Bite the Apple

Haiku Monday: RAIN

2012-01-29T06:57:00.000-08:00

Cacophonic skies

unleash God's torrential tears.

Damn my metal roof.

* * *

Appropriately enough, this week's Haiku Monday hostess and perennial PNW denizen, Miz Boxer, has chosen RAIN as her theme. Head on over to her blog for another spirited contest and puppy porn to boot.

Pop Goes the Synth

2012-01-28T13:09:00.000-08:00

Okay, so sometimes I do like the French.

That Giant Sucking Sound?

2012-01-24T16:31:00.000-08:00

I ain't gonna buy from crap-ass China no more. Or any place that serves simply as a manufacturing center for a U.S. or other First World country that should be making their goods at home. And if that means I have to spend more or buy less or buy second hand, fine.

(Anyone know how to make a pair of high heels?)

Haiku Monday: BEAUTY

2012-01-22T09:58:00.000-08:00

Fractured limestone peaks

once obscured by ocean’s depths

now commune with sun.

* * *

Haiku Monday is being hosted by the delightful Anya at her blog,

Aspects of Life, with the theme of Beauty.

American Idol Snark Station

2012-01-19T06:37:00.000-08:00

That's right, Party People, American Idol's eleventy-millionth season started last night. LAST NIGHT. Can you believe it? Boxer and I couldn't; we flung a series of texts back and forth about 2pm PST that featured so many WTFs? and Where does time flys? and Please Make it Stops that I was beginning to feel like one of those geriatric dudes that sit around at coffee shops, hitching at their pants and lamenting about days gone by. I don't want to be one of those people. But that's life. After forty, it seems, ti-i-i-ime is no longer on your side. Time is rubber stamping "Use By Date: Expired" on the forehead of your former Metallica tee shirt-wearing, fifth of Jack-clutching happy-ass self and shoving a Snuggie over your head and cup of decaf green tea in your mitt.

Anyway. I'm speaking about time passing here, not necessarily about the former merits (Simon Cowell) of a show that is going decidedly stale on the shelf. And there is only so much snark I can muster for Steven Tyler's Tourette's-fueled monologues, J-Lo's ass, and Randy's Cliff Huxtable sweaters before I just want to go clutch all my Dead Kennedys records to my chest and curl up on the sofa thinking about the good old days when music mixed the bourgeoisie and the rebel.

So, there won't be any snark today. I don't think I can tolerate the audition portion of this show no more, no more. I'll leave it until perhaps Hollyweird week but maybe even until the final 20 or whatever that number is.

In the meantime, let's do something fun and have another music round up. This one is inspired by a comment Troll left on my Flock of Seagulls post about a category he has on his MP3 player (or whatever it is Troll uses to play music because we know it ain't the iPod like NORMAL PEOPLE. Ah-hem.) called "Weird Songs."

Which got ME thinking about weird songs. Not necessarily novelty songs, but instead songs that are quirky and bizarre, which, in spite of their possible dissonance and incomprehensibility, make a compelling kind of sense to your ear. Songs that you may even be embarrassed to like, until of course, someone else tells you that they love them too! and then you don't feel like such an idiot, but, rather, kind of hip and tuned into it all.

Here, I'll throw down a few:

1. Mexican Radio, Wall of Voodoo: "No comprende, it's a riddle."
2. Bird Song, Lene Lovich: "Still I watch the sky, still I wonder why."
3. The Magnificent Seven, the Clash: "A.M. the FM, the P.M. too, churning out that boogaloo."
4. Settle Down, Kimbra: "We'll call her Nebraska, Nebraska Jones."
5. Oh Superman, Laurie Anderson: "Cause when love is gone, there is always justice."
6. Eat to the Beat, Blondie: "Oh, you got a sweet tooth and I remember, standing on the corner with a piece of pizza."
7. Never Say Never, Romeo Void: "I might like you better if we slept together."
8. Preacher Man, Dusty Springfield version (it's her restrained, blue-eyed-soul rendition of this song that makes it so bizarre): "Being good isn't always easy."
9. Peaches & Cream, Beck: "Give those pious soldiers another lollipop."
10. It's No Game, David Bowie: "Silhouettes and shadows watch the revolution." Bowie's apology for the Thin White Duke, accompanied by Robert Fripp and a bunch of incomprehensible screaming in Japanese. Perhaps the greatest song ever written.

Now it's your turn . . .

Culinary Smackdown: BATTLE TOFU!

2012-01-17T16:22:00.000-08:00

What choo talking 'bout Willis? Tofu? In a Culinary Smackdown? Well, yeah, if the last competition's winner was our resident ~~vegetetamarian,~~ ~~vetetarist~~, um, blogger who doesn't eat meat. Except fish. She could have chosen fish. But she didn't. She chose tofu. And while that might get some people's panties in a twist, really, it's a rather genius choice. Because it's going to force some folks to scramble. (Heh. See what I did there? . . . Oh, never mind. If you, too, had spent the past two months trying to make industrial machinery sound sexy you would cut me a big fat literary break right here, right now.)

Anyway. Here's my entry:

Panko Fried Tofu Strips with Asparagus Pasta

Por le Tofu:

1 pkg extra firm tofu, pressed (or, do what I do, wrap the chunk o'fu in a couple layers of paper towel and set out for 30 minutes or so. The towels will soak up all the moisture and you'll have workable tofu, a la:)

1/2 cup all purpose white flour mixed with 2 T. cornstarch
1 large egg, preferably from a local chicken, beaten (the egg, not the chicken)
1 cup Panko breadcrumbs mixed with:
1 t. salt
1 t. lemon pepper
1 t. dried parsley
1 t. dried basil
1 t. dried thyme
Peanut oil

Por le Pasta:

1 pound of angel hair pasta
1 bundle asparagus, lightly steamed al dente
1 T. butter
1 T. olive oil
2 large cloves garlic, minced
1 cup chicken broth
1 cup heavy cream
1/4 cup fresh Italian parsley, minced
2 T fresh basil, minced
1/4 cup grated parmesan cheese
Salt and pepper to taste

Por le Sauce:

1/4 cup basil pesto (if not homemade, try and find Buttoni)
1/4 cup heavy cream

Putting it all together:
In three separate plates, place the flour/corn starch mixture, the beaten egg, and the panko breadcrumb mixture.

Cut block of tofu into eight equal pieces: cut first in half width-wise, then cut each half in half again. Then, flip each quarter over once, and cut that in half.

In a medium-sized, high-sided saucepan over medium heat, pour in enough peanut oil to come one inch up the side. Heat until a bit of flour dropped into the oil immediately sizzles.

Dip each piece of tofu first in the flour, then in the egg, and finally in the panko mixture.

Then, using tongs, fry tofu slices in hot oil 3-4 minutes per side, until golden.

Set aside.

Cut steamed asparagus into thirds.

In a large saucepan, heat butter and oil over medium heat until hot. Add minced garlic and sauté for about a minute, careful not to burn. Add asparagus, chicken broth, and cream. Turn to low and cover.

In the meantime, boil pasta until al dente. Add to saucepan with asparagus cream sauce. Add minced parsley, basil, and grated parmesan cheese, salt and pepper to taste, and mix together.

Stir the pesto and cream together in a heat proof bowl and microwave on high for about a minute until hot and bubbling.

Cut each slice of tofu in half. Plate the pasta. Arrange two slices atop the pasta, then drizzle with the pesto sauce. Thusly:

Looks like fried chicken! But, tastes like tofu!

And with all that butter and cream and cheese, it's not like NOT having fried chicken is going to be doing any of your arteries any favors. BUT if you are a vegetarianist, at least you can enjoy all kinds of artery-hardening goodness without the meat!

To see who else is tossing their tongs into the ring for Battle Tofu, head on over to Miz Boxer's Place for all the details.

Haiku Monday: TREASURE

2012-01-15T12:12:00.000-08:00

Amid second hand

shop dust, discards once beloved,

keen eye spots a find.

* * *

This week's Haiku Monday is being hosted by the fabulous Chickory, with a theme of Treasure. For the first time ever, judging will be by popular vote, whose winner will claim a fabulous price. Chickory will also pick her fave, and award that winner a handmade Valentine. Click here to check out all the rules.

Some Like it Hot

2012-01-12T05:20:00.000-08:00

I suppose if one has to be this eyeballs deep in work, this stressed to the gills to extrude word after word after word out of the brain and onto the page, there isn't a better time in which to be so than the long, barren haul that is January, February, and March. In my mind's calendar, these months are colored a cheerful pink, deep burgundy, and blue-green respectively, yet they always "feel" sort of grey to me. Like ghost towns, months in which nothing much festive really happens. Okay, so there's Valentine's Day, but who really gets all that excited about President's Day (or whatever they're calling it now) except perhaps bankers, and does anyone who isn't a college student OR a drunk still celebrate St. Patrick's Day?

Around here, the first three months of the year are instead mostly about low temperatures, unpredictable dumps of snow, and work. Work for S.B., work for me. I'm thankful, you betcha. Not only do I enjoy my work, even when it's stressy, I am also not qualified to do anything else. Except maybe type. Which means I'd make a great executive secretary, but I'm not sure that's a job that even exists anymore. And I would have made a rockin' trust fund baby, had grand pop not gone and blown his entire fortune on shoes.

I suppose it's also appropriate that I find myself in the middle of another strange culinary craving jag. I do this every so often. I'll get stuck on a particular kind of bubble gum or vegetable (like the one summer where I couldn't eat anything that wasn't also accompanied in some way by avocados, although I know, I know, it's a fruit) or ice cream or legume. I'll go through long stretches of eating only peanut butter and honey sandwiches for breakfast or, when S.B. is traveling, the same pasta night after night (butter, garlic, minced tomatoes, a little sherry, and grated parmesan cheese).

Right now, I'm majorly addicted to hot sauce. Specifically, this one, which I first tasted thanks to Aunty sending me a bottle as part of a haiku win many months ago.

I've tasted a lot of hot sauces in my life and this one is just about the best. My favorite thing to do with it is mix it into ranch dressing and use as a dip for cut up veggies (when I'm really busy, it's an instant lunch—something I can eat at the computer and keep one hand free for typing). It also adds a great kick to steak sauce and just about any dish that benefits from a little heat.

So tell Moi, what are you craving lately?

Haiku Monday: NOCTURAL

2012-01-09T05:56:00.000-08:00

Caught out at dusk? Duck!
Echolocating Pallids
pluck insects to death.

* * *

First-time winner and new blogger Scout from Preserving the South is hosting this week with the theme of Nocturnal. Drop on by, read a while, and post your own offering if one comes to mind.

Iran So Far Away

2012-01-04T10:17:00.000-08:00

Is it just me, or are any of you Party People also spinning Flock of Seagulls' finest in your head whenever the news starts prattling on and on about Ahmadinjadabajab (or whatever the fork his name is, all I know is 1982 called and wants its Members Only jackets back) and his single-mindedly Islamatarded determination to make even more trouble in an area of the world on which we are dependent for our chi-chi-la-la lifestyles never mind the fact that its denizens are so assbackwards that New Guinea pygmies look like latte-swilling urbanites by comparison?

No?

How about now:

Haiku Monday: NEW BEGINNINGS

2012-01-02T07:33:00.000-08:00

Winter garden sealed

in sleep until spring’s surprise.
What comes, birth or death?

* * *

He/she could be yours

if only you were . . . Chop, chop!
True love’s labor costs.

* * *

Aunty's hosting the first Haiku Monday of the New Year!
Head on over for the theme of New Beginnings.

Happy New Year!

2011-12-31T05:40:00.001-08:00

Happy, happy to all my blog homies!
I hope 2012 brings you nothing but joy and prosperity.

(And I'll save my rant about DWI entrapments,
I mean blitzes, for another day.
Hmm . . . I suppose I could resolve to rant less in 2012 . . . nah.)

TV Glotzer

2011-12-27T11:41:00.000-08:00

Only 21 days, 18 hours, and some odd seconds until the best-looking man, um, show . . . uh . . . sorry . . . what was I saying? Yeah, that's it: the best show on television returns.

Are you watching it?

Haiku Monday: SWEET

2011-12-26T07:33:00.000-08:00

* * *

Tongue sucked numb, blood rushed,
tummy tied in candied knots.
Sweet thing’s overdosed.

* * *

Last week's winner, Curmudgeon, is hosting this week's post-Christmas Haiku Monday with the theme of SWEET. Apropos for the season, don't you think. Or is that just me?

I'm Dreaming of. . . Christmas in Acapulco

2011-12-23T06:13:00.001-08:00

This was this past Wednesday morning, after a 9-inch dump of snow.

This was taken a few minutes ago, illustrating our total accumulation over the past week, give or take a few inches that may have evaporated during the 2.5 seconds the sun actually came out late Wednesday.

Almost three feet and counting, y'all. I'm about done. Cooked. Sliced and diced. Thankfully, S.B. made it home under the wire yesterday and can take over snow blowing duties, because my biceps are wet noodles and my mind is dark with thoughts of packing an overnight bag and taking the next flight out to somewhere with a beach and an umbrella drink.

To top it all off, every single client of mine—every. single. one.—has decided that the one working day left before the holiday is the exact right time to clear everything off their desk and dump it on mine. Sweet!

So let this stand as my official Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays to All My Beloved Blog Homies post. Enjoy a wonderful holiday season!

Mucho smooches,
Moi

It's a Junco Party.

Who could ask for more?
I'd decorate their birdhouse,
But I can't get out my door.

For Eggy: Elk Tenderloin

2011-12-20T05:24:00.000-08:00

Remember this gent? My beloved spousal unit? Who in 2010 drew, along with a buddy, one of the top spots in the universe to hunt elk and after five days came back empty handed? That's okay. Elk hunting with a bow and arrow is difficult under the best circumstances. Doubly so when you're dealing with New Mexico elk. Hunters who are successful have been doing it for years, decades even. They know all the secrets. Because New Mexico elk are as wily as an animal can get. They know their heads, hides, and meat are in high demand and they pass along evasion skills through their DNA. That call you spent all weekend working on until the dogs dug themselves a permanent hole in a far corner of the property isn't fooling anyone, least of all an elk. These are not stupid animals.

Fortunately, we did not go empty handed this year thanks to a most generous Christmas gift from a friend. Four whole elk tenderloins sent to us courtesy Allen Brothers Meats. You can bet I was on the internet in a flash, looking for a recipe and finally settling on this one.

I was a little worried about all that rosemary . . .

Prepared the marinade about 9:00 that morning, coated the tenderloins (there are two here, stuck together, which we didn't realize until after they were finished cooking—d'oh!), and placed in the fridge.

About an hour before I wanted to serve, I took the elk out of the fridge to come up to room temperature. Twenty minutes later, pre-heated the oven and started the sauce. Popped elk in oven. At the 35-minute mark, checked it with my thermometer, which read a perfect 138 degrees F, pulled it from the oven, covered it, and set it aside to rest for 8-10 minutes while I made the rest of the meal: couscous with garlic and parsley, and collard greens and Swiss chard braised in bacon grease with bits of bacon and toasted almond slices.

Here's the final plating. And, yes, elk should be cooked to rare. Anything more is uncivilized.

I was right about the rosemary. Too over-powering. As was the orange. But once we scraped the marinade off the tenderloin, we could enjoy the most melt-in-your-mouth tender and delicious meat I've ever tasted in my life. Hands down, elk's got it head and shoulder above pork and beef in my book.

So, S.B., start practicing your calls . . .

Haiku Monday: SPIN

2011-12-19T08:03:00.000-08:00

My '80s romance:
Sequins, sweat, and Rush. Baby,
you spun me right round.

* * *

Haiku Monday is being hosted this week at
la casa la bonita señorita Fleur.
Drop by and say buenos dias, why don't you?

Be Like the Dog, Girl

2011-12-16T05:11:00.000-08:00

We're getting a lot of snow these days. A lot. So much, that I'm beginning to fear for my spring race training. As soon as the sun peeks out for a day or two to de-ice the roads, it snows. And my trails in the mountains and hills are only passable with snowshoes. Which I guess is okay, because I read somewhere that for every mile you run in snowshoes, it's like doing three on dry land. Except I don't really run. I slog. I participated in a 5K snowshoe trail run at the top of the Sandia's last year. It took me an hour. The top runners finished in something like 32 minutes and 3 seconds. The only thing that made me feel better is that half the participants were also slower than I was.

But I need to bust through some kind of wall if I'm going to finish the Cedro Peak Ultra in April. I reach a certain high point—"hey! where did that muscle come from?"—and then I get smacked back down—"No way—huff, puff—am I going to be able—huff, puff—to make it back home—gag, spit, hurl." Somehow, though, I do. Mainly because I live in fear of having the mountain rescue team called out on me. Hyperventilating while sweating buckets at 10,000 feet is not my best look.

So I'm trying to take inspiration from Maddie, who has become my primary motivator to get out regardless of the weather or my slacker ass. She stands 18 inches and some change off the ground. Weighs 35 pounds, and is about my age in dog years. And she never stops. If she's not on the move, she is sitting at my feet and staring at me, waiting until we move. Rarely does she ever relax and just fall asleep. You drop a pin, that dog is UP.

I took her on two long treks last weekend, a straight up the mountain snowshoe slog at 10 percent grade to 10,500 feet on Saturday and another in cleats along the trails in the hills behind our house, and she never flagged. The only thing that happened was the higher we got up the mountain the first day, the deeper the snow and I was afraid I'd lose her altogether (and I was approaching the hurl stage). So I turned us around. Otherwise, she was fine. And the next day, she could easily have done double what we did. As soon as we got home, all I wanted to do was stand under a hot stream of water for the rest of the day while S.B. fed me slices of pizza. Maddie wanted to play ball.

Haiku Monday: SILVER

2011-12-12T07:30:00.000-08:00

Sexy on the gents,

dowdy on the gals? Flip that.

Silver’s the new blond.

* * *

Fishy, aided by her partner in life and love, Blowfish, have come up with this week's Haiku Monday theme of SILVER. If you'd like to play, or just see who is (the entries, as usual, are terrific), head on over to The Pond before midnight tonight.

For Chickory

2011-12-09T09:50:00.001-08:00

For some reason, we are enjoying an embarrassment of riches when it comes to Northern Flickers this year. Most years, I see one or two, and usually just in passing. Never at the feeders. But these dudes are hanging around in greater numbers than I've ever experienced and they're hungry. Which on the one hand is awesome—the are a beautiful and fascinating bird. On the other, they are little piglets. My Shoe Fund has suddenly become the Sunflower Chip Fund.

What's in a Name

2011-12-06T06:14:00.001-08:00

pity this busy monster, manunkind,

not. Progress is a comfortable disease:
your victim (death and life safely beyond)

plays with the bigness of his littleness
--electrons deify one razorblade
into a mountainrange; lenses extend
unwish through curving wherewhen till unwish
returns on its unself.
                 A world of made
is not a world of born--pity poor flesh

and trees, poor stars and stones, but never this
fine specimen of hypermagical

ultraomnipotence. We doctors know

a hopeless case if--listen: there's a hell
of a good universe next door; let's go

E. E. Cummings

* * *

Seriously, though?
Planet Kepler-22b?
Come on, Party People, we can think up a better name than that.

Haiku Monday: TIME

2011-12-05T05:11:00.000-08:00

* * *

Planet's birth record?
No need to time travel. Check
Canyon's grand design.

* * *

This week's Haiku Monday is once again being brought to us by "the most interesting man in the world," with a theme of TIME.

Blow, Blow, Thou Winter Wind

2011-12-01T15:07:00.000-08:00

I can handle just about any kind of weather: heat, freezing cold, ice, snow, rain, and hail. Anything but wind. Wind makes me crazy. And my life miserable.

I ran into town around noon today to deposit a check and gas the Jeep in prep for the 12" of snow we're supposed to get starting late tomorrow. The winds were so strong, I couldn't open the door at the pump. On the way home along I-40 through Tijeras Canyon, I hit a headwind with the tenacity of a brick wall that nearly stalled the Jeep in its tracks. In front of me an 18-wheeler started to shake, rattle, and roll, and someone's lawn chair (?!?) missed me by feet on its merry skip across four lanes of traffic. I jumped off the nearest exit to finish my journey along the relative safety of Route 66 and stuttered along behind a line of fifty gazillion other high-profile vehicled chumps with V-8s smacked down by Mother Nature.

Right now, I'm watching entire mature pine trees bend themselves like yoga freaks right outside my office window. The birds have all disappeared from my feeders, although the ravens are diggin' the thermal ride high up in the still-blue sky. Ravens are never scared.

If I look outside the window next to my front door (because if I actually go outside, I'll be pelted with flying leaves and small rocks) beyond the frenetically swinging porch swing and across my driveway and down, down, down and out, all the way to where the woods end about three miles from here and the American Short Grass Plains begin their relentless march toward Oklahoma, all I can see is a curtain of dun-colored dust obscuring what is normally a fifty-mile view. And what I think are a few small animals and maybe a toddler or two spinning around in the whirlwind.

And the sound. Like a million freight trains screaming. Like ghosts not yet retired. Like zombies moaning for brains. I suspect this sound must be very similar to what mass murderers hear ringing in their ears for years before they finally snap and take down a post office, school yard, or lunchroom.

If you don't hear back from me in a couple days, it means I was blown away like the rest of my world, Dorothy-ied up into the sky and into some bizarre Oz-ian universe where at least I hope I'll get a pair of ruby slippers for my troubles.

Until then, I think I'll go run a vacuum. It buries the sound.

Haiku Monday: ENERGY

2011-11-27T16:30:00.000-08:00

Supernova-shocked

gaseous cloud goes nuclear.

Suntans, everyone.

* * *

This week's Haiku Monday contest is being hosted by

Serendipity with the electrifying theme of ENERGY.

Hey, Hey, Hey . . . Somebody Has a Birthday Today

2011-11-27T09:46:00.000-08:00

Chickory!
Da coolest dawg in da 'hood!

Happy Thanksgiving

2011-11-23T11:54:00.000-08:00

May your day be filled with wonderful things!

Haiku Monday: EXPRESSION

2011-11-20T15:03:00.001-08:00

"Duck—here come her hands!"

Sorry! Mute without them. Blame

Latin genetics.

* * *

Have something to say on the topic of expression? And can you do it in 17 succinct syllables? Then head on over to Karl's Place and post your haiku in his comments section. He's this week's host of what some folks have called the best literary meme on the innerness. Ever. And if you don't believe me, take it up with Karl.

Twi-Headed

2011-11-16T06:54:00.001-08:00

I recently read somewhere that the emotions we feel as teenagers are some of the strongest we'll ever feel in our lives. Anger, love, hate, jealousy, doesn't matter: between the ages of around 12-18 we're little more than walking, talking, junk-food stuffing bundles of raw nerves. It's an evolutionary imperative—eventually we outgrow it, but we've all got to go through it.

And one of the most common outlets for this heightened emotional state, at least for teenage girls, is the crush. You remember yours, right? I remember mine—they ranged from my best friend's boyfriend to rock stars to movie stars to characters played by movie stars to literary heroes to the high school wrestling coach. And while each and every one of them were unattainable, at least they were, for all intents and purposes, alive.

Which is more than I can say for these stupid Twilight book and film characters. Little girls, teenage girls, and even worse GROWN WOMEN MY OWN FREAKIN' AGE (ew!), all spinning themselves into fits of hair-rending, mascara-smearing love/lust over characters that are, for all intents and purposes, dead. Not to mention, underage.

And this time around, with movie number three, the Ew Factor is ramped up to eleventy-million, as Edward the Brooding Vampire with the Tragically Hip Haircut finally marries Now of Age Bella the Mumbling Slouch Who Can't Dress. Which means they can also finally have sex (apparently, these are Conservative Republican vampires). Which means Bella ends up, yes, PREGNANT (ew! ew!).

But let's put aside for a moment just how f - - - ed up it is for real live women to rally behind this bizarro union of the undead and their half human/half vampire freakazoid offspring and ponder the logistics of how it could have happened in the first place.

Correct me if I'm wrong, but the bodily fluid most responsible for making happen the thing that needs to happen to a dude's you-know, so that he can, you-know, whether in the service of getting his partner knocked up or, you-know, just having a good time, is . . . blood. Right? Which a vampire does not have, because, correct me if I'm wrong again, vampires are dead. Which means that even if it were possible for Edward to get a (you-know), he wouldn't have the lil' swimmers capable of storming the defenses because, well, those lil' swimmers would have to be alive to do so. Right?

RIGHT?!?

Haiku Monday: ADVENTURE WINNER

2011-11-15T14:10:00.000-08:00

Okey dokey, y'all, I have made my decision. It wasn't easy and if I don't mention your haiku specifically, it's simply because of lack of time, not admiration. Each and every one of these had something to recommend them, but as with most things in life, there can only be one winner.

I copied, pasted, printed, and read and re-read—silently and aloud—all your haikus several times. I read them to myself, I read them to the dogs, I read them in the car while waiting at red lights. I read them at lunch over salad and creme soda, but then I got distracted because I thought to myself, self? Why doesn't creme soda get the recognition it deserves? That damn root beer, it hogs all the limelight.

At any rate, I would like to spotlight a few things that struck me:

TROLL: For "Smokey mountain maze," a most excellent and beautifully evocative phrase. Also, "Sucking up to Judge 101" is clever, clever, clever ("Not this year pilgrim!" bwahahahahaha!) and yes, I can be sucked up to. It's spelled: C-H-A-N-E-L. But since ain't none of us has that kind of cash, don't worry. This contest remains, for the moment, honest.

ANONYMOUS: What's this? A love haiku? Doth someone lurk amongst us who is crushing on Mr. Troll? Come on, don't be shy. Inquiring, nosy-ass minds want to know. And this is a most awesome haiku, elegantly entendre-ed.

FLEUR: For Fleur, our resident Kate Bush of Haiku in High Heels, love is a battlefield. A stranger in an open car. A gas. An eventual pain in the ass. And boy, don't Pat Benetar and Debbie Harry wish they'd written "primal shrieks and steamed silence?" I know I do.

CZAR: Our resident Mash Up Artiste manages in only 17 quick syllables to summarize the entire history of mankind from unformed universe to the space race. It's pretty breathtaking, what he does here.

K9: Today's so-called extreme adventurers lack a certain something. I'm not sure what it is. Heart, maybe? Soul? At any rate, K9 nailed it.

SERENDIPITY: A relative newcomer to these here games, Serendipity's "Snow Mistake," reminds us that for every thrill we chase, there's danger, even death, ready to stick its foot out to trip us up.

COREY JO: Wrote a lovely homage to armchair adventurers everywhere who seek their thrills in the pages of books. What I like most about it, is the reiteration of the word bound, which works here because of the contrast it sets up: by virtue of the fact that they are literally bound, books allow us unlimited imaginative movement. Nicely done.

But two haiku stood out for me: Foam's and Karl's second ones, both of which put us in media res of an actual adventure. One of those adventures starts off pitch perfect and then, thanks to the arbitrary nature of Mother Nature, ends up being something else entirely. The other, which was never pitch perfect to begin with; in fact, it was one for which Ms. Foam was most likely extremely ill-prepared. But she did it anyway. As a result, both our intrepid writers ended up not with cracked skulls (thank goodness), but with bruised "bums." And egos. Well, well done.

But the one that won out was Karl's. By a nose and a smidgeon more of cinematic phrasing.

High exit, crisp, calm.
Freefall frolic. Winds change, blow.
Backward bean field ride.

Congrats, Karl! I have no prezzies to bestow this time around. But then again, when you want presents, they just mail themselves to your door.

Haiku Monday: ADVENTURE

2011-11-10T16:32:00.000-08:00

A lot of our bloggers have had them recently. Fishy and Aunty just got back from forays to France, Pam from a jaunt around jolly ol' England and Wales, and Chickory inadvertently courted one in the mountains of her own backyard. So I thought ADVENTURE would be a fitting topic for this week's Haiku Contest.

I'd like you to tell me: Do you thirst for it or shrink from it? Enjoy it from the safety of your sofa or out in the great outdoors? From the end of a bungee or dangling from a parachute? Atop a mountain or at the bottom of the ocean? Or is your interpretation something more ethereal or elusive, a feeling or way of life rather than an actual action?

The rules are simple:

• 5-7-5 format

• The word adventure does NOT have to appear in the haiku or the title, but if you can incorporate it, awesome

• Submit no more than two

• Visuals always fun but not necessary and won't affect the judging

• Post here by midnight EST, Monday, November 14

• I'll announce the winner by end of the day Tuesday, November 15

Good luck!

Blood Sweat and Tears

2011-11-08T05:34:00.000-08:00

From my trainer, a woman with the tenacity of a badger and the muscles of a ballerina, the kind of person who, upon hearing that you simply cannot go on, that you are about to hurl on your shoes, that please, can we just forget this whole thing and go gossip over donuts and coffee, purses her lips, hands you a towel, and says: "Don't care. Two more sets.":

"It's not the heaviness of the weight that matters most, but the intention with which you lift it."

In spite of the fact that I spend most of my time flipping her off behind her back, I have decided that these are wise words indeed and I just might want to adopt them as my mantra to get me through these next few months as I navigate the holidays, a full workload, and swat away doubts about the wisdom of signing up for my next trail race. (Which brings to mind another of my life's mottos: "Interesting, but stupid.")

So, what about you all? Has there ever been anything you've done for which you were totally ill-prepared but you just went ahead and did it anyway and surprise, surprise, no one died, sued you, or made you go home?

Haiku Monday: DEATH

2011-11-06T17:42:00.000-08:00

Move towards the light:

Sun, surf, sand, and drink. You die.

But then life’s a beach.

* * *

Haiku Monday is back in the hands of Señor Troll this week

with the seemingly somber topic of DEATH. Which is sure to bring out

some heavy-hitting haiku talent.

Week's End D'ohs!

2011-11-04T07:30:00.000-07:00

Until Death Do Us Part

2011-11-02T06:27:00.001-07:00

Oh my God, I left my brain on the bus!

Here's what I have learned so far this week:

1. As usual, my math is off: For the past seventeen years, I've operated under the assumption that S.B. and I first met on Sunday, November 1, 1994, the day after Halloween. When in actuality, that Sunday was the day after a Halloween PARTY, held Saturday, October 29th, a two full days before the date I've always held in my head.

2. Not that it really matters. I'm jinx-ey about celebrating anniversaries, and S.B. tends to forget stuff unless I Sticky Note it. Birthdays, Christmas, Valentine's, bring it. But I've always tiptoed around the whole until death do us part concept for one thing (what if one of us turns into a serial killer? a wearer of Crocs? a democrat?) and I'm a skeptic about anything institutionalized for another. I figure if I don't look it straight in the eyes, it won't be tempted to attack. So far, it seems to be working.

3. I think that I am actually beginning to hate a show about zombies. And I'll watch zombie anything, but Walking Dead is turning out to be such a clunker, not even a busload of meth addicts could revive it at this point. Speaking of which, anyone see the season finale of Breaking Bad? That was awesome. Also: Homeland. If you haven't seen this, it's worth watching the past episodes online to catch up. Very tense stuff. Also, also: American Horror Story. Scary and funny and sexy (Dylan McDermott is FIFTY? Holy moly. Even S.B. had to comment on that one.).

4. I watch way too much television.

5. I actually made my way through an entire fantasy novel this month, Terry Pratchett's Small Gods (at Troll's rec), and didn't want to throw it against the wall. Au contraire, it was very food for thought-ey, and I loved the whole desert-as-metaphor-for-enlightened-thought bit and also the desert as the purgatory across which the newly dead must make their way to the final place of judgment. When I die, I want to be laid (lain?) out on a flat rock in the New Mexico badlands somewhere, left as food for the coyotes and the vultures. Let that sun soak my bones until they're bleached and scattered. This sends S.B. into a mini conniption fit every time I mention it because most likely he'll be the one who has to carry out my final wishes and most likely this is illegal.

That's all I got. You?

Happy Dia de los Muertos

2011-11-01T06:02:00.000-07:00

Haiku Monday: JOY

2011-10-30T08:32:00.000-07:00

Nose to wrist inhales

spring’s symphonic scent. My skin
blossoms, Eau de Joy.

* * *

Fishy is hosting Haiku Monday this week, with a theme guaranteed
to put a spring in your step. Even though it's fall.
Pop on over and join the fun.

Hurricane Wednesday

2011-10-26T06:22:00.001-07:00

Haiku Monday: GHOST

2011-10-24T07:22:00.001-07:00

Lo, what spectral smudge
at midnight haunts my room? Phew!
‘tis only the dog.

For more haunting haiku, drop by here as Aunty's hosts this week.

* * *

P.S. This week's Walking Dead summary comes to you courtesy S.B.:
"This show is like a motorcycle revving it's engine in the driveway, waiting to take off."

Fuel for Fire

2011-10-18T17:39:00.000-07:00

Want. Want, want want, want want.

Yes, it's out of my price range, but if I start saving now . . . And you know what? Shhhhhhhh . . . it's a hybrid. I know, right?!? The Fisker Karma, the world's first hybrid high performance luxury sports car. Made by a private joint venture out of Anaheim, CA, and manufactured in Finland. Even better looking, in my humble opinion, than the Jaguar, which to me is the ne plus ultra of beautiful car design.

From the website:

Finally, sustainable design without compromise. Introducing the Fisker Karma, the first true electric luxury vehicle with extended range and the freedom to plug in or fill up. With the ability to toggle between the all-electric Stealth Mode or fuel assisted Sport Mode with the simple shift of the paddle, the Karma delivers high impact performance while maintaining a low impact on the environment. The Fisker Karma -- a bold expression of uncompromised responsible luxury.

Yeah, buddy. Well, except for that last statement. The copy was fine until "responsible luxury." That's just kind of dumb.

What say you? Yay or nay?

Dead Men Walking

2011-10-17T05:01:00.000-07:00

No one loves a good zombie saga more than I do, but is it just me or did last night's season two premier of Walking Dead seem just a bit flogged? Those "intense moments of sociological sparring" in between zombie threat and gag-me-with-a-spoon gross-out that have so many critics applauding just had me yawning and wishing I wasn't on hiatus from alcohol.

And when I get bored, I start watching for holes in the plot. Any little thing will do, but last night I didn't have to look too closely.

1. I realize the merry band of survivors have to hit the road in search of a safer place to try and reconstruct some semblance of normalcy, but who on earth allowed Daryl to do it on a chopper the size of a small jet engine that sounds just like one, too? Seriously. If stealth is a concern, then someone should have ixnayed his zombie-brained choice from the get-go. And, besides, who on earth can keep their arms up for that long? A chopper is a conceit, not a long term method of transport.

2. Yeah, yeah, we're supposed to believe for one second that the little girl purposefully left the spot under the riverbank where Rick hid her. Thus, sending the merry band on a sidetracked quest to find her, leading to all kinds of the aforementioned tense sociological drama, i.e., should we continue looking for her or save our own asses, i.e.e., are the needs of the many more important than the needs of the few? And do we beat the tar out of the little tyke once we find her for causing us such trouble? As far as I'm concerned? There's no room for children in the zombie apocalypse. Maybe the producers think so too, by the looks of the ending.

3. When trying to figure out if said tyke is still alive, Rick and Shane bean the brains of a walker, then cut open his gut sack to see if he'd recently munched on eight year old girl flesh. Ridiculous! What on earth would they have found to distinguish her from anyone else? My Little Pony? Barbie? I wanted to bitch slap those two but hard.

4. And if I watch one more program in which any character starts in with the why-me-Lording to a battered statues of Jesus in a bombed out church, I'm going to hurl.

The good news is, the previews for the upcoming season look like we're finally going to get to the meat of something interesting: A convergence with other survivors, evidence that a centralized form of control still exists, Rick finding out about Shane and Lori's stepping out. Anything to take us from the hermetically sealed world of Survivor Zombie Style into a broader, truly sociological examination of the only thing that really matters in such a tale: how thin and fragile is that veil between so-called polite society, order, and justice, and total anarchy? And which works out best for the human race in the long run?

* * *

Where's Haiku Monday? Over at Rafe's. Guaranteed to be zombie free.

Don't Shoot Me, I'm Just the Copy Editor

2011-10-13T05:50:00.001-07:00

No, that's not me. But I did covet that hat and nearly talked her out of it. Then she emerged from her fog (alcohol? wacky weed? life?) and realized, "D'oh! I make these for a living, girl! BUY one from me!"

I dig the dress, too. She hand knit it herself and it fell all the way to the ground, ending in a spectacular fall of ruffles.

I also dug the party's venue: a resort high up in the hills above Santa Fe with the kind of million dollar views that make bazillionaire East Coasters leave their Manhattan spreads for bazillion-dollar dirt-built mansions off roads that the county resolutely refuses to plow come winter. It's kind of like Mulholland Drive or Lauren Canyon, only dustier.

The food, unfortunately, was uninspired. Lots of things like carpaccio wrapped around wasabi something-something and tuna tartar stuffed in mini cucumber cups and something-something hummus on radicchio, served by kohl-eyed and tattooed twenty-somethings who otherwise play in a band or really just want to write. But there was only one bartender. Eye candy bartender to be sure, but seriously there were hundreds of people at this shindig and only one of him. And once the sun went down, it got really cold outside and I was worried for him because he had a shaved head.

Me, I never drink at these things. Not only because of the drive, but because there's enough bullshit being spewed that I don't have to add to it. Besides, one of life's greatest pleasures is being stone cold sober while trying to figure out what, exactly, a drunk stranger in a deerskin jacket that looks like it was cribbed from Denis Hopper circa 1967 is trying to tell you. And not necessarily because they're slurring their words. There's nothing quite like alcohol to subvert logic and discretion and unlock the part of the brain where all a person's whack-on-crack impulses are toe-tapping themselves to be let loose upon the world.

Mine were reaching their hands through the bars with such desperation, I actually began to feel bad. And there wasn't even anything good to eat that I could shut them up with, so that was when I decided it was time to leave. I got lost on the way back down the mountain because I was talking to S.B. on the Bluetooth and not paying attention to the road, and then he made fun of me for insisting on doing things the old fashioned way, which was pull over, turn on the light, and look at the Google Map, instead of turning on the navigation system.

And then I spent the entire ride back home talking myself out of stopping at the McDonald's ten minutes from home for a Big Mac and some fries.

It's a wonder I ever leave the house.

For those of you clamoring for the view:

I took this one early on before the sun set completely.
No way iPhone can do it justice, but it gives you an idea of height and scope.

Haiku Monday: VELVET

2011-10-08T13:31:00.000-07:00

Dressed for Chill:

Silken velvet's sheen

deftly cut and sewn cocoons.

Winter's lux armor.

* * *

Chickory's hosting this week, so make sure to stop by,
even if you don't play. Velvet's a brilliant theme.

Slackers of the World Unite

2011-10-07T07:12:00.000-07:00

The best editorial I've yet read on the so-called Wall Street protests starts off:

We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men, women, and transgendered—and any other human who is able to elude the tyranny of work for a couple of weeks—are created equal. We gather to be free not of tyranny, but of responsibility and college tuitions. Prudence, indeed, will dictate that a government long established and a nation long prosperous be changed for light and transient causes. So let our demands* be submitted to a candid world.

I'd print the rest of it, but I actually have to get back to work. Because, you know, I have a job. One I earned. And if I do a crap job at it, I'll get fired. Because that's just the way things work in this world. Freedom or fairness; it's one or the other, but not both.

Anyway, go read the rest of it, here.

To Infinity and Beyond

2011-10-05T17:00:00.000-07:00

RIP, dude.

Rancher's Rain

2011-10-05T06:22:00.000-07:00

That's what we call the slow, steady, soak-deep-into-the-ground drizzle that New Mexico rarely gets but always so desperately needs. If these rains do come, they do so right about now—just in time to mess with the Balloon Fiesta, cool things down at night, and send the hummingbirds still lingering at my feeders into full-on migration mode. Adios, little birdies; see you guys next year . . .

The good thing about these rains? My garden loves it. One of my rose bushes will continue its fall flush until the end of the month and my petunias and snapdragons won't stop blooming until the first truly hard frost, which can arrive as late as December. And while it often snows in the fall, it doesn't last. We'll get one, two inches, the sun comes out the next day, and the temps warm to the high 60s, low 70s. It's not unusual to eat Thanksgiving, even Christmas, dinner outside.

Our heaviest snowfalls come in February, March, and April. One year, it dumped so much snow mid April, when I went around to the north side of the house to clear the satellite dish, I was buried in a roof avalanche. That was the year we decided to put snow blocks up on the roof. Small dogs and children regularly die from large falls of snow off a roof, and while we don't have either, we do have me. Imagine if S.B. had returned from a work trip to find me missing from the kitchen and Ivan outside, resolutely planted beside this hump of snow in the shape of a ding-a-ling in a snowsuit. Funny, but kind of not really.

Also kind of not really funny? Running with Maddie in the rain. Today, she and I are scheduled for a five-miler in the hills but while I have trail shoes and gaiters, she does not. She is short and has long fur and just got back from the groomers. Yeah. You ever try cleaning mud out of a Border Collie's fur? I just don't have that kind of time.

So anyway. Tell Moi: what are your falls like?

Haiku Monday: FOG

2011-10-03T14:04:00.000-07:00

Midnight’s fevered squall
mists the desert dawn. Earth shrugs.
Dew’s long gone by noon.

* * *

Curmudgeon was last week's winner,
so head on over there to gawk or post.

Wax Nostalgic

2011-09-30T06:50:00.001-07:00

Just 'cause I miss disco sometimes. And turbans. And female pop singers who could sing live with as much power as recorded.

(Also, I miss donuts.)

By the way, if you're still hanging in there with Project Runway, whose little sewing mice tackled my favorite fashion era last night in typically horrendous . . . fashion . . . then head over to Miss Pam's place. She's taken the snarkin' back over, now that she's back from her jaunt across the pond.

Haiku Monday: HUNTER/HUNTED

2011-09-26T08:02:00.000-07:00

Bejeweled and aglow,

Athena-felled swain commands
autumn’s inky skies.

* * *

As last week's winner, Uncle is hosting and judging this week. Over at Aunty's. Who left him in charge of her blog while she travels for business. Which, of course, begs the questions: Who will win this free-for-all Battle Hunter, will there be booze and sandwiches, and will Aunty return to fling plates at Uncle's head? Stay tuned . . .

Cuke Overload

2011-09-22T08:17:00.000-07:00

I returned from a short visit to South Louisiana earlier this week with two things: 1. A re-confirmation of my inability, even as an adult and after not having been in church for about a bazillion years, to keep my eyes open and my ears from hearing Charlie Brown's parents once the sermon starts. God created the heavens and the earth, right? So if it's all the same, I'll just go ahead and worship that with my Sunday morning trail runs. Save myself the trouble of putting on heels and mascara that early in the day, besides; and 2. A passel of cucumbers from my green-thumbed father-in-law's most excellent garden.

I've never been much of a fan of cucumbers, but I have to say, straight out of the garden? Delicious! Except, what the heck am I going to DO with all of them?

So hit me with your best ideas.

Just Because I Like This Song

2011-09-21T05:15:00.000-07:00

Haiku Monday: DANCE

2011-09-19T13:31:00.000-07:00

(Insert goofy photo of you hugging dance partner here:)

Junior High School's dread:
Palms sweat and knees knock. We are
all a Limburger.

* * *

Game's being played over at Czar's this week. Make sure you either play or pretend to do so on T.V.

Free For All

2011-09-14T06:23:00.001-07:00

Phat Loot: the long knit/crocheted gloves I was coveting and a pair of satin-ey lounge pants I didn't know I wanted until I saw them.

I turned on the television this morning to one of the network's top news stories: yesterday's unprecedented, all-day crash of the retail giant Target's website. The reason? The arrival in its stores of the most highly anticipated, coveted, and hyped partnerships between Target and a high end designer since the retailer debuted its Design For All concept back in the late 1990s with a Michael Graves-designed set of housewares.

Since then, Target has partnered with everyone from Anna Sui to Converse, Alexander McQueen to Rodarte. Always limited editions, although some designers (like the make-up maven Sonia Kashuk, and American apparel manufacturer Mossimo) have remained perennials. Anyone who has ever shopped target most likely has one of Mossimo's colorful t-shirts or Kashuk's brilliant eye colors, perfumes, or make up brushes. Even better, they didn't go into hock to purchase them, either.

But I'm not sure anyone was prepared for the Missoni frenzy. An Italian knitwear design house started in Italy in 1953 by husband and wife Ottavio and Rosita Missoni, the line is famous for the quality of its wools and fabrics and crazy patterns and colors. To own a piece of Missoni is to own true luxury, and I don't mean that in a cost-a-million-dollars-worth-of-luxury kind of way. What I mean is, you own something that is handmade by a small, privately held family company that still retains tight control over quality and production, and still cares that it's providing it's customer with something beautiful to wear. (However, the the lower-priced M Missoni line currently licenses to LVMH, so don't buy M.)

When I heard back in the spring about this partnership, you can bet I calendared the debut date. Those who pooh-poohed me and said, "It's Missoni For Target, not the real thing,"' can suck it. I say: what's the difference? Why can't a $54 cardigan with a cool pattern and tight weave be any less purchase-worthy than one that costs 10 times that?

So when Chickory called yesterday morning while I was on my way into town, breathless with excitement and quickly giving me the low down on the goods, it was all I could do to make it through my early morning appointment before hitting the closest Target at 10am. Which I did. In spite of the slim pickings, I picked up some great stuff, including this rockin' knit cardigan whose Navajo/Art Deco pattern fits right into my 1970s-inspired fall wardrobe. I was exclusively scouting for clothing, one of the silk scarves, and the laptop cover. The housewares, while beautiful, I stayed away from. I have way too many fine and fun bowls, vases, dish sets, etc., both modern and vintage, and all I needed was to come home with yet another piece to find space for. However, anyone who needed to furnish their baths, beds, and kitchens would have found some really great pieces.

While waiting for a dressing room, I listened to the sales gals' tales of woe: of people lined up at 4am to get in. Of checkers ringing up bills in the thousands of dollars. Of people snatching items out of other shoppers' carts. Mad house, frenzy, not prepared, were constant phrases. But my first thought was: right on.

With all the complaints about the economy these days, these girls are looking this gift horse in the mouth? I wanted to smack them. Yes, I'm an unabashed Material Girl. That's because we're a Material Nation. A Material World. A Material SPECIES. What would we be doing if we didn't conceive, create, manufacture, distribute, and sell? Lay on a beach all day somewhere frolicking with dolphins and making love not war? The problem with that is, someone eventually wants a cute-looking bikini and goes looking for someone to make it, and then someone else begins to control the distribution of coconuts and palm fronds. And there we are: right back where we started.

So I say: all hail the free market. It may not be perfect, but it's the best idea for an economy that we've got.

Haiku Mondays: JOURNEY

2011-09-12T12:38:00.000-07:00

Behind her Old World
ties dissolve. Free at last? No.
New ones quickly spun.

* * *

Journey is the theme for this week's Haiku Monday, hosted by
last week's winner, Aunty Belle.
You can play, or just read, over at her place.

Project Runway Temporary Snark Station

2011-09-09T14:13:00.001-07:00

If anyone's still watching this lame-ass show, it certainly can't be for the design challenges, but for the simple, leg-kicking good fun of watching Joshua roll his eyes and flip his hands and jack the drama to levels so sky high, even Gloria Swanson would be embarrassed.

Oooooo, and how much did you want to hate him when he told Becky point blanket-edly that he is the one who makes clothing people want to buy and she doesn't, but then a second later thought to yourself, "Hmm. Boy's got a point." Sometimes the world just needs people like Joshua to tell it like it is. Even if they do tell it in a tres yucky orange-tanned and faux-Pucci-print-on-discount-in-South-Beach kind of way.

Somewhere, a passel of Jersey Girls are crying their eyelashes off because they just found out Joshua don't swing their way.

But the real howler of the evening was this dress by Bert:

Trust me. You don't want to see it any closer. But if you want to, you'll have to click here, because stoooooooooooopid Project Runway site won't let me snag their photos. Go ahead. I'll wait . . .

RIGHT?

About the only thing I liked last night was the jacket Oliver made. Which I also can't snag off the website.

So. Yeah.

Oh, but I do have photos of these guys!

Baby otters! Aren't they cwute? Don't you just want to kiss their widdle faces? (So much better than Project Runway designers.)

All I Need's A Fast Machine

2011-09-06T11:18:00.001-07:00

Yeah, yeah. I know. I'm supposed to be working. In the next three days I have to outline an entire book, assign editorial to one of my magazines, and put another one to bed, including proofing blueline. Gah. But, before I start to bang my head against a wall and ruin my eyesight even further, I just need to quickly share my newest obsession with you. Because I can't get these guys out of my head.

This show is so much ding dang fun, I can't believe it's taken me all these years to discover it. If you've seen it, you know what I mean. If you haven't oh, man, you don't know what you're missing. Riddled with wry British humor and lightning fast quips like, "As we know, there is a financial crisis going on at the moment, but we’ve decided not to take part in it.” Because these guys have a love for the automobile so unabashed, it has eco-warriors across the globe flinging tofu at their screens on a weekly basis. My kind of show, exactly.

My favorite episode so far is pretty indicative of how things operate between Top Gear's three hosts: the producers tell each of them to choose their dream race car and let them out for a long, fast spin along one of the world's all-time great highways. They consider the Transfagarasan Highway in Romania, but eventually decided on America's Blue Ridge Parkway, because "The Americans always think they're right."

Right.

James selects a Ferrari 458 Italia; Jeremy, a Mercedes SLS (hubba); and Richard, bless him, chooses what has to be, hands down, my least favorite car on the planet, the so-butt-ass-ugly-not-even-its-momma-could-love-it, Porsche 911 GT3 RS.

Jeremy, a man after my own heart, ridicules his compatriots, pointing at the Ferrari and stating, "That is a car a five year old would love," then at the Porsche, "And that is car a 55 year old would love." And then he beams at the Mercedes: "But this, this is a car for grown ups with elegance and taste."

(Jeremy is also responsible for my latest auto obsession, the new BMW 1M—see below and tell me if you don't think that thing has major fizz—it's like a Staffie Bull with wheels.)

But when they finally get to the Parkway, shot in all its golden-lit summer afternoon splendor, they discover that . . . the speed limit never tops out beyond 45mph! The sight of these three gear heads crawling along in their raring-to-go sports cars, trying to figure out if they should just go for it and put the pedal to the metal, is one of television's all-time greatest moments.

Freakin' priceless, in fact.

So, yeah: Watch this show.

Top Gear BMW M1 - Free videos are just a click away

Haiku Mondays: BIRTH

2011-09-05T08:40:00.000-07:00

Sacred

River’s iced embrace
washes soul of sin. Behave!
You’re a Christian now.

Profane

Botticelli’s babe
today: Too fat for naked.
Put some clothes on, girl.

* * *

Troll's hosting this week, based on a theme chosen by
last go-round's winner, Deep Blue.
Head on over and see what all the fun is about.

Project Runway Temporary Snark Station

2011-09-02T05:57:00.001-07:00

I have always pictured Bert Keeter at his best designing something über urban sophisticated, along the lines of, say, Ellie Saab or Donna Karan.

See? Tres chic.

But knowing the man is, in reality, capable of putting together something only an Oompa Loompah could love . . .

Makes me want to kill him before he designs again!

Culinary Smackdown: Battle Bacon

2011-08-30T17:39:00.000-07:00

Eggplant to Go brought it back, Chickory designed its rocking' new badge, Grumpy Granny is hosting this week, and I'm playing along because, well, I love bacon. Even though I have, like, no time these days and my brain has been reduced to near mush from the stress and lack of consistent zzzzzzzs. Still, the cooking, it must get done. S.B. will suffer Big Salad, Sandwich, and Breakfast For Supper nights for only so long.

At any rate, my entry isn't all that revolutionary, but it is interesting because the main ingredient is the last lone veggie in the pantheon of veggies that I used to hamster-cheek in protest as a wee Moi that I still look upon with dread. Perhaps, this dread, it is in my genes, because one of my cousins with whom I am close (call me, you bum), also hates 'em.

Yes. Brussels Sprouts. Which to me have always looked like the stunted fetal offspring of regular cabbage and tasted like sweaty gym socks. NOT a good combo. And this is coming from someone who loves Limburger, liver, and tripe. Only not all together on the same plate. I do have standards.

Anyway. There I was in the produce section on Monday and there they were, looking all of a sudden very bright green and cheery and so I thought, well? Maybe bacon would help? And pesto (which I have a surfeit of this year for some bizarre reason—it's like I've suddenly discovered I DO have a gardening green thumb and it goes by the name of basil), definitely pesto.

See? So pretty!

Okay, so how to cook these things. According to various websites, the trick is to bake them in the oven at a high temperature until they are very well browned. Almost burnt. Which gets rid of the sweaty gym socks flavor and heightens the sugars.

So, what the hey, I gave it a shot.

WHAT:

Three large pieces of high quality bacon, the stuff you get from the butcher that's cut thick and marbled just perfectly, fried up until crisp.

3 T. bacon grease from frying

Twelve brussels sprouts, washed and trimmed

1/4 cup pesto

3 T. heavy cream

salt and pepper to taste

HOW:

Preheat oven to 400 F.

Fry bacon in a large skillet. Once done, remove bacon to a plate to cool and discard all but 3 T. of the grease. Add brussels sprouts to the pan and toss until well-coated with the grease. Place sprouts in an oven proof baking dish and bake for 30-40 minutes or until well brown.

While sprouts are cooking, crumble bacon into small pieces and make the pesto: in a Cuisinart or other electric chopper type thingee, place two cups of lightly packed, fresh basil leaves, well washed, a 1/4 cup of pine nuts (or any other kind of nut, really—I used almonds here), one small clove garlic, two ounces of parmesan cheese, and a quarter cup of olive oil. Whiz until desired texture is reached and add salt and pepper to taste.

Add 1/4 cup of the pesto to the same skillet in which you cooked the bacon, add cream and 3/4 of the crumbled bacon slices and cook over medium heat until sauce thickens slightly.

Plate the sprouts, pour sauce on top, and add sprinkled bacon. Serve as a side dish. That night it was ribs with Texas toast.

Seriously, these didn't taste like gym socks at all! In fact, they were quite yummy. Shhhhhhhh. Don't tell my cousin.

Check out all the other entries by visiting Grump Granny's site.

Haiku Mondays: MEMORY

2011-08-28T05:21:00.000-07:00

The winner by both Troll declaration and popular vote in last week's Haiku Monday contest, Princess over at Palais de Steff is hosting this week's contest with the theme of:

MEMORY

Pop on over and add to the fun, won't you?

* * *

Stumble-stepped old dog
tilts nose to summer breeze. Sniffs:
tales of glory days.

Project Runway Temporary Snark Station

2011-08-26T10:48:00.001-07:00

I'm temporarily hosting the Project Runway Snark Station while our usual hostess, Pam in the OKC, is busy rockin' in the free world. All I can say about last night's show is:

Zehr vill be no dissent amongst zuh ranks!

Well, at least everyone was in agreement that this look rocks socks:

I'd wear it in a heartbeat, even with those flat-ass shoes,
and I hate flat-ass shoes.

But, whoa, Nelly. Were The Heidi and I the only people who thought Anthony Ryan should go home? PTSD back to junior high gym school class, seriously, y'all!

Gag me with a dodge ball.

Unfortunately, Michael, Nina, and that Erin Wasson model girl (eat something!) were all, "Nyet! Danielle simply cannot be allowed to make another thing in silk chiffon, ever!" while Heidi was all, "Nein! Project Runway is cut and dried: one day you're in, the next day you're out!"

Sing it, girlfriend.

What sayeth you, the snarkers?

Notes From the Road

2011-08-21T17:13:00.000-07:00

Dear Bed and Breakfast Owners Throughout the Northeast Corridor,

Just because Benjamin Franklin slept here? Doesn't mean anyone living in the 21st century should.

Signed,

Moi (Too tired to go Road Warrior on any one's asses. Tonight.)

Lexiconification

2011-08-19T07:23:00.000-07:00

I'm hitting the road again this Sunday. Philadelphia-thereabouts-bound, in the service of putting one word after the other until I've amassed enough to fill a picture history book on the topic of interest. Before I go, though, I'm scrambling to finish up one project and clear my in-box of the most immediate demands of another.

This latter project has been particularly irksome, a copy editing project for a regional art magazine that pays its writers well, but which doesn't seem to get much in return. At least not for the main features of this issue. Here's what I had to wrangle into some semblance of sense in just two articles alone (Czar, shut your eyes; you've seen these):

“photography studios filled with a cacophony of tools to wrestle the perfect lighting through the lens”

“Zen principles carried out with eerie contemporariness”

“westernized modernizations”

“Kyoto emanating an enticing atmosphere that is serene and calm”

“introspective cave encouraging a reflective inner experience”

And a description of a house as “stone grounding connection to earth at the feet"

With the remaining work, I'm not running into bad phrasing so much as terrible, awful, hellacious word choices. I never thought it possible to actually hate certain words, but, really; I'd like to see us all take a break from using the following any time soon, either in conversation or on the written page. Like, 8-10 years ought to do it. Maybe forever.

Eclectic (I get it, it's unique and quirky. Now, go find another word.)

Synchronicity (I hate it when Sting sings it, I hate it when it's used to describe a relationship, I hate it, period.)

Predilection (There's just something creepy about how this word sounds, like a pervert licking his fingers over a bucket of Kentucky Fried Chicken.)

Penchant (Because I always pronounce it pen–shaunt in my head and that's just ridiculous.)

Munificent (I'm totally okay if you write "really generous"—really.)

Recherche (Rare, but here's one I can't pronounce at all.)

Magical (Perhaps my most un-favorite word of all time, especially when used to describe a painting, sunset, convergence of body mind and spirit, and/or the sensation you feel when confronted with said paintings, sunsets, and convergences, and therefore my number one choice for banishment from the English language forever and ever, amen.)

Come on, help me compile an anti-dictionary: if you could strike one word from the English language, what would it be?

Needful Things

2011-08-16T12:53:00.000-07:00

Okay, okay. You can stop flashing those shiny brights at me now. I admit it. You've got my attention. I'm intrigued, alright?

But I have to tell you, I already have a car. And not just any car, but a really great car. A car with good bone structure and incredible handling. It's fast and nimble and smart and even has a terrific sense of humor. And I've had it for so long now, I don't know what I'd do with another one. I mean, do I even have the energy for another car? The outfits? The bank account?

Wait, what's that? Say again?

Ohhhhhhh. I see where you're going with this. It's not like I have to take you home, right? Just one spin around the block should do it, then we both go our separate ways and I'll forget I ever looked deep into your burled wood and leather lined dashboard or heard the sweet growl of your 5.4 liter, V-8, 355 hp, 0-60 in 4.2 seconds engine.

Right?

Haiku Monday: PACIFIC

2011-08-14T12:07:00.000-07:00

Neither hippie nor

holy holds the key. Peace, bro?

Fight the current’s flow.

* * *

Wanna play? Head over to Chickory's Place. She's hosting this week

and offering a fabulous prize.

Services Rendered

2011-08-12T15:19:00.000-07:00

The privately owned rescue dogs of 9/11. Great slide show.

Mouths of Babes

2011-08-10T07:29:00.000-07:00

A couple months ago, I got a call from an old college pal asking if I would meet with one of her sons, recently graduated from high school and about to enter UNM, who is interested in becoming a writer. This is a gal that I’ve maintained at least a semblance of contact with since the early 1990s. In fact, I like to think that in a round about way, I'm responsible for her son being on this planet.

It was sophomore year of college, first day of what I think was an American history class, and I was running late. Class had just begun, so I sat myself down in the first seat I saw, right next to—hello!— this really cute dude who looked almost exactly like how Tom Cruise was looking in those days, as in: not-yet-revealed-to-the-world-as-bat-shit-crazy-adorable.

He was also wearing a tee shirt with the word FIAT on it, which gave me the perfect opening during break.

Moi: “So, you drive a Fiat?”

Him: Adorable smile: “I wouldn’t really call it ‘drive.’”

Moi: Blink.

Him: “Do you know what Fiat stands for?”

Moi: Blink, blink.

Him: Again with the adorable smile: “Fix It Again, Todd.”

Right then and there I decided I had no choice but to absolutely go after Todd with as much laser-focused effort as I could muster in between a life filled with class, work, keggers, and shopping. Which effort, alas, turned out to earn me a great big ol’ F for “fail,” because instead of falling for me, Todd fell hard for one of my friends, a pretty blond named Patty.

So hard that several weeks after meeting her, he cornered me during lunch, begging me to ask Patty if she were interested in him. What could I do? I did the right thing and said, I don’t have to ask, she digs ya, too. Go for it.

And so they started dating and when he cornered me again a few months later and said he was head over heels in love with her, what should he do, should he ask her to marry him? Again, what could I do? I did he right thing and said, yes, she adores you, is madly, passionately in love with you, we’ve been stalking your house for weeks and I need to get some sleep already, so go for it. And you know what? He did and they’re still head over heels in love with each other. Which turned out to be just fine with me. They were made for each other, and I was made to, well, date other people.

Anyway, fast forward a couple years to summer after graduation and I get a note from Todd and Patty saying Todd joined the army and they’re headed to Italy for the duration. Four years later, they’re back in town, Patty’s pregnant, and soon they produce what has to be the cutest baby boy I’ve ever seen in my life. So cute, in fact, that I lost all control of my senses and actually offered to give up two of my prime dating nights a month to babysit for this child just so I could nibble on his chubby cheeks and knees. Thankfully, I only had to do this once (Todd is possessed of a very large, much more diaper-changing-adept, family.)

Thereafter, things happen in both our lives, they have another baby, blah, blah, blah, I get married and divorced, blah, blah, blah, and eventually our contact is limited to once-a-year Christmas cards.

Until a few years back when we hooked up through Facebook. Fast forward to the “Can you talk with Tyler and advise him on becoming a writer?” query of a few months ago, and I find myself face-to-face with a handsome, 6’5”, 200-pound version of the baby whose cheeks I used to pinch, only one who now drives a motorcycle and calls me “ma’am.” We sit down with our lunch and our sodas and I begin to discuss the pros and cons of writing as a career, with an emphasis on the con side of the list. After all, I don’t want to shine this kid on.

When I get to the part where I say, “Are you sure there isn’t anything else you’d rather be doing?” he stops me. Although he has his mother’s coloring and facial features, the look in his eyes is 100 percent his father’s. “No, seriously,” he says. “I’ve thought about this and thought about this and this is something I really want to do. I need your help so I know I’m going about it the right way.”

What could I do? I did the right thing and told him to go for it.

Haiku Mondays: VENEER

2011-08-08T06:32:00.000-07:00

Miss Represent

California girls?
Not even their hair is real.
Surface is substance.

* * *

Miss Fleur was our winner last week with another one of her finely honed haiku and so is hosting again this week. Very interesting theme. Should bring out some fun ones.

Dear U.S. Government

2011-08-05T13:54:00.000-07:00

Shock the Monkies

2011-08-04T05:51:00.000-07:00

Is is just me, or are you all also getting tired of the escalating hysterical tone creeping into every corner of our news media? Just this morning, a local Albuquerque news anchor was reporting on an incident in Newport Beach, CA, involving a teenage boy who was digging a pit on the beach, when the pit caved in on him, trapping him for about 20 minutes. Twenty minutes. About the right amount of time it takes for a good half dozen people on a crowded beach to notice what happened and to dig him out with their hands.

Hardly anything to get worked up about, right? And if you think about it, the story is more funny than scary.

But here's our local reporter: "The boy will appear on this morning's Today show in an exclusive interview to talk about his frightening ordeal."

Note the excessive use of hysteria-laden adjectives here: "Exclusive," "frightening," "ordeal." Had I written that back in my college days, my professor would have bled all over it, sent it back to me in the form of a paper airplane with the words Dumb Shit written on the wings, and then applied his boot to my butt before giving me an F and sending me off to the nearest Wimmin's Study class.

Where, at some point in the middle of Post World War II Feminist Thought: A Praxis for the Community, it finally would have hit me: "The teen will appear on this morning's Today show to talk about what happened." D'oh!

Of course, this isn't the worst of it. Turn on any national news outlet, from NBC Nightly News to MSNBC to Fox to CNN, and you'll hear a similar sort of editorializing used to report on everything from localized events to national crises of confidence.

Which leads me to wonder: if everything is painted with the same broad brush strokes of anxiety and fear, how on earth are we ever going to be able to calm down long enough to think and distinguish real problems (our national debt, escalating military actions, cough, cough) from those created as paper tiger crises to propagate a political agenda (war on drugs, climate change, entitlement payments, cough, cough).

Oh. That's right. We're not supposed to think. We're supposed to follow.

Movie Clip Wednesdays: Best Movie From a TV Series

2011-08-03T08:02:00.000-07:00

One of my all time favorite television shows translated into one of my all-time favorite movies. Mainly, because I do so identify with Wednesday Addams. Such a cute little anarchist. This scene never fails to crack me right the heck up.

"For these reasons, I have decided to scalp you, and burn your village to the ground."

Bwahahahahaha!

Go Chippewas!

Miss Joanna Cake remains our hostess with the mostest for this weekly meme, so head over to her blog to see who else is playing this week.

Haiku Mondays: WHISTLE

2011-08-01T07:44:00.001-07:00

This week's Haiku Monday contest is courtesy Aunty Belle and involves Old School Haiku Rules implemented in the service of the theme of Whistle. I'm facing some majorly tight deadlines and general pissed off-edness at the State of our Dis-Union, but a feisty little critter who nearly dive bombed me on this morning's walk served as nick-of-time inspiration:

Thumb-sized avian's
wing trill tattoos air. Warning!
Hummingbird domain.

Head over to Aunty's for more whistlers-while-they-workers.

Pop the Balloon

2011-07-29T17:04:00.000-07:00

I told God I'm coming
to your country.
I'm going to eat up your cities,
your homes, you know
I've got a stomach full it's not
a chip on my shoulder.
I've got this growl in my tummy
and I'm gonna stop it today
I eat too much
I drink too much
I want too much
Too much

Suck it up...

--Dave Matthews

Ich bin ein TV Glotzer

2011-07-28T07:12:00.000-07:00

I honestly have no idea what on earth possessed Heidi and Co. to decide she should appear naked on this promo poster. All I can say is: please, God, don't make Tim Gunn do the same.

Who's with me on watching?

Bossy Pants

2011-07-26T12:20:00.000-07:00

WATCH IT:

If you're watching Breaking Bad, then you don't need to read this. If you're not, then what on earth is wrong with you? Go buy yourself the first three seasons and get started right now. This show is so good, it begs, pleads, and hair pulls the question: why, oh why, is Hollywood even in existence anymore?

Bryan Cranston's Walter White is a man about as given up as it gets: crag-faced, slump-shouldered, ineffectual in his efforts to wrest some interest out of his bored-to-tears high school chemistry students, and about to become a father for the second time at the age of 50. Unplanned, naturally. But Walter wasn't always so beaten down, and watching him morph from Emasculated American Male into the MacGyver of Methamphetamine is about as fun as it gets. The supporting cast is pretty great, too, including Walt's sidekick in crime, Jesse, who in spite of his hapless Generation Yo-ster status, is the show's only hook upon which it can hang any kind of moral hat.

What's even more brilliant, is that the producers decided to shoot it all right here in Albuquerque, a city that wears its potential for progress like a pair of designer sunglasses while at the same time supporting an underbelly of neighborhoods so deeply scarred and barrio-ed, they make East L.A. look like Boca Raton.

Perfect.

LISTEN TO IT:

Once upon a time, the music industry term, "All killer, no filler," was used to describe an album in which each and every song was written, crafted, and recorded with the intent of being a hit single. Unlike today, when an album (CD, whatever) is mostly just a compilation of lame-ass tunes designed to support one or two downloadable songs targeted for the Top 40. Most people in the music business consider the album a dinosaur.

The Foo Fighters are one of the exceptions, and so is their latest album, Wasting Light. It's all pretty much killer, but even if you don't literally and figuratively buy into the album concept, at least do yourself a huge favor and download these two songs:

"White Limo," a spastic retro punk/metal homage to the idea that a threesome between Motörhead, Ministry, and the Beastie Boys would be, like, the best idea ever; and the heart-wrenching, "These Days," which proves that it is possible to write a rock anthem without sounding like a douche.

READ IT:

Here, I'm at a loss. Unless one or more of you can save me from myself, I'm about to plunge deep into the heart of War and Peace. Any recommendations?

Haiku Monday: SWEAT

2011-07-24T17:21:00.001-07:00

Heat blazes, brow pricks.

Ineffectual swipe. Ow!
Sunscreen burn blinds eyes.

* * *

Buzz was the winner of last week's Haiku Monday, so he got to choose this week's theme. Whaddya bet half the haikus are about sex. Or yard work. To go see, drop by his place and compete if you wanna.

Space Cadet

2011-07-21T18:29:00.000-07:00

I was watching the news tonight and caught a special interest piece on the impending opening of Spaceport America, which is located here in New Mexico just outside Las Cruces. According to the website, Spaceport's mission is to, "Develop and operate the world's first purpose-built commercial spaceport to attract the future space industry, deliver prosperity through public and private cooperation, and inspire the next generation."

I'm not sure what all that means, including if and when the average Joe with a not-so-average bank account can buy him or herself a flight into outer space.

Which leads me to wonder just how many people, if given the means and the opportunity, would take a trip beyond our great blue and into the void. Would you?

1. Hell yes. I'm all about adventure and fun, damn the safety and the money.

2. Hell no. I get scared enough riding on the bus.

3. Probably not. I just don't see the point of paying all that money to be shot off into a great big bunch of black nothing. Then again, if they were serving margaritas . . .

Haiku Mondays: HUNTER/HUNTED WINNER

2011-07-19T12:24:00.000-07:00

Please excuse this week's El Lamo-o Haiku Contest assessment.

I'm exhausted, y'all.

I've been sleeping just fine but working hard (and working out) and the icing on the cake of be-all-that-you-can-be was this morning's near vomit-inducing workout with my trainer. I guess she thinks I'm stronger and fitter than I am, and I guess I'm too embarrassed to relieve her of that notion. So the end result is the kind of stalemate that keeps me swallowing back hurl and spending the rest of my Tuesdays wishing for the succor of a box of donuts and my blankie.

But, nooooooooooooo. I'm now up to my eyeballs in work work. But before I go slug down a Red Bull and put on my game face, here's my short but sweet run down of the runner's up and winner's of this week's contest.

Being as I'm a huge fan of Hunter S. Thompson (RIP), I was immediately attracted to Czar's nifty ode to the inimitable Dr. G:

Whiskey/drug-fueled screeds
Skewer Vegas, politics:
"Ah, Dr. Thompson."

Then Troll chimed in with a haiku that confused me at first, but once the fog cleared, I laughed my ass off:

The Smug Zoology Student's Last Words. Unless, you count "Aaaarghhhhhh" as a word.

Let go! The book says
that you only hunt at night.
Illiterate Beast!

Troll's brilliant with titles, too.

Uncle must have gifted Aunty something real pretty because she allowed him back into this week's contest with another snappy 'ku:

Blind Daze

Sleet needled morn, he
crouches low amid the reeds-
to outwit a duck.

Sleet needled morn . . . damn. Wish I'd written that.

And then Buzz, whose play is intermittent but when he's able, he's spot on.

Left on desk - I'm sure.
Plan and place for everything.
Gone . . . damn you woman!

And the winner be: neck and neck between Troll and Buzz with Buzz edging Troll out by a hair. Simply because, well, I can so relate. And, I'm sorry. All women are like this, really, and I have no idea why. Blame it on our genetics. While you all were out thumping meat over the head, we were back at camp making things . . . orderly. Because we were bored out of our Cro Magnon skulls. We've come a long way since then, baby, but not long enough to divest ourselves entirely of this particular piece of our DNA. Deal.

So, Buzz, looks like it's your turn to host, judge, and perhaps even offer up a fabuloso prize. Can't wait.

Haiku Mondays: HUNTER/HUNTED

2011-07-16T09:16:00.000-07:00

Blondie's last album
like all late stage art devolved:
Baroque blows of chunks.

* * *

When we last left Haiku Monday two weeks ago, we found Troll in a bit of a conundrum about the winner, with things finally shaking out in favor of Aunty's husband, Uncle, and his gleefully naughty hit and run homage to Snow White and her "seven" dwarfs. We took a week's break out of respect for Miss Kym's impending delivery of baby Caleb and Haiku regular Miss Pam's impending status of grandmother to future OSU football star.

So now we're back on track with Uncle's choice of topic for this week—Hunter or Hunted—and I am hosting/judging.

Take aim, give us your best 5-7-5, post it here, and I'll pick the winner sometime on Tuesday. The prize? The fact that your record collection most likely DOES NOT contain this album.

But Blondie's new one, Panic of Girls, is majorly worth checking out. As is the video for the first single, "Mother," which features zombies, retro 80s dance beat/synth riffs filtered through a Zero-ish sensibility (RIP Jimmy Destri, yay Clem Burke), and a thigh-high patent leather booted Debbie Harry looking at least half of her 66 years of age. Dang; what IS she drinking?

Okay, Haikuers . . . Go!

Be Pretty

2011-07-14T06:05:00.000-07:00

Tell Moi: What are your top 3-5 choices for prettiest pop songs ever written?

Party Like It's 2011

2011-07-11T15:20:00.001-07:00

Our Lady of the Perpetual Revolution and Glossy Good Hair

* * *

EVERYTHING I NEED TO KNOW IN LIFE
I LEARNED FROM BLOG SUMMIT 2011

1. The following fashion accessories are de rigueur for desert travel: Frederic Fekkai's hair gloss, loose a-line cut garments in linen, cotton jersey, or nylon, Cole Haan Chukkas, and Evian face spritz. Oh, and aviator sunglasses. The Blogettes have deemed it so: Jackie O frames are so no-no.

2. One's home turf always looks way more interesting through the observations of others, whether they're ooh-ing, ahh-ing, or WTF?-ing.

3. If you need it to rain, just call Boxer. I think she carries the stuff with her at all times. She also brings a LOT of sunshine. She be complex like that.

4. There are few things in life more wonderful than people who don't edit their laughter, their opinions, or their ability to break out in spontaneous dance without seeming at all hippie-ish.

5. Life's too short to say no to ice cream.

6. We have some rockin'-ass husbands, to think there is nothing weird at all about a bunch a gals who met online getting together to travel and have adventures.

7. One of the prettiest openings of any ballad in existence is Bad Company's "Silver, Blue, and Gold." Go ahead, play it. I'll wait.

8. Grey Goose martinis served in a glass the size of a small tug boat are supposed to be cut with water and ice. Oopsie, sorry, Boxer. Then again, you didn't look any worse for wear the next day. But then again, again, I guess that's what aviators are for.

Our Lady of the Perpetual Martini and Lovely Smile

9. A "Deer and a Beer" is now a permanent part of my and S.B.'s happy hour lexicon.

10. We'll do this again, you betcha.

A Behind is a Terrible Thing to Waste

2011-07-10T14:21:00.000-07:00

Wow, That Was Awkward

Chickory spotted her first. Didn't even have to say anything. Just let out a snort of derision and directed her eyeballs. We were stunned. But not so much that we didn't whip out our cameras toot suite.

Ladies, for all our anger at the utterly unfair bitch slap that is the aging process, for all that we are ready, willing, and able to do to keep that process at bay . . . at least we won't do THAT.

The Blog Summit Commeth

2011-07-06T10:14:00.001-07:00

The former mining/ghost town of Madrid, New Mexico, one of the places I'll be taking the Bloggettes this weekend.

* * *

By this time tomorrow, I'll be getting ready to pick Boxer and Chickory up at Albuquerque's International Sunport (don't ask me why it's called that, it just is) to cart them up along I-40 to the backside of the Sandia Mountains. Thus will begin Day One of Blog Summit Nuevo Mexico 2011.

There will be tequila, Grey Goose, food, cake, dogs, guns, one wryly amused husband (who, thankfully, is also a gamer), heat, guns, adventure, and feathers. If your ears burn, that's a good thing. It means we're talking about you. But that's only because we like you and wish you were here, too.

Adios for now, Party People.

Haiku Mondays: SEVEN

2011-07-03T09:26:00.000-07:00

Emmi Whitehorse, Silent Warbler, #1428, oil on canvas, 2007

* * *

Synesthesia

Senses intertwine.
Symbols marry mood and hue:
Seven's brash yellow.

* * *

Ms. Kym was our illustrious winner last week, however, due to the fact that she is about to give birth any second now, Señor Troll is hosting this time around. So head over to his Stroll to participate.

Okay, I Like This

2011-07-02T08:25:00.001-07:00

What We Need Here is Some Rain

2011-06-29T04:57:00.000-07:00

AP image of the Las Conchas fire above Los Alamos. Since it first sparked three days ago, it has grown to 61,000 acres and counting.

Although, it did rain here yesterday. It started off as a smattering of hopeful sprinkles for a few minutes before gathering up full force and letting loose with a hard-driving downpour. For about 7 minutes, 39 seconds.

And it fell selectively. A good friend who lives 10 miles south of us didn't get a single drop. The folks in Los Alamos, nothing.

Things out here at the back of the mountain aren't too bad, but Albuquerque was enveloped in smoke yesterday, which obliterated the mountains and the mesas and volcanoes at the west side of town. We're holding steady at 10 percent chance of rain every day until mid next week, when it shoots to 60 percent for a couple of days.

In the meantime, the entire state is shut down. Even the scenic road to the top of the Sandia Mountains is closed to traffic, the first time ever. The trails behind my house, where we walk the dogs and run? Closed. The river and bosque trails? Closed. The Jemez and Pecos Mountain trails? Closed. Looks like road running and leash walking for us. Which I'll gladly do if it means we up here in the East Mountains escape this:

That's Los Alamos National Laboratories in the foreground.

Haiku Mondays: SHORT

2011-06-27T06:48:00.000-07:00

A Dozen Mr. Right Nows; One Mr. Right

Too tall at thirteen,
too fast, too smart. Only one
man since measured up.

* * *

Señor Czar is taking time out from wrangling commas and the wholesale misuse of affect/effect to host this Monday's 5-7-5-er. Whose theme is: SHORT. Fitting. Head on over to catch the fun.

Nineties Nostalgia

2011-06-25T05:16:00.000-07:00

That's it. I've officially become my parents: "What's this crap you're listening to?!? Music was better in my day!"

I just don't hear much new music that excites me. Do you? If so, let me know and I'll tune in. Otherwise, I'll just have to cling to my nostalgia.

King of the Beasts

2011-06-23T14:09:00.000-07:00

Disturbing, yes. But, in what way?

Movie Clip Wednesdays: One Hit Wonders

2011-06-22T06:21:00.000-07:00

What a great subject for this week's Movie Clip Wednesdays! I chose this one not so much because no one knows who Tatum O'Neal is or what happened to her (in fact, we probably know a little bit too much), but because she never really went anywhere after her first movie, Paper Moon, for which she was nominated, and subsequently won, the Academy Award for Supporting Actress.

There was that teen flick Little Darlings with Kristy McNichol and Matt Damon, but after that she disappeared into marriage, motherhood, divorce, and addiction. Only to reemerge as an actress in B movies and television shows as well as a peddler of dirty family secrets on the talk show circuit. Ah, well. With the kind of childhood she had, more power to her, if this is the way she needs to work things out.

For grins and giggles, click here to see Tatum's acceptance Academy Award speech (You Tube's disabled the embedding): http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tf2J8hktI5Y

It's interesting to note that another child actress and one hit wonder, Linda Blair, was also nominated the same year. The clip also showcases the juxtaposition between Jill Ireland's cool blond beauty and her husband's eternally craggy looks. They were married forever and a day before she passed away from breast cancer in 1990, so he must have had something to recommend him.

At any rate, to see who's playing this week, head on over to the Meme's Supreme Hostess, Ms. Cake's place.

Haiku Mondays: MEMORY

2011-06-19T13:35:00.000-07:00

Ding-a-Ling Moi

Morning’s frantic search:

Keys? Lipstick? Sunglasses? D’oh!

In hand and on head.

• • •

If you'd like to participate in this week's Haiku Monday challenge, head on over to Miss Fleur's place to post.

Or, just read what everyone else is posting.

Rock of Ages

2011-06-17T18:31:00.000-07:00

"Man fulfills his dream and by photographic magic produces a precise image of the Grand Canyon. The result is not that he adores nature or beauty the more. Instead he adores his camera—and himself."
— Daniel J. Boorstin

"Essentially the camera makes everyone a tourist in other people's reality, and eventually in one's own."

— Susan Sontag

Haiku Mondays: VACATION Winner

2011-06-14T09:59:00.000-07:00

Here's what I loved about this week's contest: it brought out so many variations on the theme. There were trips down memory lane, both good (Karl, Fleur, Fishy) and bad (also Fleur and Fishy—we'd love to know what that phobia for life is!); stark admissions that for some of us, vacations are more work than play (Pam and Buzz); wistful imaginings (Troll/Secretariat's Ghost, Kym); vacations as altered reality (Czar); and sojourns that became paradigm-shifting experiences of a lifetime (Eggy). Then there was Aunty, who posited that perhaps the whole ding dang getaway thing is more hassle than it's really worth.

This contest was also rife with wonderful wordplay:

Czar's "spectral outliers," Troll's "warm turf under hoof" and "bitch-slapping mullahs," the cut-to-the-chase efficiency of Aunty's "girly goo" and "grope and grab." I also really liked how Karl's first two sentences mirrored each other with their rhythmic "bikes, babes, beer" and then "snow, rain, thunder." Nicely done.

In the end, though, I had to go with the haiku that, for me, best represented the idea of vacation as romantic ideal, as something both adventurous and escapist, whether real, or imagined.

For me, the several haiku that did that best were:

Fleur:

Best Vacation Ever, Summer of '73

Drive through the Badlands.
Steely Dan on 8-track tape.
Pop Rocks and Blowpops.

Kym:

My destination
Imagined and untitled
Anywhere but here

Which beautifully sums up our childlike belief in the transformative power of escape. Of vacation as a way to re-energize lives that at times become sodden with responsibility and routine. She doesn't know where she wants to go, she just knows she does . . . anywhere but here.

Troll's Trio:

The book, jug and loaf
but nobody beside me
in the wilderness.

The book, jug and loaf
but nobody beside me
yakking or singing.

The book, jug and loaf
but partner is not silent.
Shhhushhhhhh! Let nature sing!

Romantic he may not be, but, hey, what's the point of escaping to the wilderness if NOT for utter peace and quiet? Also, come on; how many of us don't secretly shudder when someone we know spontaneously bursts into song in front of us?

And the winner is: Fleur.

I couldn't get it out of my head, and not only because of its verbal bounce. It's also an exceptionally sensual haiku, evoking with sight, sound, and taste, the feel of a family summer road trip vacation at a specific time in history: the wide open country and its promise of discovery and adventure; the fact that gasoline was cheap enough to travel by car; the omnipresent musical accompaniment (and if you don't have an emotional response to at least one of Steely Dan's songs, then you either weren't alive in the 1970s or you don't like pop music, period), and finally, who doesn't remember the ridiculously simple pleasure of Pop Rocks and Blow Pops, the holy grail of candy for many a child of the '70's?

Congrats, Fleur. You win the Bill Bryson book; however, I think I deleted your address from the last time I sent you a prize, so please have Czar re-relate. You also get the pleasure of picking a theme and hosting next week's contest.

And thanks to everyone for participating, most especially Eggy, who doth protest too much that she's not "that kind of writer," which Czar always says as well, but look at the both of you. Haiku-ers for sure.

Haiku Mondays: VACATION

2011-06-12T08:56:00.000-07:00

VACATION

If this word isn't topmost on your mind this month, then I don't know what is. Unless you are a die hard, über dedicated homebody with a cat and/or houseplant problem, either you're going, have gone, or are wishing you were.

So come on, sock it to me with your best 5-7-5 ode(s) to the relaxed life. Real or imagined. Done or dreamed. Upcoming or someday.

You have up until midnight tomorrow, Monday, June 13, 2011, at midnight PST to submit your haiku in this here comment box (visuals at your blog are coolio but will have no bearing on the judging), and I'll pick a winner sometime on Tuesday. Winner gets a copy of this book by one of my all-time favorite writers:

Three Days in the Desert

2011-06-09T19:01:00.000-07:00

We both noticed her at the same time, but it was Boxer who started calling her Attila. Tall, probably of Nordic descent, with a stout body and a sensible to-the-chin blond bob whose bangs she kept tucked back off her forehead with a wide headband.

I don't think anyone—outside of perhaps George Hamilton—has been that tan since the 1970s. So burnt sienna, she almost looked unreal, like an extra from a Russ Meyer movie or a walking wax figure patina-ed with over-sized brush strokes. Had this gal not gotten the memo at some point during the last 15 years that UVA and UVB rays, they kill?

Apparently not. Attila's workmanlike dedication to bronzing would have been admirable had it not been so alarming: 15 minutes on her belly, 15 on her back. Flip and repeat. For what we estimated to be hours. And when we finally did get a good look at her, Boxer was the first to suck in her breath and whisper at me that Attila had to be no more than 35, even though she looked 55.

But, hey, if she wanted to spend her latter years as a walking strip of beef jerky, what did we care? It was her attitude that earned her Boxer's moniker, our very first afternoon out by the pool as we, tucked safely under a sun umbrella, watched her stride purposefully towards a young man lying across from us. Only moments before, he had answered a cell phone call and was speaking in soft, respectful tones to the person on the other end of the line, when Attila scolded him in a voice loud enough for everyone to hear, "Excuse me, this is a cell phone free zone and I can hear your conversation from all the way across the pool. Please end your call."

And he did!

I still don't know whether to admire her or think her an ass. But one thing is for certain, she had a presence and it's not one we would have encountered had we not been on vacation.

So in that spirit, I'm choosing VACATION as the topic for next week's Haiku Monday. I'll host, judge, and offer a marvy prize. Drop by Sunday for the scoop.

In the meantime, tell me about the most memorable person you ever encountered while recreating away from home.

Dog Days

2011-06-07T06:23:00.001-07:00

No matter where I go in life, I find dogs. Or, they find me, I'm not sure exactly which.

Maybe because I've always been around them, almost from the moment I was born, when my father, after taking me home from the hospital, dipped me down over the back of our landlord's magnificently amiable Great Dane in the first of many such encounters to ensure my comfort around animals. He said that even in my amorphous infant state, something in my eyes lit up whenever I saw that animal, and like a moth to a flame, I'd reach out my chubby infant arms to grab hold of the glossy grey fur and cling so tightly, he'd eventually have to pry my hands off the dog. Once I was able to walk, I could finally attach myself to the Dane at will, gripping the fur of his neck and babbling happily alongside him as he patiently allowed me to "walk" him in our yard.

Dogs remain one of my life's primary preoccupations. So much so, that I can't help but seek them out. Like this fella here. Boxer and I hadn't been at the spa for five minutes when I spotted him, and of course we had to instantly go over and say hello. His name is Quasar and he's a Leonberger, a breed I've never heard of but wow is it beautiful, and his owner, in her pride over owning such a beautiful creature, was marvelous about letting us ooh and aah over him. Quasar, whose mind you could tell was really on stalking the property's many cotton-tailed bunnies anyway, was equally fine with us ruffling his big ol' head and assaulting him with nonsensical baby-talk.

And if you've guessed from that point on, we spent a great deal of our time waiting for Quasar to grace us with his presence (and me figuring out how to bribe his owner into letting me take him home), you'd be right.

Summer's Ready

2011-06-01T11:39:00.000-07:00

Although, I'm not sure I am.

Regardless, I'm going to kick it off officially come Friday, with my annual trek to the desert to soak in some sun, fling my body around, and have someone else do the cooking and cleaning for three whole days. Boxer will be there, too.

I've got a lot to do before lift off, though, so in the meantime, please share with me your plans for the summer. Whatever they are, I hope they include some time for FUN.

Haiku Mondays: CLICHE

2011-05-29T08:13:00.000-07:00

As our esteemed winner of last week's Haiku Monday, Pam in OKC will be judging this here contest and offering up a prize. I'm hosting. Here's how it works:

1. Post your haiku(s) on the theme here, in the comments section, on or before midnight PST, this Monday, May 30th.

2. If you'd like, post your haiku, along with visuals, at your own blog and let us know that you're up. Pam is considering visuals in her judging.

2. Check in with Pam, who will post her winning haiku and prize sometimes on Tuesday, May 31st.

Simple. But a not so simple topic. So give it a good think, thank, thunk, and hit us with your best shots quick as a wink and before your creativity goes to the dogs.

* * *

Did you hear the one
about the blonde in the bar?
Joke’s on you; you bought.

It's Not Easy, Being Green

2011-05-27T05:18:00.000-07:00

New Mexico's chile crop is in serious danger. Drought, labor shortages, and competition from foreign countries with cheap labor and inferior chiles are all threatening to put our farmer's out of business. Read about it here. Imagine New Orleans without its signature Cajun or Creole dishes, Florida without its oranges, Philly without its cheese steaks, and that will give you an idea of what would happen to this state were we to lose our chile culture. It's everything to us, on all levels—economic, social, and psychological.

So if you're a chile afficionado, accept no substitutes. Call up my buddies at Bueno Foods and have them ship you the real thing. Ask your grocers to stock only certified New Mexico chile. And if you happen to find yourself out this way, take some time to drop by one of the esteemed restaurants on the official Green Chile Cheeseburger Trail 2011.

Click here to access the map above for the location nearest you.

Haiku Mondays: Hobbies Winner

2011-05-24T11:20:00.001-07:00

What on earth is going on with Blogger? I sure hope the fact that it's misbehaving again didn't prevent anyone from submitting a haiku. I waited a few hours after it seemed to be up and running to see if there were more submissions. But it seems we're solidly locked in at 12 players and 18 haiku, each a most excellent rumination on what it is exactly that we do in our off time. Or, if you're Buzz, don't do because in Buzzworld, there is no such thing as off time.

Anyhoo, let's get to it, shall we?

Aunty: Could it be that Aunty is a secret gamer? Or wishes she were, and if that wish came true, she would be some kind of leather-outfitted avenging angel of dominatrix-ey doom? Food for thought, y'all.

Boxer: One of my favorites this go 'round, a top contender for its air of nostalgia and the way the last line bitch slaps our low tech past with today's digital wizardry. Five miles up the hill through a foot of snow much, Moi? Yes. And I refuse to apologize for it.

Buzz: Another top tier contender. Someday soon, Buzz, you will have all the time in the world to do . . . absolutely nothing. Because when that time finally arrives, why in the heck would you want to fill it right back up?

Czar: Ladies and gentlemen, the hardest working man in the Publishing Industry. He forgot to also mention wrangling Hunter S. Thompson, kissing Jane Fonda, and temporarily assuaging Thornton Dial's mistrust of white folk.

Fishy: Ladies and gentlemen, the hardest working woman in Haiku Mondays, regaling us with no less than three snap crackle poppy ruminations on her favorite past time: playing board games. Single best line of this week's competition: Donald has been trump'd.

Fleurdeleo: Fleur hasn't been playing with us long, but she's been playing hard and fierce. This week she contributed yet another stunner, a pitch perfect ode to the beauty of making something out of nothing.

Foam: Foam never fails to make me suck in my breath with her evocative imagery, this one shrouded in mist and dripping with dew as she ponders her love for long, ambling walks. So pretty.

K9: I love the staccato simplicity of this, like a Morse-coded call to arms for the insomniacally conspiratorial set, sipping endless mugs of Morning Thunder while half eyeballing the contents of their gun cabinets just in case the revolution decides to hit at 2am.

Karl: Karl strikes me as someone with a very upbeat disposition—all of the sunny without any of the hippie. The winner of our last competition, his entry this time was a short and sweet exhortation to go ahead and do something, anything already, so long as it brings you happiness and peace.

Pam: Has camera, will travel. And take photos of what has to be my most favorite virtual kitty of all time: Sterling. Have you seen him lately? He's a contenda.

Princess: Another multiple haiku entrant, two that focus on jam and preserve-making, the other on quilting, all beautifully written and making me thankful that the domestic arts are alive and well in the hearts of many of this world's men. I also love this line: "lashings of jam." Tres cool.

Troll: One minute he's here, the next he isn't. Is he off saving the world from Rampaging Rapturers or is he secreted away in some smokey dark room paying his mortgage by outsmarting the competition in Texas Hold 'em? We'll never know. But we do know he can write Haiku, and in the end that's all that really matters.

Now, for the winner. For me, it was neck and neck between Boxer's ode to old fashioned darkrooming and Pam's cat wranglin' 'ku, with Buzz and Troll nudging up closely from behind. For Karl, it was never a question: Pamela all the way.

One cat in; two out
Two cats in; one cat garage
My life: cat herder.

Why? Anyone who's ever had to manage a multiple-animal household knows exactly what she's talking about. I also like the sing-song-ey way she structured her words to mimic the constant bustle of that management. And because we all know what it means when someone says, "That's like herding a bunch of cats." In other words: near impossible to the point of chaotic hilarity.

Congrats, Pam, on another worthy win. Now go snag yourself some pistol ice cub trays and see if you can't sneak 'em through your metal detector at work.

Haiku Mondays: Hobbies

2011-05-20T11:22:00.000-07:00

So, what do you do for fun? Bake? Ice skate? Collect knick-knacks? Stare into space? Whatever it is that floats your boat in your off hours (or that you wish floated your boat), then now's your chance to expound upon it in a literary manner comprising the ol' 5-7-5 syllable structure of the way we haiku 'round these here parts.

Señor Karl was the lucky winner of our last competition, hosted by the lovely Fleurdeleo, but since he's having a busy spell with work and Master Basho's Ghost seems to have taken Troll with him back in time (we miss you, dude), I have agreed to host this week's challenge.

Karl, however, is offering one hell of a bang-up prize.

So come on, lil' podners, take your fingers off your triggers, place them on your keyboards, and post your best shot in this here comment box. If you're also posting at your place with images, let us know, too. You have until midnight EST on Monday to do so and Karl and I will confer via email on Tuesday and declare the winner.

Alrighty, then, Party People. The Rapture obviously passed us by, so now you have NO EXCUSE NOT TO HAIKU.

Hit us with your best shot . . .

QUESTIONS:

Aunty: Do we write only one haiku? Do visuals count?

Moi: Aw, heck; if anyone is so inclined (Fishy :o) ), let's make it multiple haiku this week. Visuals, while always appreciated and fun, don't have bearing on the judging.

Fleurdeleo:

Moi: Nope, doesn't have to be your hobby. If you want to make fun of your neighbor's propensity for skeet shooting, have at it.

* * *

MATERIAL GIRL

In my spare time I'm
appreciative. You make.
I wear, hang, and sniff.