Mute Monday: Greatness

Buildings, too, are children of Earth and Sun. – Frank Lloyd Wright

Float and Sting

Age is whatever you think it is. You are as old as you think you are.

– So Sayeth The Greatest

Happy Birthday Anonymous Boxer!

If Wishes Were Horses We'd All Eat Pie

In response to the Troll's challenge to come up with a pie to celebrate Secretariat's birthday on Sunday, March 30th, I submit to you Moi's all-time favorite.

But you'll have to head over to Da Baking Blob to see it.

Go now. It's Thursday. What else are you gonna do?

Make pie, not war. Or ugly shoes.

The Mountains and Moi

"It isn't the mountains ahead to climb that wear you out; it's the pebble in your shoe." – Muhammad Ali

Usually, come right about now, my young girl's fancy turns to the latest collection of spring footwear and flirty skirts. But the IRS is holding Da Shoe Fund hostage, so instead, I am thinking of mountains.

Specifically:


1. Where hopefully in another few months, lottery willing, I will once again run a gloriously crap time in the 43rd Annual La Luz Trail Run.

And:


2. Which should be fully clear of snow by, oh, July, giving us a small window of opportunity to hike it before the monsoon season starts in preparation for the possibility of:



3. Which isn't Everest. No, it's better. It's Africa.

Lady Madonna, Running Shoes on Your Feet

Today is the day when thousands of folks throughout New Mexico and the Four Corners region hit the roads to walk to El Santuario de Chimayo, a tiny shrine in northern New Mexico, halfway between Santa Fe and Taos. They start their journey – many of them carrying crosses and photos of loved ones – in the dark hours right before dawn on Good Friday, and by Easter Sunday, arrive in Chimayo to join what can be up to 10,000 worshippers that pass through the doors of this 200-year-old chapel. Considered the "Lourdes of America," Chimayo represents to the faithful not only a place of worship and prayer, but also of healing, as exemplified by the "miraculous" crucifix of Our Lord of Esquipulas and of the sacred earth inside the El Posito, under which the crucifx was discovered.

A note left inside the chapel from a visitor from Las Cruces, New Mexico, reads: "If you are a stranger, If you are weary from the struggles in life, Whether you have a handicap, Whether you have a broken heart, Follow the long mountain road, Find a home in Chimayo."

Or, if you're like Sister Madonna Buder, you just keep on going.

Over the past twenty-six years, this 76-year-old Catholic nun has competed in 37 marathons, 300 triathlons, and 33 Ironman Triathlons. At age 75, she became the oldest woman to finish the Kailua-Kona Ironman World Championship. She did it again a year later.

Like many pilgrims to Chimayo have done, she started her journey as a way to seek healing for a family crisis – her brother, she discovered, was battling alcoholism. Sister Madonna says she made a deal with God, offering her suffering in training for and running her first-ever race (Spokane's Lilac Bloomsday 12K) in exchange for the grace her brother would need to stop drinking.

Every race since then, she's raced for a cause, whether public – like the thousands of dollars she's raised for Multiple Sclerosis – or personal and private – like the Ironman she ran in the name of a dear friend battling cancer.

Which just goes to show you, you can either believe in miracles, or you can go out there and make your own.

When They Kick Out Your Front Door, How You Gonna Come?

In a recent post, The Troll said:

The United State's Supreme Court is poised to make their most important ruling on Second Amendment issues in several decades. The basic issue is whether the Second Amendment will be considered an individual right or a collective right granted to the States to maintain militias.

Huh. Well. I for one find it incredibly difficult to believe that the framers of our government would have placed the right to bear arms second only to the right to religion, free speech, a free press, peaceable assembly, and petition of the government for a redress of grievances if they didn't in fact believe it an individual right.

But some of us don't think so. Some of us think guns are dangerous. Some of us think only those who know "best" should control them. Because if they don't, then our society will quickly devolve into a bunch of mullet-headed morons gleefully toting guns into every shopping mall, school yard, and barroom.

Well, let me assure you: Those of us who believe the Second Amendment is indeed about the right to bear arms as an individual also believe it is NOT a sanction of vigilantism.

No, really. I, and millions of gun owners just like myself, are perfectly happy to concede to our local, state, and federal government their right to establish a police force, system of courts, and military to ensure our safety from the criminal actions of both our fellow citizens and from attack and invasion from foreign entities. It is one of the very few justifiable reasons, IMHO, for the existence of government, and I will gladly pay my taxes to support this system.

The Second Amendment is not about that kind of defense.

What the Second Amendment is about, is the right of each of us as individual citizens to protect ourselves against abuse by the government itself. That militia it talks about? That's you and Moi. Each and every one of us is a member of this militia because we the people are ultimately the only ones who can guarantee our freedoms. Therefore I believe it is the duty of each and every adult in this country to own a firearm as a symbolic warning to governments with tyranny on their minds: YOU cannot forcefully and without justification take away my right to my life, my liberty, and my pursuit of happiness.

Such a Succulent Sound

It is my greatest hope that now that über-gold-digger-cum-nasty-ass-bitch Heather Mills has received her divorce settlement from Paul "The nookie made me do it" McCartney, the first thing she does is go out and hire a good stylist.

Paging Heather: 1977 called. It wants its leisure suit back.

* * *

Mute Monday: Mother Nature

“They cannot scare me with their empty spaces between stars – on stars where no human race is. I have it in me so much nearer home to scare myself with my own desert places.” – Robert Frost

Prostitutes Out of Women; Sissies Out of Men

Other than Troll, who jumps on the latest pohleetikal brouhaha quicker than a flea on the backside of a hound dog, none of Moi's blobby friends have addressed the latest gub'ment sex scandal.

So I guess I'll put my particular spin on it.

Ready?

Okay:
What is the big freakin' deal?

Good gawd, Party People, we're all running around with our mouths hanging open in the kind of righteous indignation we should be saving for the fact that, oh, our money is no longer tethered to anything of value and, oh, it's the 21st century and our leaders are still pandering to the victim mentality. But, really, are you surprised that sex and money and power and politics continue to go together like stinky cheese on French bread and that our money is being used in the service thereof?

Are you still surprised that behind every scumbag of a man is a woman with Neiman's bills stacked to high heaven who's thinking, "I'll hang in there just long enough to either A. Give him the benefit of the doubt (darn, those pesky marriage vows), or B. Give my lawyer enough time to sue the fucker for everything he's got. Then I'm running off with Jambor, the tennis pro."?

If so, what sandlot you been burying your Barbies in?

Really, how else is someone whose face looks like it was designed specifically to screw itself up in disgust over society's gamblers, fornicators, and pushers (the man's nickname is the Steamroller), gonna get laid by a 22 year old hottie with dreams of being the next Britney Spears if he doesn't pay for it? It ain't his sparkly personality at work here. At least Bill Clinton could turn on the charm. So, he blows his wad on a 5 bazillion dollar 'ho instead of the Wal-Mart special down da block. No surprise there.

Hey, I'm all for firing his happy ass. I'm all for demanding with pitchfork at breast an ethical code of behavior from our leaders. But I don't for one minute think I'm gonna get it. Not without a fight.

Power corrupts.

Absolutely.

The Great White Buffalo . . . Tastes Like Chicken

Guess who's coming to New Mexico to shoot, literally and figuratively?

Cool.

I like this guy. I really do. Although we just won't go there on the way he dresses, he otherwise appeals not only to Moi's decidedly libertarian sensibilities, but to my gastronomic ones as well. 'Cause if you're going to commit to the carnivore lifestyle, you best be ready to shoot it, skin it, haul it, and chop it before you cook it.

Mute Monday: March

Don't Go Breakin' Moi's Heart

Remember that song? By Elton John and Kiki Dee? Didn't you just love Kiki? Tres, tres 1970s chick cool (and she sang back up for Dusty for a while, too). And admit it, when this ditty became a mega hit and Elton and Kiki traipsed merrily across the globe pitching it on every daytime talk show and nighttime variety hour, we all thought for one brief instant that maybe, just maybe, Sir Elton's gate actually did swing our way and therefore there was a teensy shred of hope that we could, you know, get him to return our phone calls. Or was that just Moi?

Anyway.

My point, and I think I have one, is that yesterday, a blogger named Kiki tagged Moi. (It's not every day that you run into that name.) I visit Kiki on occasion and so I happily obliged, not because I'm into doing these memes so much as:

A. I'm in a rush to make deadline today so blob posts are running thin.

B. I want you to drop by her place to at least check out her mighty stylin' blog banner. I mean, hello! don't you just dig that sofa? And you gotta wonder: what ARE that gal's super powers? Whatever they are, I want 'em.

Okay, so:

I give you money and send you into the grocery store to pick up 5 items. You can only pick one thing from the following departments, what is it?

1. Produce: Apples (duh)
2. Bakery: Carrot cake
3. Meat: Filet Mignon
4. Frozen: Ben and Jerry's – any flavor
5. Dry goods: Cheetos (puffy)


Let's say we're heading out for a weekend getaway. You're only allowed to bring 3 articles of clothing with you. So, what's in your bag?

1. Impossible!
2. Can't do it!
3. I'd have a girly-girl tantrum and simply refuse to go!


If I was to listen in on one of your conversations throughout the day, what 4 phrases or words would I be most likely to hear?

1. Ivan, come here.
2. Fucking bunnies.
3. Honey bunny, could you _______________ ?
4. Dinner's ready.


So, what 4 things do you find yourself doing every single day, and if you didn't get to do, you probably wouldn't be in the best mood?

1. Early morning walk with da Ivan.
2. 2-3 bazillion cups of coffee.
3. Check out Moi's fave blobs.
4. Meet my work deadlines - you should see what I owe Uncle Sam.


You're driving down the road, and suddenly you're hit with this sense of road rage. What 3 factors probably contributed to it?

1. No turn signals; definitely no turn signals.
2. Crawling along in the fast lane.
3. Really, really old person driving a vintage muscle car 2 mph in the fast lane. I mean, why BOTHER? Give the car to Moi!


Sweet, you just scored a whole afternoon to yourself. We're talking a 3 hour block with nobody around. What 5 activities might we find you doing?

1. Gardening.
2. Cross stitching.
3. Running in the hills.
4. eBaying
5. Baking something yummy.


We're going to the zoo. But, it looks like it could start storming, so it'll have to be a quick visit. What 3 exhibits do we have to get to?

1. Otters
2. Hippos
3. Polar bears


You just scored tickets to the taping of any show that comes on t.v. of your choice. You can pick 4, so what are you going to see?

1. House
2. Project Runway
3. Nip/Tuck
4. The Office


You're hungry for ice cream. I'll give you a triple dipper ice cream cone. What 3 flavors can I pile on for ya?

1. Pistachio
2. Cold Stone Creamery's Licorice (I swear to Gah, the greatest, most underrated flavor evah)
3. Anything chocolatey


Somebody stole your purse/wallet…in order to get it back, you have to name 5 things you know are inside to claim it. So, what's in there?

1. My orthodontia kit.
2. Five bazillion M.A.C. lip glosses.
3. 200 million different colors of red paint chips for the eventual bathroom redux.
4. Candy, candy, Tic-Tacs, candy, more candy.
5. Silver business card holder.


You are at a job fair, and asked in what areas you are interested in pursuing a career. Let's pretend you have every talent and ability to be whatever you wanted, so what 4 careers would be fun for you?

1. ROCK STAR!
2. Architect.
3. Novelist.
4. Perfumer.

If you could go back and talk to the old you, when you were in high school, and inform yourself of 4 things, what would you say?

1. Pay greater attention in math class – it really is fun.
2. Do whatever you have to do to pay for it, but go away for college.
3. Start running again now; don't wait another ten years.
4. Pay attention to your gut; quit ignoring what it's telling you.

I tag anybody who wants to do this . . .

In Like an Adder

All in the wild March-morning I heard the angels call;
It was when the moon was setting, and the dark was over all;
The trees began to whisper, and the wind began to roll,
And in the wild March-morning I heard them call my soul.

And my snow shovel.

Just yesterday afternoon, I was talking to a gal who'd recently moved here from NYC with her boyfriend. As we were discussing the merits of Manhattan versus Albuquerque's Northeast Heights, we kept glancing above us, watching an ominous blanket of grey roll in from the northwest, eating azure as it crept its away across the skies.

"The weather's tricky here, isn't it?" the gal asked me.

Yes, it is.

Out of the Mouths of Babes Part I

In some of my posts and comments on this blob, I may have given off the impression a time or two that I don't really like chillruns very much. This is not entirely true. Yes, I made the conscious decision at a very early age not to have any, but that really had more to do with G.I. Joe than anything else.

It went down like this: When we were children, my brother continuously, relentlessly, insisted that my Malibu Barbie quit jet-setting all over the world in fabulous outfits my great aunt sewed for her and mailed all the way from NYC and instead settle down and marry his GI Joe.

"The hell you say," was Moi's reply. (Or something similar to that sentiment in ten-year-old-speak). "Why would Barbie want to do that?"

"Well," my brother said, eyeing my doll in that pervy way that starts to manifest itself with boys at, oh, the age of birth, "That means they could have sex."

I considered that for a moment. G.I. Joe was kind of cute. And he had him some awesome abs. Then again, there was the matter of that weird thatch of felt on top of his head. So, uh, no.

"Barbie already has boyfriends," I explained. "One in every city. That way, she doesn't get bored with any of them."

My brother tried again. "He'd buy her things."

I shook my head. So what? Barbie was an international flight attendant for PanAm. She had continual access not only to quite a sufficient paycheck, but also to the riches of Duty Free. What else?

"Wellllllll, she could settle down and have a bunch of babies and keep Joe's house and make his dinner."

My stomach did a little flip flop. "You mean she wouldn't have to work?"

My brother nodded enthusiastically.

"Forget it." And I then I sent Barbie to Paris.

To be continued . . .

Mute Monday: Writing