“Strange days have found us. Strange days have tracked us down” –The Doors. I can often be overheard spewing forth such tidbits as my continued genuine surprise at not winning the Powerball. Well guess what… I didn’t win again! On the bright side- I was only off by 5 numbers. But I have seen such strange “signs” in my world lately that it could happen. That… or it’s the end of days. The signs are everywhere; you just have to watch for them. Oh, and try to decipher them!
Last Friday night we didn’t go out all night. I was up bright and early on Saturday prompting a spontaneous road trip. That’s another story in itself. Maybe I should travel more. Here’s a teaser from Cerrillos…
This past week I spotted the largest gaggle, flock, group, soiree of crows I have ever seen. They were invading Fairview Memorial Park. This caught my attention due to a number of things. My maternal grandparents are buried on the corner. Crows are believed by some to be messengers of the dead. Fairview was the first public cemetery in Albuquerque and has always been a place of interest to me. As a teenager we would come through the fence by some apartments on the next block, at night, to party and visit with the dead. Put all this together of course and I think it means I should throw a party soon and invite The Black Crows to play songs by dead people.
A Playboy Playmate is throwing her birthday party in Albuquerque. Miss August 2008 Kayla Collins. Why? She is not from here. She is also the second Playmate of Irish descent to visit Imbibe. Hmmm… maybe I should throw a St. Patrick’s Day party and an Easter party? Maybe I should just serve rabbit at a St. Patricks Day party.
I was forced to visit my area Wal-Mart yesterday. The one time I don’t have my camera bag with me. There are two pro football players there signing autographs. NFL stars. One is from the Dallas Cowboys and one from the Bucaneers? Side by side. Why? Who? I don’t know. I didn’t have a pen either. I should always have my camera and a pen.
With my allergies and all I got the little lady a 3rd long haired cat from the pound on Valentines. Pass the inhaler please. Three’s a charm? She is a little blonde Italian named Bella. (The cat, not my wife) Her owner had died and it was her first day in jail. (The cat, not the owner) Maybe I should get my polygamous cult off the ground?
Last Friday night we didn’t go out all night. I was up bright and early on Saturday prompting a spontaneous road trip. That’s another story in itself. Maybe I should travel more. Here’s a teaser from Cerrillos…
This past week I spotted the largest gaggle, flock, group, soiree of crows I have ever seen. They were invading Fairview Memorial Park. This caught my attention due to a number of things. My maternal grandparents are buried on the corner. Crows are believed by some to be messengers of the dead. Fairview was the first public cemetery in Albuquerque and has always been a place of interest to me. As a teenager we would come through the fence by some apartments on the next block, at night, to party and visit with the dead. Put all this together of course and I think it means I should throw a party soon and invite The Black Crows to play songs by dead people.
A Playboy Playmate is throwing her birthday party in Albuquerque. Miss August 2008 Kayla Collins. Why? She is not from here. She is also the second Playmate of Irish descent to visit Imbibe. Hmmm… maybe I should throw a St. Patrick’s Day party and an Easter party? Maybe I should just serve rabbit at a St. Patricks Day party.
Here is my new friend from last Playboy event... Shallan Meiers.
I was forced to visit my area Wal-Mart yesterday. The one time I don’t have my camera bag with me. There are two pro football players there signing autographs. NFL stars. One is from the Dallas Cowboys and one from the Bucaneers? Side by side. Why? Who? I don’t know. I didn’t have a pen either. I should always have my camera and a pen.
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We went mining that day for memories in the cockpit of a convertible. It was a convertible that was different than the one from my youth. The convertible of my youth was long and bronze colored from the year 1974. Its top was ripped and its hinges rusted, but its motor had been redone and ran strong enough for youthful adventure. But that car was long gone, it had been scrapped, and now, there we were, going down the road in a small black machine, new and quick, you could feel the acceleration as we approached the opening in the mountains, and the small mining town, turned tourist trap, slash, artist colony on the outskirts of the Capital, it reeked quaint, but that was just the entrance way to the caves we were mining. From there we descended into the Capital, sitting in the renovated buildings of colonialism, pondering how even in my short time, the setting had changed. It didn’t really matter, since there’s no going back, the vain that we had tapped into there was dry, and there was nothing that really reminded me of those days on the road, but the journey wasn’t over yet. Instead, we decided to go further, to climb back into the cockpit of the sports car, only half the size of the copper behemoth that had chugged along on highways and back roads, guzzling precious OPEC at prices that were unimaginable in its day of creation. The little black convertible with fuel injection, lacking any of the characteristics of the 455 V8 that inhabited the copper casing of 74. We rode on, going deeper to the core of my memories. We were heading into the valley; it was there that all my memories remained like oil stains on the crumbled streets and weed driveways beneath cottonwoods, and the sun was disappearing from the copper colored sky.
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