Indian Market 2013

Bobbie and I went to Indian Market 2013 last Saturday. We walked right into Tia Sophia's for breakfast, then hit the streets. Naturally, the point is to visit favorite artists and observe the passing scene. Walk along with us (and click on an image for a larger view)!

For the finest in footwear, nothing beats the traditional cowboy boot worn without socks for that perfectly chafed look.

Pleated, ruffledy-puffledy fiesta raiment is a great look if you can carry it off.

This young woman was handling everything, from fragile baskets to fragile pottery. We had to avert our gaze.

Nothing says "Indian Market" like loungewear.

For the couple-about-town, contrast a colorful hat, skirt, and boots with the elegant simplicity of turquoise and a man-purse.

Southwestern Goth is a new look this year. Heads will turn when you stroll along the Plaza in 90-degree heat.

And speaking of 90-degree heat, you'll love adding to the luxury of skin like fine Corinthian leather.

Lengthy hat plumes are sure to get the attention of your fellow shoppers when the feathers whap them in the face.

A traditional ribbon shirt teams with a retro fanny pack to create the Southwest Nerd.

Dress up in your most outrageous regalia and then become annoyed when someone looks at you.

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!

Synopsis of the opera Non puoi arrivarci da qui

Non puoi arrivarci da qui (You Can’t Get There from Here)

Atto I

Peggerina enters with her mother, La Signora Margarita. They discuss the possibility of going to Memphis, Tennessee, to attend the annual Donor Appreciation Event sponsored by the St. Jude Children’s Research Hospital. (Spero che servono torta. “I hope they serve pie.”) Margarita encourages her daughter to go online and book airline tickets. (Non si preoccupi. Pagherò per tutto. “Don’t worry. I’ll pay for everything.”) Peggerina says she can’t do anything, for a problem has arisen. (La connessione internet è giù; il gatto è stato a giocare con il cavo. “There’s no internet connection; Flicker’s been playing with the cable again.”) They weep.

Atto II

The internet connection restored and Flicker sent to play outside, the two continue their search for flights from Albuquerque to Memphis. (Vogliono quanto? “They want how much?”) Peggerina says that Southwest does not fly to Memphis, and their partner, AirTran, flies to Memphis but doesn’t serve Albuquerque. (Si tratta di un sistema? “Is this a system?”)

They find an inexpensive flight that lasts nineteen hours, taking them from Albuquerque at 5:30 a.m. to Chicago O’Hare to Charleston, South Carolina, to Little Rock, and arriving in Memphis at 12:45 a.m. Peggerina is distraught. (Porca puttana su un biscotto. “Holy crap on a cracker!”) Margarita tries to comfort her sobbing daughter. (Calmati. Troveremo un modo. “Oh, calm down. We’ll find a way to get there.”) Peggerina is doubtful. (Io non sto prendendo un autobus che è certo. “I’m not taking the bus, that’s for sure.”) Margarita encourages Peggerina to seek an alternate route, perhaps through a different airport. (Possiamo andare per la città con un altezza di 1,609.344 metri? “Maybe we could go through Denver?”) Peggerina demurs. (Ogni volta che vado attraverso Denver perdono il mio bagaglio. “Every time I go through Denver, they lose my luggage.”) While Peggerina sobs, Margarita gets another cup of tea.

Atto III

Peggerina offers an alternate plan. (Siamo in grado di guidare. Interstate 40 ci porta direttamente a Memphis. “We can drive. It’s a straight shot on I-40.”). This time it is Margarita’s turn to object. (Non c’è niente da vedere lungo la strada. Mi piace scenario. “Are you kidding? There’s nothing to see. I like scenery!”) Peggerina says they can take the side roads. Margarita says that Delta flies to Memphis and urges Peggerina to continue the research. She finds a flight leaving Albuquerque at zero dark thirty and, after a brief layover in Atlanta, arriving in Memphis well before the reception and dinner. Margarita is ecstatic. (Prenota esso, Danno. Qui è la mia carta di credito. Fare con quello che volete. “Book it, Danno! Here’s my credit card. Do with it what you will.”)

The two rejoice and practice an aria to sing during the flight. (Novanta nove bottiglie di birra sul muro. “99 bottles of beer on the wall.”)

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.

The Shoe Family

Here is the Shoe Family. Shoe is checking her phone for messages from her clients. She is one busy Gaucho!

And here are Kevin and Emily. What a handsome and charming couple. They crack me up.

Where's Annette? She's at work or sleeping after a late night at work. So I'll just pop in her own photos of Annette entertaining herself while stuck in traffic.

Inflation and where we sat

When Cousin Rick and I went to the Dodgers game in 1964, we sat in Section 151 (marked with the black arrow on the stadium map below). Tickets then were $3.50, which, according to an inflation calculator, has the same buying power as $25.95 today. When we went to the game last week, we sat in section 126 (marked with the orange arrow). The tickets cost $65.00 instead of $25.95, because you have to pay Albert Pujols' $12 million salary somehow.

The experience both times, however, was priceless!

Tickets: 48 years apart

Where we sat

Take me out to the ballgame at Dodger Stadium

The first live Major League Baseball game I ever attended was June 8, 1964, with cousin Rick, who taught me how to keep score, and Uncle Dave and Dad, who chain smoked and talked. Sandy Koufax and Maury Wills faced the Reds and Frank Robinson and won 2-1. And the second game at Dodger Stadium came 48 years later, thanks to Shoe and the Shoe Family. We saw a game in the "Freeway Series" between the Dodgers and the Angels, which the Dodgers won 5-2.

It was a hoot to see Albert Pujols, Andre Ethier, Bobby Abreu, Torii Hunter, and Mike Scioscia in the flesh. It was Mike Scioscia bobblehead night. (I saw him with the Albuquerqe Dukes back in the day, along with Davey Lopes, Ron Cey, Steve Garvey, and Tommy Lasorda, among many others.)

Getting the honor of throwing out the first pitch was Ret. Army Col. Bea Cohen, 102, California's oldest living woman veteran. She threw a wicked slider.

A true Orioles fan, I was the only one who sang, "O's!" during the National Anthem.

Right fielder Torii Hunter batted second.

Albert Pujols was in the three spot.

Andre Ethier agreed to a five-year contract extension earlier that afternoon. He went two for four with one run scored and a run batted in.

Traffic in LA is scary for me. The parking lot at the stadium was a Boschian anthill as we were coming into and going out of the parking lot. Fortunately, Shoe is a fearless driver, while I, who regard a brief wait behind two cars in Los Alamos as a traffic jam, thought about crouching on the floor and getting all Catholic again by doing laps around a rosary.

The silence of the Kool-Aid stand: the Rock Fight

Of that ingenious heroine who travelled to the end of the street and ruined the Kool-Aid of David J. and his sibs, sing Heavenly Muse. Sing, O Muse, also of the one who ended the fight, the one who did not throw like a girl but like Achilles hurling the arrows of death from his silver bow.

In fifteen minutes, David J. and his minions had assembled at the south end of the dirt service road behind our houses. We ourselves gathered near the water tank. The rules were clear: get the rocks, continue the name-calling, and then start throwing. Silence reigned in the woods as both sides gathered rocks in preparation for the battle to come. After a few minutes we had our piles of rocks at the ready.

Because Bobbie had done our bidding with the dog-doo, she was allowed the honor of the first epithet.

"Fart face!"

The silence of the woods was immediately rent by the bitter, malicious names we hurled at each other.

"Poop head!"

"Booger brain!"

"Puppy breath!"

"Wait!" Beth turned to the kid. "You can't call them 'puppy breath.' Puppy breath is nice. It smells really cute, like the puppies. You've been over to see Lulu's puppies at the Jennings's, haven't you? Didn't you smell their breath? It's nice!"

"Hey, you wanna go over to the Jennings's and see the puppies? We could smell their breath! Hey, Kenny, can we go pet Lulu's puppies and smell their breath?"

"Pay attention, you guys! Get some rocks! You can see the puppies after the battle."

"Well, what can I call those creeps? They just called me 'booger brain.' What are my options for a retort?"

"Anything but 'puppy breath.' How about 'fatty' or some other term that describes what they look like?"

"Yeah! FATTY!"

"Potty mouth!"

"Snotslinger!"

"Pooter scooter!"

Someone from David J.'s side threw a piece of tuff. The battle was joined.

Throwing tuff is a lot like throwing potato chips: you can do it, but the rock lacks sufficient heft to go very far or inflict much damage. After five minutes, a cairn began to grow between the two armies. We continued to hurl tuff and insults. It was easy to dodge the rocks that did make it to our lines, because they fluttered and whiffled and piffed like dying knuckleballs. At this rate, the rock fight could go on for days and not injure a soul.

I had to take action. I left the lines and ran behind the water tank. Hiding myself behind the trees and circling through the woods, I was soon even with David J.'s line. From behind a tree I picked up a heavy piece of rhyolite, stepped out, and let it fly. It bounced off Paul's head. He started crying, and David and his minions raced toward home. We won! We marched in triumph down the road from the water tank to the street.

Someone decided that we should rub a little salt in David J.'s wounds, so we headed down the street to gloat. When we got just past the Kirkpatricks' house, we saw David and his sibs standing in the front yard. They saw us. Paul immediately fell to the grass, and Jackie began pouring water on his head. "You knocked him out!" she bellowed in her deep, guttural voice. David looked around for an avenue of escape. The fir tree! He'd climb up and hide in it. Assuming a position like the Russian letter Ж, he leaped up and grabbed a low branch. He swung for a moment and then dropped to the grass beside his brother.

It was pitiful, just pitiful. They weren't worth gloating over. They were a pack of sissies. We turned and went back up the street. Kenny said, "You wanna go see the puppies? We can smell their breath!"