Quel Fromage

The story of na na na na


Beg me to stop!

Omar

I had intended to have gone into Africa incognito. But the fact that a white man, even an American, was about to enter Africa was soon known all over Zanzibar. Henry Morton Stanley 

There was a west african man from Senegal selling across the aisle from me in Santa Fe, Omar Keinde. Omar sells african masks and artifacts and I think that they are probably mostly real, although the business is replete with fakery.

I had never met Omar before and he was a little bristly. He is a muslim and it was Ramadan so he had to fast every day. I tried not to slurp or enjoy my food too conspicuously in deference to his condition. He had to feel weak after the long days. Has never drank alcohol, or munched on a memphis style spare rib in his entire life.

Putting a muslim man across from an agnostic jewish man, especially a boisterous zionist, was a brilliant stroke of planning or sheer coincidence and I decided to try a few preliminary sorties and see what made the guy tick.

It was readily apparent that we were coming from a different space. I don't hate peoples, only individual people, but it soon became clear that I wasn't going to get any quick invitation to join him on the next haj to Mecca.

I have always had an interest in geopolitics and having traveled in africa myself, tried to get an understanding of the problems that beset his continent. Unfortunately Omar was having none of it.

I asked Omar about the problems in Sudan, where the northern muslim population is terrorizing the christian south. America's fault, for selling weaponry. Ditto Mobutu, Idi Amin, Arap Moi, Zimbabwe. All the problems are a direct result of white colonialism.

I asked him to name me a stable african country with a functioning democracy and he could not. He defended Mugabe, because did I think it was fair that 8% of the population that was white owned most of the land? Well the country certainly seemed to function more effectively in the old days. Without the brutal oppression of the native opposition party, so effectively enabled by their cohorts in South Africa.

He took great pleasure in the arrest of the Israeli wackjob who was apprehended last week in the stabbing spree, I am sure he was quite disappointed when he turned out to be a christian from Ramle. Couldn't play the old moral equivalence card.

I know that colonialization brought enormous grief to the continent, the french, belgian, british, dutch and italians all getting a piece of the african pie. But there are times when people must draw a line in the sand and move forward. Stop blaming and take responsibility. See the perils of tribalism and stop the hutu, tutsi, kikuyu tribal bullshit. Whole continent is dragging.

***

Omar didn't want to talk about honor killing or genital mutilation. He said that I was a troublemaker. How would you like to sit across from me for a weekend? He took umbrage from the fact that men can marry each other in America but that he could only take one wife. (He lives in New York.) African muslims are notorious homophobes, advocating for execution of gays in many countries.

I asked him to imagine all of the wives getting on his case at the same time but he countered by saying that it was about pleasuring himself. And there you have the classic african, muslim attitude towards women, wrapped up in a pretty bow.

I don't think we found a lot of common ground besides both suffering through a slow show. We choose to think a certain way and then cobble together experiences that reinforce our particular worldview. Omar and I both have a long road to travel before we can communicate and live in the same world.

Horn tooting

I started checking my blog stats a few months ago. A purely academic exercise since I don't advertise and I try to keep the evangelizing to a minimum. The blog is a word of mouth affair or something found by blind chance, I don't even send it out all that often anymore, hoping that the people that enjoy it will figure out how to bookmark it.

And many of you have. Every trip I take I meet scores of people who follow the blast saga through thick and thin. I am a regular part of many people's day that I have never met personally. Even got a free dinner or two out of it recently, thank you! Apparently people that don't read blogs read this one, your humble author included.

Anyhow we had 7160 unique page views this month, up from 7066 last month. This is very consistent readership. My all time high is a little over 11,000, probably when I was picked up by Crooks and Liars last time. Of course I have only been checking for four months. Numbers aren't earth shattering but they ain't bad at all. Many of you just keep coming back.

I dig the fact that I have developed a regular expatriate readership, even if most of the arab guys are just surfing for porn. But feel a little closer to my pals in Thailand, New Zealand, Japan and Hawaii who still check in regularly. Still little traction in Africa, Europe holding pretty steady. Not to mention those in  Indiana, Virginia, Toronto or those lurkers who have managed to cloak their identities.

I have about 6000 of my photographic images floating around cyberspace, saw one of them get appropriated today for a McCain poster. Flattering, I guess. I have written a ton of shit, and it is going to live for eternity or at least in cache memory, that is if the plug ever gets pulled. I would probably be drawn and quartered for my subversion in some less forgiving country so god bless the old U.S. of A.!

KJ has been telling me for years that I should be making money off this thing but I must admit to not really figuring a proper way to sell out yet. Not that I have been hit with many offers, the folks at Harpers must have lost my number. I am actually in the middle of some educational writing that might prove financially beneficial.

I met an old acquaintance at dinner who informed me that he has been reading the blog for a long time, back before I tried to quit in fact. He found it one day surfing and keeps pretty close tabs. Said that he really liked my writing. I had no idea and thanked him. It is a real compliment.

Thanks everybody! Thanks for tuning in.

Rose Royce

Off the highway

"The journey itself is my home." 
Basho






On some deep personal level, this may have been my best trip to Santa Fe yet, at least in this incarnation.  Certainly not in a money sense, although I managed to sell a few things at the end that should keep the goblins away for a while. Yet this trip was special and paid off in spades, in a higher sense, if you will.

This journey was different for several reasons. For one thing, I made it a point to get off the main road at every opportunity. This mode of behavior instantly put me in a better, richer space.

The trip also allowed me to continue to enrich my relationship with several people who are becoming more important in my life. You all know who you are. You can work with people for years and then suddenly things get intimate and real for some reason. Perhaps I am growing up, who knows? But it was a pleasure and a blessing to be with all of my old and new friends. The one thing we can not do without.

***

I woke up from a dark sleep during the night, needing to use the facilities. I wasn't sure which hotel I was in, the only light in the room, the digital glow of the clock, diagonally away from me on the bed. I had no idea where I was, systematically pressing my hands on the wall to find a door like a blind man. I pushed into a closet and knew that I was going the wrong way. I would have to reorient. I sat down on the bed and searched for bearings. After a prolonged synaptic gap, I had the sudden realization that I was on my own bed, in my own house. A couple weeks of foreign home and hotel layouts had caused my brain to malfunction.

**

I certainly have not felt like writing.  Perhaps it was a***'s suicide that kicked me in the teeth. I have very little to say. I explained as much to my brother in Toronto yesterday. Buzz mentioned that my writing had been sparse. "You have had a meal, haven't you?" Buzz is a lawyer turned excellent chef/ restauranteur  and he likes to hear about food. And the truth is that I have been writing a lot about food lately, it is easy and I can be slightly dispassionate and not nearly so miserable.

***

As I mentioned, I stayed a night in Flagstaff the night before last. It was getting dark and I was tired and I pulled the blue chrysler behind a pesticide truck in the little neon lit drive through.  A man and a woman sat on the bumper muscularly restraining a large rottweiler. They left me only a few feet between the dog and the door in which to pass. The dog snarled and lunged at me, barking furiously. "Oh, he's just a pussycat," the woman said. I looked up and without breaking stride said, "Some pussycat."

I got burned at the hotel in Flagstaff yesterday morning. The sink faucet had two temperatures, scalding and boiling. My hand is still tingling. Same thing with the tub, I submerged my right food and was burned.  I tried to call the front desk and noticed that the phone had no actual input, rendering it a mere decorative element on the night stand.

I called the Ramada Corporate Office and got a woman who could have cared less who agreed to look into things, or at least move them out of her domain as fast as possible. I checked out, looking into a room with the sorriest excuse for a breakfast ever and approached the young girl at the front desk. I explained that I didn't want anything but had been burned. "Oh," she said. No apology, nothing, all the sympathy one would feel wiping up ants on the countertop. Wouldn't look in my eyes, the eyebrow pierced twentysomething being wrapped up in a hundred more important things.

Corporate just emailed me, not their problem, this particular Ramada on Woodlands in Flagstaff being a franchise. So sorry.

**

As I said, I had some nice meals, parties, openings and events the last two weeks. Went to Copa de Oro twice which is much more inconsistent this year. Took some good friends and clients and I was frankly  embarrassed when two of the Moroccan lamb stews with apricots never arrived. My duck quarters with a raspberry glaze was absolutely superb. But my next visit, the duck carnitas were boring, dull and unimaginative, unless you think that prospecting through a mound of shredded lettuce to find some dry tasteless sinews of duck a good time. Did have a swell meeting with Daniel and Michael, two good friends who shared the meal with me. Fun to talk dirty with my gay friends.

Went to Morris opening, Moyers opening, Nat's soiree and then ran into my friends Joe and Linda, great people, she a regular blast reader. They had both invited me to a great party and dinner. I had eaten a cashew mole enchilada at the Plaza already so I pulled up a chair and had a glass of wine and we talked for a couple hours it seemed in the warm air. Absolute treasures, these two, we shared a lot of our experiences. More jewish cowboys and wonderful new friends.

***

The show ended with a couple decent sales, a Maynard Dixon drawing of a prospector's burro and a germantown blanket which hurt to sell and that I discounted pretty seriously. Pack out was the normal bitch and then some, the heat and humidity affecting my air intake in a pretty dramatic way this year.

After the packout I went over and sat down at the bar at the Santa Cafe and had a drink waiting for Sue and Steve and their friend Dane to join me for dinner. Three quarters down my greyhound, I signaled to the bartender and asked him why it tasted like pineapple juice? He admitted a mispour and I had a couple of the corrected versions, chatting with a large haired woman from Houston who I am sure found me quite cute and exceedingly charming.

We got seated and had a nice meal, Santa Cafe always the most consistent good meal in town (I had the rack of lamb if you care) and we had wine for dinner. We all agreed to reconnoiter up at El Farol, the oldest bar in America, to hear music afterwards.

I stepped out of my chair and it was like the sea of holes.


The normally hard cement turned spongy and the whole scene took on a carnival act, fish eye like quality. My fellow patrons faces turned into handle bar mustached lion tamers and shrieking operatic contraltos. Unfortunately in my stupor, I realized that I actually knew most of them and can't wait to hear the reviews come in on my drunken state. Stumbled to my car.

Got to El Farol. Bobby Zinner was sitting at a table with his sweet wife and we rapped. A blues guitar legend who lost his arm in an accident and had it surgically reattached. Re taught himself to play, which he does very competently along with being a really good singer. Tiho Dimitrov was playing with his band, a great player and not especially great singer. Don't know if Zinner ever made it to the stage. We were drinking beer now. Really ended up having a nice night. But the effects of the three alcohol varieties played a little havoc with my left temporal lobe the next morning. I also left my car hatch open all night, and miraculously started the car the next morning. God protects babies and fools.

I thought that I would start the campaign west with a good meal and headed over to Pasquales, which was packed and then on to La Fonda, which was crowded with khaki wearing older couples from Oklahoma and a lot of squares and then decided to hightail it back to the rusty and trusty old Plaza Restaurant wherein I dusted off a scrumptious blueberry pancake and sausage. Made conversation with a local retiree from Sears who had a souped up porsche.

So after a stop for Sherman's for Leslie at the Santa Domingo Reservation, I am back on the road. And was yearning to once again, get off. After Hopi on the way in and Bosque de Apache during the intermission, I needed the new again.  Don't know what the variant will be yet.

***

Have those of you on Facebook noticed the growing trend where some of our Facebook friends fashion themselves as philosophers and must give you a daily dose of Gibran, Buber, Wayne Dyer or other of that ilk. It makes me want to scream, this spoon fed simplistic spirituality and I wish they would stop. I have defriended a couple of major offenders. Snatch this from my hand, quan chin caine.  I know that I am cynical, but who you jivin' with that cosmic debris?

Facebook is the new de facto communication methods, conversation of under 140 sibilants being now quite de riguer and the new literary standard. Blogs are now anachronisms, soon we will just exchange a few all knowing grunts that will manage to convey the whole breadth of our cranial and emotional output.

I met up with a writer on Facebook last month. We met head on like two locomotives. Guy has written several books, serious chops. New Yorker. Got very nasty between us and then poof we exchanged arrows and are now friends. Poof. Acrimony dissolved in an almost poetic way. Very cool.

**

I saw the sign for Acomita to my left. I pulled off the road to the south. I had toyed with the idea of going back to hopi and Tuba City but the south intervened. The southwest furthers...I rumbled down the rugged road for several miles and came upon this 3D Shoot, an archery tournament on the reservation. I caught the end of the shoot and nervously asked if I could take a picture.  I don't want to piss off two hundred native americans with bows in their hand. They said okay. Pretty pottery prizes to the winning marksman.

I continued down the road and decided to continue on to Acoma. Acoma vies with Old Oraibi as the oldest continuously inhabited city in North America, its roots reaching back to 1100. The Sky City perched on the impenetrable bluff.  I have never been to the top, always worrying about the safety of my provisions but decided today was the day. I paid for a camera permit and got on a bus to the top of the Mesa. Our guide Conran was the new chief's brother. Father was Sun Clan and mother from the Pumpkin Clan, two of the twelve clans remaining from the original 21.  He led us around Acoma for an hour and a half, patiently answering our questions. He said that everybody in the tribe prayed not to get picked for chief, since the job was a lot of work and mostly a pain in the ass. Conran used to drive a big rig truck for Werner.

He took us into the church, named for the patron St. Esteban, a place where we were not allowed to photograph. A massive affair with huge corbels and beams, seventy feet tall, walls twelve feet thick. Originally situated over their sacred kiva. Mysteriously built sympathetically with the arcane numerology practiced by the pueblos, with the special emphasis on 3, 4 and 7.

He methodically recounted the pueblos travails with the Spanish friars and conquistadores, explaining to us how the Spaniards would cut off a pueblo indian's foot so that he could not run away. A colonizer that saw and caused the tribe to diminish from 2500 members to a few hundred. He talked about the revolt in 1598, when the Spaniards came back with cannons and decimated the village. We saw the spirit gods that ring the cemetery guarding the dead. He showed us some of the seven sacred ways off the mountain, the runners rock, the place for water, he introduced us to the people. I told him that I too was once in a tribe that loved St. Steven.  You could deduce that the tribe has pretty much no use left for the Catholic religion even though it appears to cloak their native beliefs. I asked him about a particular saint and he said he just learned what purgatory meant and that they had gone back to the old ways.

I talked to some of the potters in the village, got to look through the mica windows and into a large chamber. It was hot and we tried to stay in the shadows. After a time it was time to leave. He offhandedly pointed out a vertical trail off the mountain. "You fall, you hit the bottom in 3 seconds. From 372 feet. Do not go if you have a fear of heights, vertigo or heart problems." Bingo. He looked around and said, "Lets get on the bus. Unless we have any takers." I watched the muggles get on the bus and softly said, "I am going over the side."


It was very difficult for me, at times resorting to crude butt skipping and a grasping for available handholds. Not to mention that I am petrified of heights. Half way down in a scary spot, I wondered if I should go back up top and was doubting my resolve. But I pressed on, past the chewing gum rock and finally made it to the bottom in one piece and the long walk back to the Cultural Center. It made me feel good to test my limits in such a magical place.

The rest of the trip was nothing out of the ordinary although the sunset in Flagstaff was spectacular and the magnificent peaked clouds stretched all the way through the Mojave.

Listened to a public radio program This American Home that asked people what there choice would be if  offered the superpowers of invisibility or Flying. They surmised that the Platonic narcissists would fly while the Aristotelian sneaks would prefer to invisibly watch their friends have sex and shoplift.

 Managed the resolve not to stop at Tommy's in Barstow or pretty much anywhere else. My cat Nigel was waiting for me and had a good back rub in the dirt. Great to be home after a special month. Great to be with my pals when I was away. When the whole thing is over the money will mean nothing, it will all be about the people. I think.

I come away with one epiphany, if I may play the philosopher myself.  My body needs roads that lead nowhere, the solitude of the vast. I will always be a child of the southwest. My superpower derives from getting lost.

Got to get back to Cali.

I am low down tired. Show has been a mediocre affair at best and the charm has long since gone south. Three more hours and I can pack my sorry ass up and get on the road back home. I love you New Mexico but this boy needs to breathe a little salt air.

Had some good times with friends but available oxygen has been scarce in the heat and humidity this week.  I have tried every which way to sell but sometimes it just doesn't click and you just have to wait for the wind to change.

I need to get back home and take care of the cat as my sweet wife is on her way to Las Vegas to do the Magic Show.  Have had some good times and a few decent glasses of wine but now it's time to vamoose. I will be on the highway for the next two days so give a call.

McNuggetsworld

(AP)  Police say an Ohio woman punched through a McDonald's drive-through window because she couldn't get Chicken McNuggets.

Twenty-four-year-old Melodi Dushane has pleaded not guilty to a vandalism charge in Toledo. Police were called Friday to the restaurant where she allegedly became upset because chicken nuggets weren't available.

Police say Dushane was treated for injuries, then jailed. She was released on a recognizance bond and ordered not to have contact with the restaurant. The phone number for her home address isn't listed.


She say she are the manager! I'm an occasional McNugget man myself (w/honey mustard) but admit to be taken slightly aback at the apparent disproportionate impact they have on people's life in America. What makes the little munchables so darn good? Well how about tertiary butylhydroquinone, or TBHQ, an antioxidant derived from petroleum that is either sprayed directly on the nugget or the inside of the box it comes in to "help preserve freshness." According to A Consumer's Dictionary of Food Additives, TBHQ is a form of butane (i.e. lighter fluid) the FDA allows processors to use sparingly in our food: It can comprise no more than 0.02 percent of the oil in a nugget. Which is probably just as well, considering that ingesting a single gram of TBHQ can cause "nausea, vomiting, ringing in the ears, delirium, a sense of suffocation, and collapse." Ingesting five grams of TBHQ can kill."

According to Michael Pollian's Omnivore's dilemma, Nuggets are primarily made of corn, almost 56%. The corn-fed chicken itself; modified cornstarch (to bind the pulverized chicken meat); mono-, tri-, and diglycerides (emulsifiers, which keep the fats and water from separating); dextrose; lecithin (another emulsifier); chicken broth (to restore some of the flavor that processing leeches out); yellow corn flour and more modified cornstarch (for the batter); cornstarch (a filler); vegetable shortening; partially hydrogenated corn oil; and citric acid as a preservative. A couple of other plants take part in the nugget: There's some wheat in the batter, and on any given day the hydrogenated oil could come from soybeans, canola, or cotton rather than corn, depending on the market price and availability.

They also contain  "leavening agents": sodium aluminum phosphate, mono-calcium phosphate, sodium acid pyrophosphate, and calcium lactate. These are antioxidants added to keep the various animal and vegetable fats involved in a nugget from turning rancid. Then there are "anti-foaming agents" like dimethylpolysiloxene, added to the cooking oil to keep the starches from binding to air molecules, so as to produce foam during the fry. This is the chemical found in Silly Putty. The problem is evidently grave enough to warrant adding a toxic chemical to the food: According to the Handbook of Food Additives, dimethylpolysiloxene is a suspected carcinogen and an established mutagen, tumorigen, and reproductive effector; it's also flammable.

British McNuggets are healthier all around with 170 calories, 9 grams of fat, and 1 gram of saturated fat for 4 pieces. (Stateside McNuggets have 190 calories, 12 grams of fat, and 2 grams of saturated fat for 4 pieces.)

Serving size 10 pieces (159 g)
Energy 485 kcal (2,030 kJ)
Carbohydrates 27 g (9%)
Sugars 0 g
Dietary fiber 0 g
Fat 29 g (44%)
saturated 5 g (25%)
Protein 24 g
Vitamin A equiv. 0 μg (0%)
Vitamin C 1 mg (2%)
Calcium 20 mg (2%)
Iron 1 mg (8%)
Sodium 1000 mg (43%)
Energy from fat 260 kcal (1,100 kJ)
Cholesterol 70 mg (23%)

Watch out for the chicken heads!

Now I am become death.

Taking the road not taken

Yesterday was one of those perfect pages that I will have to dog ear in life's book. Chock full of experience points, I will surely revisit it again and again in my dotage.

Of course yesterday was presaged by the day before yesterday and I must start my preamble with a short recount of the prior day in order to capture the totality of the affair.

The show got a bit better and turned out all right, selling a few paintings at the end to raise me out of the miserable grump zone. Pack out however was a bitch, access being a single door which one could not readily wheel large boxes out of, necessitating a little spin dance move and lift. I had to take each piece out one by one and it was hot and muggy and the wind was starting to blow. By the time it was all safely jammed back in the van, I was totally whipped and visions of cardiac care danced in my head.

The lovely promoter insisted that I join her for a meal and the whole group of us went back for a nice dinner at Yannis, the Greek restaurant with the pretty flowers, great steak and good looking hostess. I had a couple of vodka greyhounds, for medicinal purposes only mind you, and managed to salve some of the day's physical aches and pains.

It was getting pretty late when the whole pack left the restaurant, another meal which Terry picked up the check, not necessary but greatly appreciated. The plan was to head to southern New Mexico and visit the Bosque del Apache National Wildlife Refuge early the next morning.  I drove the hour plus distance to Socorro, utterly exhausted, slapping myself in the face with windows open and blasting cold air  and found a Holiday Inn. I choked when the imp at the front desk told me that the room would be $119.00 but not having any gas left in my personal tank, grimly gave her my am ex card, which for some reason was declined. Visa came through and I went up stairs to spend another hour arguing unsuccessfully with a polite but unhelpful customer service rep situated somewhere near Calcutta.

Three or four hours later, I forced myself out of bed and headed south to try to get a piece of available morning light, a photographer's best friend but watched it turn into intense sunlight right before my eyes. I confess to not knowing much about the southern reaches of the state having confined most of my travels the last twenty years to the more northern provinces. In the early sixties, I lived in Las Cruces, my stepfather being a drone missile designer at the White Sands Missile Base. Later my family moved to El Paso and my friend George Chu and his parents would occasionally take me fishing at Elephant Butte.  But I have never explored all of the nooks and crannies of this wondrous state.

I got off the main road and on to old Highway 1 and drove past the charming little town of San Antonio. Eventually I found my way to Bosque Del Apache. Bosque, meaning "Woods of the Apache," is a 57,000 acre wildlife sanctuary that is home to thousands of snow geese and sandhill cranes in the winter months. It is offseason but I still saw a lot of wildlife including herons, cormorants, deer, coyotes and lots of different birds. I only saw two other people there, a nice pair of birders from Spokane who were in New Mexico visiting their son, who was doing post doctoral work in Santa Fe.

I made a mistake this trip and neglected to bring my 300mm lens or a tripod and was severely outgunned, the event requiring one of those porn star lenses that allow you to get up close and personal. These nice people were kind enough to allow me to peer through their scope that with proper bracketing, could function as a 3000mm camera. She was quite adept, managing to spot a black crowned night heron idly scratching his neck in the bushes.

I hiked several nice trails around the marshes and lakes and was struck by a wave of peace and happiness. Wide open spaces and nature allow certain vestigial parts of my being to come alive with a feeling of total joy and contentment. I got back in my car and starting driving through every tiny dirt road I could spot in the preserve and a few that were closed to public traffic. I hearkened back in my mind to a photography/biology teacher at Desert Sun, Norwood Hazard, who once told me that a biologist's greatest tool and friend was a pair of wire cutters. Bad boy. I scared up a family of deer who bounded out of the tules at the sound of my motorcar.  Gazed at the farms and the birds and definitely made plans to come back in the proper season with my wife.

The only hiccough was some construction noise nearby. Apparently a couple locomotives derailed Tuesday and caused an oil spill that the proper authorities are trying to berm up before it reaches the water and marshland.

I reluctantly left and headed back towards San Antonio, stopping to take pictures of a dilapidated building and poke my head into a quaint old antique store. Luann the proprietor sold me a couple of smalls and walked me into her immense warehouse. Very nice person.

Then I said shit, I've come this far and headed even farther south taking the King's Road, the El Camino Real, past Fort Craig and on to the New Mexico Monument. This is the oldest road in the United States, connecting Mexico City with San Juan Pueblo as far back as 1598.

It was getting warmer but the high desert chaparral was the greenest in memory, due to the recent rains. But I was definitely heading into no mans land and I had no water, or food, come to think of it, and decided to stop somewhere. I remembered that I had bought a loaf of wheat bread last week at whole foods and inspecting it for mold, put the dry tasteless slice in my famished stomach.

I found an old truck stop and my first glance saw a lizard slithering inside the front door. It was like walking into Bagdhad Cafe, with a strange and comical cast of characters who wanted to talk to me about avocados, me wearing a Fallbrook t-shirt and the proprietor sprouting a couple seeds on top of his old refrigerator. Very few items actually on the shelves, but the whole setup just ripe for a novel. The available water looked slightly suspicious and I bought a pepsi instead, deadly but safe. Heard they had a neat dining car in situ at one time.

I got back in my steed and decided to head for unknown higher ground, making my way towards Magdalena and the Very Large Array, a massive radio telescope site situated high on the Magdalena Plateau.  The countryside was just gorgeous and the road was spotted with lovely little plastic floral memorials, a New Mexican and hispanic tradition. Drove through some very neat old towns, a la Last Picture Show. Past the Alamo Navajo Reservation near the Magdalena Fault, the most eastern reservation for the Dineh that I am aware of.

The Array is a really spectacular site to see, these huge meal behemoths turning and tracking before your eyes.  Took the walking tour and visited the Information Center. I also snapped some pictures of nearby wildflowers. I left the place and realized I was about out of gas but figured I could probably nurse the van to the next little town to fill up and did, still much cheaper than California prices. The owner of the gas station saw that I had a Fallbrook t-shirt on and wanted to talk about our second most famous citizen, ex Dodger center fielder Duke Snider, the most famous being notorious racist Tom Metzger.

No sight yet of the dangerous prison escapee. Turns out that the woman who threw him the wire cutters was not only his fiancee but also his cousin. Hmmm.

Drove back through Socorro, then on to Albuquerque and finally up to Santa Fe, now nestled under some gigantic thunderheads, utterly exhausted. I called my friends Steve and Sue and they kindly let me recharge on their couch for an hour. Had a really pleasant dinner at Copa De Oro with Joe and Linda from High Noon and their good friends, the Sandronis. I had the always stellar duck in a raspberry glaze over polenta. Yum.

This has really turned into a beautiful trip. It is good for us to get off the main highway once in a while and take the turns that seemingly lead nowhere. All the best,  Robert.

Greetings from Albuquerque. The show is going true to form, which means that I am fighting for every dollar, talking, engaging, charming, doing whatever I can do to separate my clients from their precious lucre, with modest results so far.

One of my fellow dealers says that the superwealthy are buying, but the mere wealthy, not so much. We dealers have certainly tempered our own spending, unless the purchase is absolutely necessary, wonderful and a slam dunk. And dealer purchases have always powered the antique business engine.

Albuquerque is a tough town for me, being a pretty hardcore indian dealer show. These people are specialists and I am a swiss army knife. The people who do southwest 24/7 have a much better shot at such a show than I do, for one thing I depend on retail business and have never resonated that well with my peers in this particular world in a mercantile sense.  But they may only do two or three shows in a year and I pretty much do business all the time, so I must curtail the urge to whine. This is the specialists time, as I said. The buyers seem to be more object oriented than flat art oriented.

In the old days I could do 50 to 100,000 dollars in New Mexico, now I would be happy with a tenth of that. My July and December shows have been long cancelled, and I survive on a fraction of receipts.  Of course, my goals and aspirations have also been adjusted by this recession, now my only goal is to pay my bills every month and maybe take an annual vacation with my lovely wife. I used to be somebody, was the alpha male in Santa Fe but the worm turns and now I'm old news out to pasture.

I brought some really nice inventory and have a few people buzzing around an 18th century french painting and a Maynard Dixon drawing, so everything could get real good all of a sudden tomorrow.  I did make a nice pottery sale to a respiratory specialist and his R.N. wife.

Successful or not, I am having a really nice time with my dealer friends and Terry, the great promoter for the show who works her ass off to make the show the best it can be. Last night she took a bunch of us out to a remarkable sushi dinner at the Japanese Kitchen off of Louisiana. I could never believe that sushi prepared so far from the actual ocean could be so good. From the incredibly rich miso soup on, I knew that we were in for something special. Squid salad, gigantic kama, mussels, tray after tray of uni, maguro and hamachi, I didn't think that we could et half of it. But everyone came through like troopers in the end. And Terry picked up the tab, beyond the call of duty and much appreciated. I highly recommend this restaurant.

Met some really nice clients today, sold a civil war sword to an army major. We got into a nice rap about the asskissing necessary to get a promotion in the armed service and also the parallels between Afghanistan and Vietnam. Antique shows in New Mexico also offer people the opportunity to dress up in the weirdest cowboy outfits you have ever seen, caught this pink beauty with my telephone.  Or you will see people in full native getup, spectacles that if ever witnessed, would cause any true indians to erupt in a fitful paroxysm of laughter.

A moment of silence was held today for some dearly departed friends in the business, Skip Gentry, a long time friend who had a passion for Fred Harvey as well as Leon Taylor and Rich Hill and Tim Sweet. Brothers on the road. I thought it was a very classy and sincere interlude. I didn't know some of the other fellows that well but can tell you that everybody loved Skip.

The promoter threw a party at her shop Cowboys and Indians after the show but I ws a little burnt out on people and went back to my hotel.

Met up with some friends for a nice dinner at Cosmo, a tapas restaurant in the hip Nob Hill district.

I ordered a vodka gimlet and we all had a go at the menu.We had dates stuffed with feta and wrapped in bacon. Lollipop lamb chops with olive feta. Tiger Prawns in garlic. Grilled artichoke. hearts of palm salad. Queso fondito, the weakest dish of the night, served with rather stale and limp corn chips.

Finished the night off with a caramelized flan and vanilla ice cream.

The owner, Guillermo, a nice gentleman born in Puerto Rico, came out and introduced himself to us.  The Bob Dylan tattoo photo was taken off one of the server's forearms, the second time a Dylan tattoo has graced the blog, the other one last year from teacher Steve. Another Don't look back era Bob tattoo.  I like the genre but I understand if it is not your cup of meat.  Good night.

Quinn the Eskimo

The southwest furthers

I know that it is supposed to be work but what a wonderful day I had! When I left the hotel I saw this gent playing his guitar standing atop a bridge over the dry wash in Winslow. I drove around the block and came back and snapped his picture. Local inhabitant named Jay Callaway. Likes the town because it is quiet and he can concentrate on his music. Plays his own stuff, only two covers in his repertoire. Missing a couple chiclets. Cool cat.


I had a wild hair and made a move early on today that proved fortuitous. I got off the highway. Instead of going my usual route to Albuquerque on Interstate 40, I looked at the time and said screw it and headed for the reservation.

I took highway 87 north towards Second Mesa. Stopped first at the Painted Desert lookout and snapped a few pics. As you travel farther up the road near Dilkon you start to encounter the beautiful buttes and mesas that resemble Shiprock. Everything is still so green and wet. I saw many herds of sheep. And I started to feel the magic.

I feel spiritually nourished in this country, I always have. Some of my happiest and most fulfilled moments have been on back roads in Indian Country. Today was no different. Tuned into a cool Hopi radio station playing excellent reggae music. Caught a wee buzz. Slowly drove past Polacca and Tewa and Keams Canyon and on to Window Rock and Ganado, popping back out in Gallup. Didn't take much longer and it felt so good to be back on the reservation. I have always had an affinity for the Dineh.

I listened to an interview with a Navajo photographer named James who just spent a year taking photos for a book on the Navajo nation. His perspective was fascinating.

I continued on the 40 east and got a little rain and then encountered giant thunderheads and lightning storms over Acoma. Continued to rain on and off for the rest of the day, but a nice warm gentle rain.

I went to Rudy's, my favorite barbeque and had the burnt brisket ends, or with char, as they call it and then dropped my stuff at the fairgrounds so that I can set up bright and early tomorrow. I am glad to be back in New Mexico.

Turquoise Room Restaurant, La Posada Hotel

The La Posada Hotel is an unusual gem arising out of the desert floor. It was built in 1930 as one of the flagship hotels of the Fred Harvey railroad hotel chain, but had financial difficulties and closed its doors in 1957. It was designed by perhaps the most famous woman architect in America, Mary Colter, who had been hired by Harvey in 1903.

Colter was also responsible for designing the La Fonda Hotel in Santa Fe, the Awahnee and the Hopi House at the Grand Canyon, as well as many other fine buildings, mostly in a southwest aesthetic with Spanish overtones. It was a popular stop with many celebrities, I pen this post while sitting on my bed in the Carole Lombard room. The hotel has undergone extensive restoration since my last visit.

The current owners, who supplied tons of money and years of dedication to the restoration, are Allan Affeldt and Tina Mion. They are to be congratulated. Mion is a painter who has decorated the hotel with a whole bunch of her own canvasses, too many for me, but what do I know, I'm just an art dealer. A few would go a long way.

My friend Mike and his lovely wife Kathy came back from Santa Fe recently and spent the night here. They are sophisticated food people and were raving about the restaurant, loaning me the cookbook. It had been several years since Leslie and I had stayed in the Howard Hughes suite and the restaurant had been no great shakes at the time but I thought I would take a flyer. After all it is the first day of my campaign and an army can't march on an empty stomach.

I entered the small bar and ordered a vodka cranberry and waited impatiently for my table.  The hostess called my name, and when I arose a european couple sort of jammed their way in front of me, taking my table. The hostess apologized and blamed it on the language barrier. I gave her the molten death stare and thought about walking out but I was hungry and nothing else in Winslow, Arizona looked safe so I asked if I could be seated in the bar.

Mike and Kathy were right about the food. After a really promising basket of bread, I started out with a delicious Chino Valley Farms heirloom tomato salad, not to be confused with the Chino Farms in Rancho Santa Fe that supplies the French Laundry. Tomatoes of every hue, with Black Mesa Farms garlic and red pepper feta made from goats milk, beautiful basil and a balsamic vinaigrette. It was a great salad and had just the right number of food tastes, not overdone at all.

For an entree I picked the Native cassoulet with churro lamb, local Papago duck leg and elk sausage. This was accompanied with a homemade cone on a mound of polenta stuffed with greens and served over a Tepary bean, chili spiced concoction with arugula.  I had concern about the elk, which the server said was very spicy. Sometimes elk is hard to digest. It was not a problem. The lamb was delicious but a tad underdone. I had asked for medium rare against the server's recommendation of medium and they socked it to me. The elk sausage was fantastic.

According to the menu, the lamb is free range and reared by Ron Gardinez of Shiprock. The antibiotic and hormone free lamb spend the summer months high in the Carrizo Mountains. The Turquoise Room is the only restaurant around serving this rare breed on a daily basis.

Unfortunately, the duck confit was dry and stringy, the nadir of the night's effort. I had initial concerns about such disparate meats working together but it was actually great and I left very contented. No tummy problems. In addition the staff was very nice, personable and most attentive. A very nice meal, I only wish that my wife was here to share it with me.

Mike and Kathy raved about the soup and the squash blossoms and I look forward to trying them next go round. If you ever find yourself standing on that famous Winslow corner, try the Turquoise Room, you won't be disappointed.

Arizona, take off your rainbow shades.

I had a pleasant  trip out to Arizona today. It was a beautiful day, the temperature in the desert never got much above 105 degrees. Gorgeous thunderheads and lush greenery past Seligman. Leslie packed me the perfect snacks and sent me on my way. New oil pan gasket, air filter, radiator, car running smooth. Sirius radio is celebrating Jerry week on the Grateful Dead station and there was some nice music and interviews all day. I couldn't really ask for much better.

Normally my first day pit stop on the way to Santa Fe is Flagstaff but I felt good and marshaled on to Winslow so that I could stay in one of my favorite hotels, the La Posada. Got here early and all is well.

I had a couple minor epiphanies on the way out, being the kind of guy whose brain doesn't like to rest. And a couple of signs that, no Toto, we are definitely not in California any more. The first was when the sedan drove by with a bumper sticker that proclaimed "Give War a Chance" surely a sign that the sixties era is officially over.

I thought that a.m. radio was bad in California, but the second string hacks in the hinterlands are beyond description. I tuned in to a guy named Steve Malzburg, who was going off on both muslims and blacks, even opining that the only truly repressed class were white people. The hatred and bigotry is palpable and I went back to Arizona Cardinal football talk. As dumb as sports radio can be, it can give you a respite from the hate speech that is currently clogging up the airwaves.

Anyway, Arizona is ground zero with the right wing crazies and I kept my nose clean and my eye on the centerline and made tracks as fast as I could. But I started thinking. The conservatives are in a tizzy because the federal government is supposedly not doing its job regarding immigration and Arizona is now taking the law into its own hands.

But this problem didn't just start on our current president's watch, where was all the cacophony when his predecessor was in office? So when I got to the hotel I did a little research: deportations are at an all time high under this president, 279,035 removals so far in 2010 as opposed to 213,388 in 2007, the high water mark for the Bush administration. 287,868 last year. Note the nine month total this year.

Removals and returns by Immigration and Customs Enforcement

Fiscal Year / First 9 months total / Criminal / Non criminal

2005 / 141,837 / 61,266 / 80,571

2006 / 168,876 / 69,889 / 98,987

2007 / 213,388 / 76,301 / 137,087

2008 / 254,763 / 85,334 / 169,429

2009 / 287,868 / 99,997* / 187,871*

2010 / 279,035 / 136,714 / 142,321

* figures based on summary figures released by ICE which segregate criminal vs. non criminal

Source: Transactional Records Access Clearinghouse Syracuse University


I called my stalwart Arizonan friend KJ and asked him about the discrepancy in attitudes and why so many Arizonans were bagging on Obama when things are actually getting better. Could there be some political opportunism afoot? His answer was simple, Obama is black.

In other news from the Grand Canyon State, Judge Susan Bolton, who issued the ruling disallowing portions of SB 1070 is now getting death threats.

“It’s not unusual in a case like this where there’s a lot of issues involved and a lot of emotions involved when a decision is made that the judge gets some inappropriate communications,” said David Gonzales, the U.S. marshal for Arizona.

I will be out of here with any luck by noon tomorrow.

Here Kitty Kitty.

Tomorrow I start my semi annual trek to the Land of Enchantment. Two shows, Albuquerque and Santa Fe, boy are you going to miss me.

I want to get down to the Bosque de Apache preserve between the dates and get pictures of the incredible birdlife.

Other than that it will be my usual drunkenness and gluttony. I have fairly low expectations monetarily that will hopefully be wildly surpassed. It has happened before, you know?

***

Leslie and I saw a small mountain lion near the house about four days ago. I have seen less than ten in my life in the wild. It always amazes me the differences in color they exhibit. This one was pretty dark. Got an email from a neighbor that saw the cat this morning in Brian's bamboo. Needless to say we are keeping the house cat Nigel in the house. Although the cub is not much bigger than the kitty at this point.

It actually might be two cubs. An adult was shot in De Luz last week and it reportedly had two offspring. I would rather pay the ranchers and keep the mountain lions but people move into the country and expect the city and you know...So these little guys must now fend for themselves.

We have heard and felt the cat vibes for the last several weeks. The whole valley is on edge and you can hear it in the dog's barking. A neighbor two ranches down lost two goats week before last. Predators are an important part of the ecosystem.

***

Don't forget the Fallbrook Motor Fest August 7th that my wife has been working so hard on. Music, food and grog. Brett Stokes t-shirts. Motorcycles. Fun stuff.

**

Love to all my peeps,

Robert