And don't put your lips on John the Baptist's head!

I've been going to the Santa Fe Opera for 45 years. I've seen 98 different operas and attended 160 performances. I've seen The Magic Flute 12 times (they haven't gotten it right since 1968).

Yesterday morning I took the backstage tour at SFO for the first time. I was with a nice couple, Keith and Laura, from Shawnee, OK, who are staying at the Glorieta Baptist Assembly. He teaches at Oklahoma Baptist University. They're Baptists.

There were Rules. No photography. Don't even think about eating. If you need to pee, go now, because we are not stopping. Do not speak at all in the costume shop, because the stitchers needed to concentrate. And no drinking anything anywhere, even though it's 98º and the relative humidity is 4%.

The tour was interesting but not very detailed. The docent would point out stuff—"This, of course, is the fledamora plankstaff, complete with state-of-the-art street elbows and bell-top flow flanges"—but wouldn't elaborate on what exactly it was, what it did, and why no self-respecting opera house should be without one. She made much of the fact that there's no curtain, and all the set changes are made in full view of the audience. Keith and Laura were not impressed.

She also pointed out that there's no back wall to the stage, but didn't give examples of why not having a wall would occasionally be a good thing; so I told Keith and Laura about using the lights of Los Alamos as the lights of the harbor at Nagasaki, the Flying Dutchman's ship rising out of the sea during a lightning storm in the Jemez, and the Queen of the Night's entrance in the 1968 production of The Magic Flute.

We went to the Stieren Orchestral Hall; the docent said it was used for rehearsals. I added that the preview lectures are also held there. Keith and Laura seemed to appreciate my annotations, but the docent may have thought I was a know-it-all.

I asked whether it was true that the opera had the prop head of every singer who had sung Jochanaan in Salome, and the docent said they did, but we couldn't see them. Ratz. That was the main reason I went.

Aubrey Beardley's illustration for Oscar Wilde's play

We had only a couple interactions with the workers. We talked briefly with a wigmaker, and I learned enough that I never want to take up that job. The opera uses real human hair, and all the wigs for the principals are handmade. The process requires meticulousness and patience. We also got to talk with a journeyman who was painting a piece for The Marriage of Figaro.

We saw one of the costumes from Lucio Silla, and the docent said that they always use "muslim" when making the first pattern for the costume. That's one way to bring peace to the Middle East, I guess.

Architectural costume designed by Paul Brown. Photo by Beatuy by Noel.

She also showed us some swatches for this year's production of "Don del Lago," an opera apparently based on Mafia activity in the Scottish Highlands (Prendete l'haggis. Lasciare la sciabola. "Take the haggis. Leave the broadsword.").

It was fun, and I got my $10 worth. Maybe next season I can volunteer as a docent. I bet I'd be boffo.

Keeping the world safe for democracy from crusty old broads

Not all was beer and skittles when Mombert and I went to Memphis, because to get to and from Memphis, you have to go to airports. The TSA folks are so meticulous, so stately, so dilatory that they'd try the patience of a tree sloth.

First up: Albuquerque. Thanks to one failed attempt at shoe-bombing 12 years ago, all of us lined up with our shoes untied and flapping. But it wasn't shoes they were after: they busted Mombert for having a plastic bottle of pump hairspray.

I didn't take my bonefish bottle opener on the trip.

Nor did I carry my Officina 365 pen, because there's no way in the world that the TSA folks would believe it's a pen.

The real fun began in Memphis when we were leaving. Before we even got in line, a TSA woman said to me, "You've been selected for special screening," as if I had won a prize or something. She looked at Mombert. "You may go ahead, ma'am. You're not being screened." I explained that Mombert was my mom and needed to stay right where she was. The TSA woman swabbed my hands with some solvent, put the pad in a container, and said I was free to get in line, which was stretching back to Little Rock, because only two guys were scrutinizing the boarding passes with all the intensity of somebody just stumbling on Yeats.

In line I had my glasses on the cord, not wearing them. I assumed the position in the scanner. There was metal on my chest! So I was pulled out for a pat-down. The nice woman asked if those were my glasses. Nothing gets by them.

Then Mombert went through. She was pulled over, and the nice woman used the metal-detecting wand on Mombert's lower legs (must have been her steely resolve—AH-hahahahahaha!).

The airport at Minneapolis/St. Paul sprawls from hell to breakfast, and naturally our connecting flight to ABQ was in some concourse in Iowa. Fortunately, one of those guys in an electric cart came by, and we joined a nice bearded young man with a turban and made it to the gate in time.

Next time we drive.

"No child should die in the dawn of life."—Danny Thomas

Years ago Mombert and I both set up charitable gift annuities with  St. Jude Children's Research Hospital in Memphis, and every year St. Jude invites us and other donors to the annual Donor Appreciation Event. This year we went! (And our flights were uneventful. We did not weep.)

Our regional representative, Marianna, was on the flight from Atlanta to Memphis, and she was our constant companion during our short time in Memphis. On Tuesday evening we went to a reception, where we met two other donors from the Southwest region, and to dinner. The CEO of the fundraising arm of St. Jude, Richard C. Shadyac, jr., was our host at the dinner. (All the photos are from my phone, so the quality is not as good as with the Nikon. Click on an image to enlarge it.)

He interviewed Katelyn, who had had acute lymphoblastic leukemia. After almost three years of mostly outpatient treatment at St. Jude, she is now kickin' butt and takin' names in third grade. When the hospital opened in 1962, the survival rate for  acute lymphoblastic leukemia was 4%; today it is 96%. Her sister Amanda also spoke about her experiences visiting Katelyn at the hospital. They both said they liked going there. One of the donors told them afterward, "You two look like Barbie dolls." Amanda replied, "Yeah, we get that a lot."

Wednesday was devoted to a tour of the hospital and Target House, which is set up for the families of the patients. Walk along with us.

Everything in the hospital is geared toward kids. Here, for example, is the first reception desk the kids see; the counter is at kid height. The kids aren't wheeled around in wheelchairs;their kickin' wheels are Radio Flyers (to respect the privacy of the patients and their families, we weren't allowed to take pictures of them).

Artwork and writing by the patients are featured on the walls.

The researchers at St. Jude have saved tissue from every patient. Their work includes mapping and studying the genome. A sculpture in one of the gardens commemorates the work.

The researchers work in the Research Tower, which has six floors, each the area of a football field, for all the laboratories. The flags represent the home countries of the scientists. St. Jude researchers and physicians share their work free of charge with other hospitals.

A bust of Danny Thomas, the founder of St. Jude, has pride of place in the center of the tower. He has a shiny nose, because it's good luck for you and for the patients to rub it.

We're going to have good luck!

The Kay (as in jewelers) Kafe is the only place to eat at St. Jude, so the patients, their families, the doctors, and the scientists eat together. The chef prepares nutritious meals for the kids, which is tricky because many of those tummies are wombly from chemotherapy or radiation therapy. One little kid couldn't eat anything in the Kay Kafe and wanted only the mac-n-cheese his grandmother made for him. So the chef called the grammie, got the recipe, and made the kid his favorite dish.

At Target House, a long-term housing facility and home-away from home, families can stay in comfy apartments free of charge. They get vouchers for groceries, also free. The complex has game rooms, a playground, a teens-only room, playrooms, an arts-and-crafts center, and many other amenities to keep the kids and families happy. Members of the Memphis Grizzlies basketball team support St. Jude and often come to play with the kids.

Here is Mombert in the play kitchen, which, as you can see, is kid-sized. The refrigerator is stocked with plenty of play food, too.

The playground is colorful and inviting. Rubberized material helps prevent injuries.

Karaoke, anyone? How about a talent show? St. Jude makes any kid a star.

St. Jude provides care at no cost to the patient or family. Although many large organizations (Target, Chili's, Kmart, among others) and celebrities (Tiger Woods, Brad Paisley, the Jonas Brothers, the Grizzlies) provide amazing financial support to St. Jude, Marianna said that Danny Thomas wanted everyone to be able to make a difference, so the donations from thousands and thousands of regular folks average about $29. 

Needless to say, the event had a profound effect on me. St. Jude Children's Research Hospital rules all!

Indian Market 2012

Michele and I made our annual trip to Indian Market, and this time we had the pleasure of Chuckie and Jerry's company. We started, of course, with breakfast at Tia Sophia's at 7:00 a.m., and after burritos and French toast, we were off to the Market. Walk along with Michele and me, and if we get separated, meet at the Spitz Clock every hour on the hour to check in.

Let's look first at the jewelry that folks wore. As always, the philosophy was, "If a little is good, a lot is better." Click on the images to enlarge them.

This woman wore her earrings, necklace, bracelet, rings, and concho belt. The hand is probably on her shoulder not as an affectionate gesture but as a way to help hold her up.

A couple necklaces are always nice.

We named these guys Scrimshaw (left) and Dinner Plate (right). Scrimshaw had a concho belt, cuff, and bolo tie with images of famous Native chiefs done in scrimshaw. His jewelry was beautiful but excessive. Dinner Plate was posing for photos with his rings, cuffs, concho belt, and bolo tie—all the size of dinner plates. He was pretty, and very strong to be able to carry all that metal and rock.

This woman had an interesting bolo tie with inlaid stones and a cool cuff.

Here is the poet Joy Harjo, whose tattoos are unmistakable. I wanted to go up and shake her old cow hand, but Michele was shy, so we didn't.

What is the stylish man or woman about town wearing this season at Indian Market? Let's take a look.

Colorful skirts are always appropriate.

I see by your outfit that you are a cowb—um, never mind.

A raspberry hat and matching water-bottle tether touched off with chile anklets will give other visitors a fright if nothing else. 

Not enough jewelry? Don't despair. Just wear every bit of camera gear.

In the middle of the most exciting and important market of the year, some people are elaborately blasé and seemingly oblivious to what's going on.

The ATM at the bank was as popular as the booth for Best in Show.

Dogs aren't allowed at Indian Market. Apparently that means "dogs with their feet on the ground and walking around are not allowed at Indian Market." But Bears are allowed.

I needed a key for a ham can: the mammogram

After my mammogram I just rolled those puppies up and put 'em back in the bra. The results were normal.

My appointment for a mammogram

I get my annual mammogram in late June or early July, so I called the radiology folks at the medical center to make an appointment. Naturally, I did not get a human being, although my call was very important to them. But I listened carefully, as their options had changed, and dutifully did all that the voice of the little dolly said. That was Monday.

By Thursday I hadn't received a call, so before I took myself to breakfast and then to work, I went in person to the medical center.

Registration person: May I help you? 

Me: Yes. I need to make an appointment for a mammogram.

Registration person: You need an appointment?

Me: Yes. For a mammogram.

Registration person: You need an appointment for a mammogram?

Me: Yes. A mammogram. An appointment.

Registration person: Ohhhhh! An appointment! Go down there a little ways. Sort of around the corner. There's a little room by the pharmacy. You know where the pharmacy is? It's down there a little ways. Sort of around the corner. Go in the little room by the pharmacy.

So I went down there a little ways, sort of around the corner, to the little room by the pharmacy. The dolly-in-charge was on the phone with a patient and motioned me to have a seat. No! Not that chair! The other one. I parked it.

 She returned to her call. She was very thorough, asking the patient whether he had had any surgeries, had any implants such as metal stents, joints, or shrapnel [!!], and what medications he was on. "How do you spell the name of that drug?" Lengthy pause. "Well, if I don't get it right, I'll just write something else." [!!!!!]

I waited for a long time inhaling the fumes from her perfume marinade and listening to her interrogation of the patient. Eventually another dolly came in, uttered no greeting, made no eye contact, and disappeared behind a second partition. I could hear her tapping on the keyboard in her cubicle. After a while she peered around the corner and asked, "Have you been helped?"

"Not yet," I said.

"Do you need to make an appointment?" she asked.

I thought, "Unless I miss my guess, the sign reading 'Registration' outside the door indicates that anyone in this room would indeed need to make an appointment. However, that is not the case with me. I just enjoy sitting in hospital waiting rooms to catch up on my Good Housekeepings from 2004. Continue with your tapping, my good woman." But I said yes, and presented her with my insurance card and doctor's orders, which documents she was obviously familiar with, much to my surprise.

I was out of there and at my regular table at Ruby's only 30 minutes from when I started.

Indian Market 2011

Michele and I went to Indian Market 2011 on Saturday. We got to Tia Sophia's just as it opened and enjoyed breakfast burritos by the window. With our engines stoked, we hit the Plaza, not necessarily to buy anything but to visit with some of our favorite vendors and to observe the passing scene. Walk along with us, won't you?

"I'm in the middle of the square in Santa Fe! There seems to be some sort of fair going on. I wonder if I can find one of them dawgs lookin' up."

A sash is always a nice accessory in the Southwest.

The early morning was overcast, and if you don't have an umbrella, a hat will protect you and most of the crowd from rain or sun.

Let's talk about the scale of the jewelry in proportion to your size.

This woman was sitting by the Institute of American Indian Arts. She was reading. She was snacking. In the middle of Indian Market. I do not get it.

Here are some colorful folks.

And the winner in the Best Boots, Nontraditional Overlay Subcategory, is . . . .

A beribboned shirt is de rigueur for the man about town.

And a fringed skirt is always appropriate for the ladies.

"F*ck me" shoes are great if you can spend only a few comfortable minutes at the market.

Hey, that bird has a woman on its ass!

We were on Old Santa Fe Trail when Michele gave me an elbow in the ribs and said, "Check out the woman with her dinners hangin' out like a whore's." By the time I got the lens cap off, she had turned around.

So we went to the middle of the street in front of Packard's and, in a diversionary maneuver, Michele pointed at the top of a building down the street. But she moved out of the way of the picture and a person with a hat blocked the area of interest.

We continued the quest. She was turned away from us again. Dash it, woman, will you just stand still? We gave it up as a bad job.

But then we saw her again later in the morning. Success!

Busman's Holiday, Part 2: Traveling with Frankey

Traveling with Frankey can be fraught with excitement. She's an enthusiastic, bouncing passenger. She can lower the rear windows by stepping on the window buttons, which is a real heart-stopper if you're driving over Glorieta Pass at 75 mph. She can also activate the hazard lights when you drive down Central Avenue; the flashing lights tend to alarm the pedestrians and alert members of the LAPD, who eat downtown to sustain the slender thread of life. And she can knock the car out of gear when you're backing out of the driveway.

However, having finally shed the shackles of reason, we decided that it would be a good idea to take her on the road trip to Utah. To keep her safe in the back seat, I bought her a harness that buckles around her; just feed the seatbelt through a loop on the harness and latch it, and Frankey is confined to the back seat but can still see out the windows and comment on what's going on in the front seat. She rode in it very nicely from the pet store to home, a distance of a good 2 miles.

When we set out for Utah, we didn't use the harness. In Española, she decided that sitting on Michele's lap would afford her a better view, not to mention a closer barking proximity to large trucks and motorcycles, all drivers of which are known to be packing heat. Once we reached highway speeds on the way to Chama, she calmed down, things were peaceful once again, and our ears stopped ringing. Until a motorcyclist appeared behind us and followed us into Abiquiu. Frankey stood on the back seat and barked through the rear window until the cyclist passed us.

Dogs prefer to ride shotgun.

When we got to Chama and switched drivers, I told Michele that for safety's sake and the sake of our sanity and hearing, I was going to put Frankey in the harness. As Michele pulled out of the parking lot at the visitors center and headed west toward Pagosa Springs, Frankey joined me in the front seat. Our little Houdoggi had slipped out of the harness within seconds.

From then on, she was free to move about the cabin. She was pretty quiet on the highways, but whenever we slowed to go through a town, she came into the front seat and sat on the passenger, or stood on the center console, one foot on the driver's shoulder, and peered intently ahead. When we left Cortez, Colorado, on the way home, she fell asleep with her head on Michele's shoulder. That was really cute.

A travel break at Dove Creek, the Bean Capital of Colorado

We took nice walks every morning and evening, and most of the shops we visited were dog friendly. Maria's Bookshop in Durango had cookies for their dog visitors, and Frankey got lots of pets from the staff of The King's English in Salt Lake City.

Frankey enjoyed the broad streets and sidewalks of Salt Lake City and the grassy spots around downtown. She didn't bark at the trucks on the street—unless they were near our hotel, in which case they were intruders and needed to be warned off. She barked at only one person, a street guy who was teasing her.

Frankey liked the pet-friendly accommodations we booked. The Doubletree in Durango provides a water dish, mat, and bag of dog cookies, and the staff of the Hotel Monaco in Salt Lake City always greeted her warmly after our jaunts around town. She didn't seem to be bothered by noises outside and slept peacefully on her blankie every night.

The view from our room in Durango

Ike had always disliked elevators, but Frankey didn't mind them. We were on the 11th floor of the Hotel Monaco, and Frankey always stepped into the "zoom room" with no hesitation. When we got to our floor, she marched right down the hall to our room.

Frankey at the Hotel Monaco after a day of urban hiking

We visited Arches and Mesa Verde National Parks and obeyed the pet rules: dog on leash, clean up wastes, and go only where a car can go. Frankey really liked all the new smells, and we didn't feel constrained at all.

Mom iz not constrained. Mommie Shelbert iz not constrained. I iz constrained.

Now that we all understand how we travel, what we like to do, and where we like to sit, the three of us will take another road trip.