cars if they parked along the curb before hand. I entered the house right as my grandfather was putting the finishing touches on his apple salad, which he more or less made specifically for me. With everyone talking at once, I immediately forgot about the speeding ticket, and to be honest, was relieved to not have to think about it- or explain the event to my family.
Possibly the worst thing about family gatherings are the inevitable drop-in visitors. Several hours after dinner, we were playing cards when the doorbell rang. It was my grandmother’s second cousin stopping by for a chat, a cup of coffee, and a wedge of punkin’ pie. I swear, the woman hadn’t even gotten her coat off when she asked who owned the green car. (Okay, my Torino was green. Do you find some sort of pleasure in knowing that?)
When everyone looked in my direction, she added that she and her busybody husband had seen my car pulled over by the county police earlier in the day when they were driving back from visiting her friend in the nursing home in Quincy. Obviously at that point, I had some ‘splaining to do, and endured a considerable amount of ribbing.
And that is my story of the Thanksgiving of 1989. Or was it 1988?
Now if you don’t mind, I need to get back to designing my NEW website. Stop by and check it out when your boss isn’t looking!
Sunday, November 21, 2004
Saturday, November 20, 2004
forgotten, but not gone
Sometimes it is impossible for me to think of something to write that is worth typing. I guess when I find myself staring at a blank screen, I'll post a photo from my extensive collection, and either comment on it, or not.
I snapped this photograph while exploring an alley between Central Avenue and Gold Avenue as part of my regular walkabout around downtown Albuquerque. I wonder about the person who decided that bricking up the doorway would be time and materials well spent.
Someone recently emailed and asked if I could send them a "full-sized" copy of one of the photos I published in a previous entry. I told them that they could click on the image to view a larger one, and that seemed to do the trick. (At least they haven't written back.) I should also add that these photos I post are intended ONLY for your viewing pleasure. Should you decide that you'd like to do something with one or more of my images, please contact me directly so we can discuss terms, copyrights, and all that jazz.
Have yourself a stellar weekend!
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