Perhaps a Sunlamp Is Required

On this post-holiday rainy day, I reserve the right to be melancholy.

Holiday blues, weeping gray clouds, and general lethargy. Sure. It's my prerogative.

I am loath to say the next seven words I'm about to say but...

I heard this great story on NPR.

You may not realize how pompous I think the people are who quote NPR. Now here I am committing the crime I rail against.

The story was of a musician named Shawn Camp who had a record set for release back in the year 1994.

Through a series of events, the record was shelved until recently. Camp met the new studio head at Reprise who gave Camp's record a fresh listen and it was finally released in September of this year.

What's got me going here, got me writing a whole blog post about this story, is one of Camp's songs that they played on the air.

It was a beautifully written song about being at the funeral of his grandfather. For some reason, the words reminded me of the incredibly sad funeral I attended back in August.

Despite the passing of four months, I find I still grieve for my friend. I guess there's still something left to grieve, because lately he's been showing up in my dreams.

Listening to Shawn Camp's song reminded me of a dream I had just last night.

It was me, and my friend, and we were dancing. Just a simple two-step, nothing fancy, but we danced and he was whole and healthy and grinning from ear to ear.

My best friend was there too, and before I was even done, she got the next dance with him. The three of us laughed like it was, well, 1994, and it was good.

Now, this dream was particularly odd because in real life, my friend wasn't much of a dancer. Oh, he was long legged and tall, a perfect partner. But he had a farmer's sensibilities and didn't dance that much. He could, and did, but it wasn't something he did a lot.

But there in my dream we danced. When I woke up, I remembered seeing my friend's body laid out there in a casket inside the El Paso First Baptist Church.

The old Southern saying is "now, don't he look natural?"

No, he didn't look natural. In my dream smiling and laughing and giving me seventeen kinds of heck...that was natural.

I've always been pretty glad that at the end of the line for my dad, one afternoon when my mom had run into town for errands, my dad and I had a talk. It was uncomfortable and weird, but in that talk, a lot of things were said that needed to be said. I can happily say I have no unresolved issues there.

But with my dear friend, I have something unresolved. It niggles at the corners of my mind and sits on my chest when I have another dream in which he plays a cameo. I owed him an apology. I'd planned to deliver that apology when he came home from the surgery from which he never returned.

Perhaps in dreams I can find the way to lay my issues to rest, to lay down the burden I carry around, to feel at peace with the loss of my friend.

Or maybe we can just dance and forget about I'm sorries.

After my best friend is done (which may take awhile), I got the next waltz.

Cuz these Fat Babies were made for dancing

Photo by Karen Fayeth

I Will Find My Way

The Velcro on my Rand McNally road atlas had been rendered useless. Tan carpet fuzz from the back of the Jeep embedded itself irrevocably into the hook side of the mechanism.

The map was considered a "just in case" for getting lost, which happens often. The atlas was purchased well before there was something called a Google to provide maps on something called the internet.

That road atlas was aspirational. I bought it hoping that maybe I could travel a lot of those blue lined roads over the course of my life.

But suddenly the road atlas had meaning. It was more than a "just in case," it was an essential tool.

The page for New Mexico was well worn, but the page for California was starting to show the dirt and grease of eager fingers tracing a path over and over again. A reduced scale journey west to my new home.

The compass rose became my bouquet, a present from the universe, welcoming me to my new life.

At a holiday cocktail party, the map became obsolete. A friend and professional truck driver wrote directions on the back of an envelope. "This is the faster way to go, you'll shave several miles off the trip," he told me.

He'd personally traveled those roads. Roads that were visible to me only as lines on a page in my mind.

He was the first of many milestones on my journey.

The tattered envelope with scrawled black pen, "I-40 west to Barstow" wasn't anywhere near as magical as the pages produced by Rand McNally, but it was more useful, more functional. I clung to that envelope because my life really did depend upon it.

And then, finally, it was time.

May 1997, just a few days before Memorial Day, I climbed up behind the wheel of my Jeep while my best friend strapped into the passenger seat and took possession of both the envelope and the Rand McNally.

I-40 was a road I knew. Straight. West. No worries. Grants passed by quickly. Then before we knew it, there was Gallup.

Then the Arizona border.

My tires made a noise as they passed over, and I cried. I didn't just cross this border casually. It meant something. It was a new frontier.

The entire State of Arizona lay ahead. Since Arizona was familiar, it eased me in. We settled into the miles while listening to Tom Jones and George Strait. We listened to everything I had in that Jeep and then tried to find decent radio stations.

Six hours. That's how long it takes to traverse the State of Arizona.

Then my tires made another small sound and another border was crossed.

I was in California. I didn't cry this time. Simply renewed my resolve and kept driving.

That was thirteen years ago, but it could be yesterday for how fresh it remains in my mind.

May I never lose my resolve. May I never lose my desire. May I never lose my ability to read a good old fashioned road map.

All it takes is a map, a little guidance from someone who bothers to care, and a step in the right direction and you can find your way.

If only someone could draw a map to help me navigate the more difficult emotional roads in my life. Those are uncharted.

I am both mapmaker and traveler and the journey never ends.

But the compass rose is still just as beautiful.

Photograph by Karin Lindstrom and used royalty free from stock.xchng

This week's Theme Thursday is map.

A less than beautiful mind

When I look inside my head, as I usually do about this time of day, and ask myself "what would I like to blog about today?" I often see many colorful suggestions, images and ideas pop to the forefront.

Sure, many of the suggestions that my monkey mind puts forth are so capricious they become either not appropriate or too complicated to write about in about 500 words, on average. But I can usually find one gem among the rubble and bring that to you, every weekday, on my blog.

Today, on my walk over to the cafeteria to grab a salad and rush back to my office in time for another conference call, when I turned inward for a good blog idea, what I got, instead of colorful confetti and suggestions of "poop!," was resoundingly gray. Quiet. Lonesome.

As gray as the cubicle walls that line my office building.

As quiet as the dark winter clouds that have gathered over the Bay Area to lie down and weep cold rain on our heads.

As lonesome as New Mexico state highway 285 between Vaughan and Roswell.

When I looked inward, I discovered that my brain hurts.

For every company that's ever employed me, December has always been a busy month. My current employer is no exception.

At five months into my new gig, I really like it a lot, and as I've begun to hit my stride, I have discovered that cute little word "global" in my title means my days begin in the UK, lunch with Sao Paulo, a quick break for the US, afternoon tea with Australia, early evening snack with Hong Kong and I am put down to bed for the night with India.

All on the phone. All day long. The UK to India run encompasses about twelve hours of my day.

Then I wake up and do it all again.

While this probably sounds like complaining, it's really not. My job is fascinating and fun and really good stuff.

But I am *tired*.

In the interest of my own health, I've begun working out again. Nothing major, Jazzercise a couple times a week and a sashay on the treadmill a couple other days a week.

I found I need that exercise to build up my stamina so I can sustain these long days at work.

But all that exercise wears me out too.

And my blog, my beautiful, wonderful blog. It's suffering too. My goal of a post every weekday stands firm. Then I go and miss a day (like yesterday) and I've got to climb back out of the hole.

So all of these words (about 430 so far) are just my way of saying I don't have much to say.

For today, anyway. That quiet, gray, lonesome mind only lasts for a little while. Then my severe latent childhood will kick in, and I'll figure out how to write another post about poop.

You can count on that.

Artist Heather Gorham's interpretation of the monkey mind

The Lonely Road

I'll send the angels to watch over you tonight
And you send them right back to me
A lonely road is a bodyguard
If we really want it to be

-- From "Sleeping in Paris" by Rosanne Cash

Yesterday I climbed into the Jeep and went on a long overdue road trip, just me and my steel beast, 130 highway miles and lots and lots of thinking.

The reason for the trip was nothing earth shattering, just had to head up to the north side of Sacramento to attend some work related meetings.

Clocking in at just under three hours, it was a ghastly drive, not only because it lacks any sort of interesting things to see, but the stop and go traffic kept me on my toes most of the way.

I left plenty early to avoid commute traffic but had no luck. California's Highway 80 is a busy road no matter what time of day.

As I drove, dodging other cars, stepping quickly on my brakes for yet another slowdown, stopping to pay the toll on the Carquinez Bridge, and cursing under my breath, I yearned for a different sort of road trip.

Growing up in New Mexico, the ability to hop in the car for the sole purpose of a long thoughtful drive was something I took advantage of every chance I got.

While living in Albuquerque, sometimes I'd gas up the car and drive to Soccoro, only to turn around and drive home.

I can't lie to ya, Albuquerque to Soccoro isn't a visually interesting drive either, but once out of the city limits, it's a pretty easy road with hardly any traffic. I'd set the cruise control on 75, point 'er south in a straight line and let my mind work out the problems of the day.

Straight roads and very little traffic produce a very fine form of therapy.

My all time favorite drive and think road, however, is Highway 28 in southern New Mexico. The stretch of road from Las Cruces to La Union and back includes canopy of pecan trees arcing over the road, arboreal arms to embrace and hold me safe in case I need to cry.

I got a lot of thinking taken care of on Highway 28.

Not so much on California's highway 80. The thinking was more like, "uh, stopping again? Why? Oh please don't slam into me!"

But still, it was a road trip and there is something beautiful about me, my decade old Jeep, shuffle on the iTunes and a problem to work out in my mind.

Oh, by the way, something else happened while out there on the road.

First, this occurred:

Shocking, isn't it?

Then, from out of nowhere, this happened:

(No, mom, I wasn't driving almost 80 while taking a photograph of my odometer. Why do you ask?)

It's the first car I've ever owned from fresh off the lot to one hundred thousand miles. Sort of proud of my little Jeep.

And just because I'm feeling gratuitous, here's a quad cam shot of the Bay Bridge (because the Golden Gate gets all the love).

(Click for full size)

Ok, I'm wandering off the point here. Let's tie this whole thing together, and get back to where we began.

I discovered today that any road, even a commute time busy three lane highway in Northern California can be a lonely road.

And a lonely road is a bodyguard if we really want it to be.
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All photographs by Karen Fayeth, and taken with my iPhone 4. Bay Bridge shot from the QuadCamera app.

And the Wheel Goes Round and Round

Back in March I talked about the Rosanne Cash album "The List," a collection of songs culled from a list of 100 must-know songs crafted especially for Rosanne by her father.

The List is an essential music history lesson.

That story and the resulting album became the inspiration for my best friend and I to endeavor to create our own list as a legacy for my two goddaughters.

It's been an ongoing process, serious work, and we're making progress.

Over the weekend, I had the chance to see Rosanne Cash perform live at the Uptown Theater in Napa, CA.

I've been a fan for a while and I think Rosanne is a massively accomplished songwriter. I love the heart and emotion she puts into every lyric.

I figured as a consummate musician, she would put on a great show. I was in no way prepared for how stunning seeing Rosanne perform live really was.

Her backing band, including her husband John Levanthal on guitar, was one of the tightest bands I've ever seen. I told The Good Man during the show "I know musicians who would kill somebody to get at her drummer."

I've spent a lot of years in the company of musicians who struggled have a band that is tight and seamless. Rosanne has that in spades.

And talent too. She's an amazing, emotional and powerful singer. Like any great musician, the sound seems to pour from her effortlessly. It takes a lot of work to make it look that easy.

Then, after putting on a show that brought the house down, Rosanne went to the lobby and signed autographs for her fans. I got her signature on my copy of her recent bestseller "Composed" and had a chance to tell her that my best friend and I are working on our own version of The List.

And when I awkwardly mentioned that her gorgeous song "Seven Year Ache" is on the list, Ms. Cash smiled and shook my hand.

Made. My. Year.

What a powerful, beautiful, wonderful woman.

I am deeply inspired.

Photo by Karen Kristofferson, as posted on her @KarenKristo Twitter stream.

Well, well, well. What do we have here?

Why look at that. It is San Francisco Giants manager Bruce Bochy!

Hey Boch...what's that you got there? Oh. Right.

The 2010 World Series Trophy.

Yeah baby!

Photo by Karen Fayeth, taken at today's victory parade through downtown San Francisco!

Woot!

Yeah, baby!

It's good. It's very, very good.

(Image borrowed from NewMexiKen)

Test your Giants/Rangers World Series knowledge. I scored spectacularly bad....

Round and Round

The past couple weeks I've participated in the Theme Thursday challenge. A fresh topic is presented each Thursday and over the next week, bloggers interpret the theme.

Cool, right? I sure think so.

The first couple weeks were pretty easy. The words were game and knot and I happily interpreted them in my own way.

This week, the theme word is wheel.

It's one of those deceptive words. It seems so easy. Simple. Complete. Because it's so simple and ubiquitous, it actually becomes hard to narrow down a single interpretation of the word wheel and go with that.

So I won't.

Here's a real time brainstorming session. All the ways wheel speaks to me:

Ferris wheel. Uncle Cliff's in Albuquerque. I'm kid, waiting in line. That incredible view of the lights of the city when I'm up there at the top and it pauses a moment just to let you sit. Yeah. The smell of cotton candy and corn dogs wafting up. That's summer.

The Wheel of Fortune Tarot card. Round and round.

The Wheel of Fortune television show. Vanna, pick me a letter.

The wheels on a car. Man are tires expensive. Yesterday it rained like it meant it here in the Bay Area. The first big rain of the season. We drove up to San Francisco, and it became very clear that The Good Man's car needs tires soon.

The steering wheel. Remembering gripping that big wheel when I learned to drive in my dad's 1972 Chevy Blazer. Blue. Four wheel drive. I loved that truck.

"Wheel in the sky keeps on turning..." Who did that song? Gonna have to Google it. Oh yeah. Journey. Weirdly, Steve Perry has been in the ballpark during the San Francisco Giants baseball playoffs. The park has been playing "Don't Stop Believing" and Perry has been leading the singalong. Hell, if Steve Perry is the Lucky Stuff that got us to the World Series, I'll take it.

Wheels, as used in baseball. Referring to the feet, especially of a fast runner. "Man, that Andres Torres has some wheels! Did you see how fast he got to first base?"

If you say the word wheel to yourself long enough, it starts to sound weird. Wheeeel. Wheeeeeeeeel. Have you seen that Geico commercial with the little piggy going wheee wheee wheee all the way home?

Asleep At The Wheel, what a great band. Saw 'em play live at the Pan Am Center in Las Cruces. Danced my booty off. Fun!

Business lingo: "Let's not reinvent the wheel." Though lately that's been replaced by the equally lame phrase, "Let's not try to boil the ocean." Argh! Take your low hanging, wheel inventing, consensus building, suit wearing phrases and stick them in your.... *curse words redacted* for the sake of my mom, who reads my blog.

Ok, I think that's enough. There's more where that came from, but ten interpretations of the word wheel is plenty.

And there you have it.

Photo by Tamás Schauermann and provided royalty free via stock.xchng

Keep Yer Politics Out of My Baseball

I have spent the past seven months watching my favorite baseball team, the San Francisco Giants, play incredibly imperfect (some say torturous) baseball.

I've experienced agony, ecstasy, and near ulcers but still I have watched because I'm a longtime fan. I've been there at Candlestick Park. I've been there at PacBell, SBC, AT&T Park. Heck, I've been there at Scottsdale Stadium.

Oh, I've been there.

I knew Tim Lincecum and Pablo Sandoval when they were playing for the farm team San Jose Giants.

Because I've been there, too.

And now...oh NOW that the team is getting coverage for making it to the National League Championship Series (NLCS) do all the politics and politicians come out in their shiny suits and gelled up hair to act like they've been there all along.

Our playoffs are their political opportunity.

Gah!

Baseball is not politics! Politics are not baseball!

The two don't mix because baseball has its own politics, thank you VERY much.

We don't need your stupid campaigning faces jack o' lantern grinning out of the stands, Ms. Boxer, Ms. Fiorina and Mr. Newsom.

I shall not vote for the lot of you!

And then....

There is the whole ongoing kefuffle regarding the BART policeman who shot an allegedly rambunctious BART rider in the back.

The case and the video footage from that day are a highly sensitive and a very concerning issue for the Bay Area for a lot of reasons.

The case went to trial. The jury made a decision. The case is pending sentencing.

So now both sides have decided to take their personal issues to the baseball game by painting banners, attaching them to sailboats and setting sail for McCovey Cove.

You know, McCovey Cove, famous for all the boats, pontoons and kayacks sailing about when Barry Bonds played for the Giants and regularly dunked homeruns in the water?

McCovey Cove, famous for Friday "Beer Can Regatta" sailboat races.

McCovey Cove, that beautiful body of water that sits next to my beautiful ballpark and helps make it one of the most unique sporting locations in the world.

As the Fox Sports cameras seek out something to focus on as we cut to commercial, the cove is always a favored spot, owing to the beautiful views.

But this week, the cameras take in the "Free Mehserle" or "Justice for Oscar Grant" signs, and our own problems here in the Bay Area take precedence over the baseball game.

It's a game. Just a game. It's supposed to be fun.

How about I think about politics and other difficult issues when the season is over, ok?

(McCovey seen to the right in this photo of AT&T Park)

Photo From 22Gigantes

An Open Letter on Behalf of Mankind

Dear engineer-type gentleman I just passed on the way into the cafeteria:

I appreciate that today is pretty warm day. The weatherman predicts temps as high at 95 degrees where we are.

I also appreciate that when the weather heats up, it's always nice to release your legs from the tyranny of pants.

Fair enough.

Given that our employer favors a "business casual" environment, shorts are, for the most part ok.

What I take issue with, sir, is not that you are wearing shorts, but rather the shorts you chose to wear. That garment was obviously bought in or around the year of 1985 when both you and Larry Bird had the legs to pull off a pair of uncomfortably short shorts.

The year is now 2010 and neither you nor Mr. Bird should put people through this. It's a lot to deal with while strolling the campus of this very conservative and well-respected multi-national corporation.

I fear for your manhood when you sit, good sir, because there is not enough cloth available, given the dimensions of your now engineer-like body, to cover all that needs to be covered.

No. Don't bend over. Please. I'm begging you.

Just take your cheeseburger and fries and head back to whatever research lab you emerged from.

I shall go cleanse my eyes with a Brillo pad.

Let's not have this chat again, eh?

Warm regards,

Karen

Listless In San Francisco

In searching for something to entice The Muse to put down her bons bons and get off her settee, I like to search around for pages offering help to flagging bloggers.

Just about every page I visit suggests creating posts with lists.

I see it all over: "list posts are very popular!"

1. Really? With who?


2. Perhaps the who doesn't matter as much as the what


3. I'm not sure lists are my thing


4. Maybe on this one I should go against my own grain


5. And make a list


6. A list for the listless


7. (Yes, I went there)


8. How about a blog post where the contents ARE the list


9. No well thought out collection of ideas


10. No useful reference guide


11. Just random thoughts


12. listlitized


13. Which is so not a word but I don't care


14. I mean, does it count as a list if it's not


15. a clean, well organized list?


16. I think it does


17. In fact, I think it makes it better


18. Maybe people will even want to


19. read to the end


20. instead of scanning down the list


21. Which I am totally guilty of doing


22. Maybe


23. I should leave


24. Some blank list items








28. Just to make it confusing


29. Or maybe


30. Lists


31. Are just too darn orderly for my disordered mind

Game 1 - Game On!

It may be time for Primal Scream therapy.

As a long-suffering San Francisco Giants fan, it's hard to wrap my tiny mind around my Giants being back in the post season.

The last time I watched my team in the post season, it was 2003 and Pudge Rodriguez (then with the Marlins) was counting coup over the body of JT Snow, laid flat across home plate, the last out of the fifth game of the first round.

It aches.

The year before that, in 2002, I watched my team go to the seventh game of the World Series...and lose.

That's more of a soul searing pain.

So while I'm very happy my lowly Giants have made it to the postseason once more, it's not without some trepidation on my part.

Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me.

Fool me three times? Welcome to Giants fandom. Here's your orange gear and your Costco pack of Prilosec.

This one is going to burn.

Last night was Game 1 against the Atlanta Braves, our old nemesis. The Giants history with the Braves is deep. Bobby Cox, in his retirement year, still has plenty in the tank and a good bullpen. Even plagued by injuries, the Braves are a team to be taken seriously.

At 6:37pm, The Good Man and I turned on the radio, dug into our positions on the couch, and held on for dear life while Tim Lincecum (nicknamed The Freak) blithely struck out 14 hitters and the Giants won the game 1-0.

Aaaaaaaaaaaagh!

Whew. Good. Ok. Got that pent up energy out.

Now. On to Game 2.

May this delicious agony last a very long time.

AP Photo by Ben Margot, from ESPN.com

This post is not only about fandom, it also fulfills a Theme Thursday challenge.

Restoring Balance

Yesterday I used this blog as my confessional. I had to get that story off my chest because it had been top of my mind since it all happened Wednesday night.

Once I published that post, I had to remind myself that really, all in, my day on Wednesday was incredible (in a good way). It's time I make sure that I don't let the end of the evening cast a pall on rest.

So now that the yucky stuff is off my mind, let's talk about the good part.

The event I attended on Wednesday night was one of the largest and most overwhelmingly fun corporate events I've ever seen.

And let me say this, I once worked for a company that rented out AT&T ballpark for the company Christmas party, ok? So I've seen some huge corporate sponsored events!

They got nothing on this.

The event, as mentioned, was a "customer appreciation party" and it was held out on Treasure Island.

For those not familiar with the Bay Area, Treasure Island is a man made island, created for the Golden Gate International Exposition in 1939.

Treasure Island sits at about the halfway mark of the San Francisco-Oakland Bay Bridge. To get to the island you take an exit off the bridge.

I was included as an extra special guest of one of the main sponsors of the event, so I got a hard to obtain ticket that got me to the island an hour before everyone else.

It was, literally, a carnival. But everything was free. Since we were among the first on the island, there were also no lines.

Imagine going to a carnival and NOT waiting for the ferris wheel! Or not standing in line for cotton candy! I walked up said "yes please" and they put a corn dog, French fries and a big bag of cotton candy in my hands.

And it was a GOOD corndog. Have you any idea how long it has been since I had a really good corndog?

Prior to the corndog (thankfully) I was coerced into riding one of those Drop Zone rides. The kind where there is a central tower and you strap in to the seats, then it takes you up to the top and drops your ass back down?

Yeah. I hated it.

I screamed a single curse word in one long note the entire journey downward.

The gentleman working the ride said, as he let me off the ride, "I like you, you say what's in your heart."

Vowing no more rides, I switched to playing all of the carnival games. You could play as many times as you wanted over and over.

And STILL I couldn't manage to win anything. *sigh*

Then, after a while the good food came out. Tables of fancy and delicious treats of all kinds. We ate our fill and partook of the free flowing beverages as well.

Then, around 7:00, the music began, and by music, I mean full on concerts held at two different stages, one indoors, one outside.

We started with English Beat. Ok, I'm a child of the 80's, I knew some of their stuff and they were pretty good.

Next up was Berlin. I'm a huge fan of Terri Nunn. She is a goddess, so I was pretty happy to see Berlin live, though I'd seen them play before. They put on a great show. Ms. Nunn knows how to work the crowd and had everyone enchanted.

Now that the music was really going, it was time to start making some choices. They had acts going on both stages and you had to pick which show to attend.

The main acts of the night were the Black Eyed Peas on the outside stage and Don Henley inside.

I talked it over with my group including my boss and several coworkers. They all wanted to see Black Eyed Peas. Look, I don't mind the Peas...but we're talking Don Henley here.

One other woman in the group said she wanted to see Henley too, so we walked away to choruses of "you guys are so OLD."

No matter. I'll cut to the chase. Don Henley put on one of the best shows I've ever seen. Like...top ten concerts of my life (<--I should do a blog post on that).

Let me tell you right now...Don Henley is 63 years old. I once heard Billy Joel talking about how, as he aged, he couldn't hit the high notes anymore.

Don wasn't having that problem. Think about the song "I Can't Tell You Why" and all the high parts. He sang 'em. Every one. Nary a crack in his voice.

It wasn't just that he sang all the songs that I knew, it was that one, his backup band was amazingly tight, and two, he had a certain way of capturing the audience every step of the way. Captivating is a good word to describe.

This guy is a genius. I went in saying "yeah, I like Don Henley pretty good" and came out swearing my allegiance and praising him to the ends of the earth.

A. Mazing.

After that was a choice between Steve Miller Band and Montgomery Gentry. Although I would have liked to have seen Montgomery Gentry, it was midnight by that time and I had an early morning meeting. So I chose home over the last acts of the night.

As mentioned, I spent the better part of an hour in line waiting for the shuttle bus, so I may as well have stayed.

No matter.

When I did finally get home and lay down in my bed, my ears were ringing and the refrains of "Desperado" were still singing in my head.

And I gave thanks that I got to live such a good day in my life (shuttle bus incidents not withstanding).

Ms Terri Nunn onstage (on the screen) taken with my iPhone

Customer Service Has Not Died

Despite all appearances to the contrary, customer service has not died.

Nope, there is still a small patch of wonderful service to be found in Southern New Mexico.

You'll recall a week ago, I wrote of my joy and my subsequent despair regarding buying actual New Mexico grown chiles here in Northern California.

In that blog post last week, I mentioned that I wrote a rather terse letter to the New Mexico Department of Agriculture, complete with photographs, about my sorrow.

In fact, I'll let you in on the text of my actual letter, sent to Mr. David Lucero at the NMDA:

_____

Dear Mr. Lucero - I found your email address from the www.nmda.nmsu.edu
webpage, though I'm unsure if you are the right person to contact.

I am a native New Mexican now living in Northern California and while on
a Southwest Airlines flight, I was happy to see an ad in their inflight
magazine for Hatch Green Chile coming to a long list of supermarkets in
my area.

My husband and I plan to buy a lot as we enjoy our green chile
throughout the year by finding kind friends back home to bring us the
good stuff.

While at Whole Foods recently in (town name redacted), California, I saw a sign for "Hatch peppers" and I was very happy (Whole Foods was on the list of stores that would carry the product).

As I picked a few from the pile, I looked closer at the sign and I
noticed it said "grown in California." (see photo attached)

Now, I'm confused. Is this the "real thing" as advertised by the NMDA
and just mislabeled? Or has someone appropriated the Hatch name for
not-Hatch peppers?

I chose not to buy any that day as I'm unsure.

Hence why I'm coming to you for advice and guidance.

Are Hatch chiles going to be available in the Northern California Bay
Area? Also, is someone perpetrating a terrible fraud by selling
California grown peppers under the branded Hatch name?

On behalf of my family, we thank you and appreciate any guidance you
would provide.


All my best,

Karen Fayeth

_____

Honestly...I expected no reply.

Imagine my surprise when not only did I receive a VERY nice email from Mr. Lucero thanking me for providing this information, he also told me that he's taken up the issue with his national Whole Foods buyer (who was cc'd on the email) and also with his shipper, Seco Spice (also cc'd on the email).

Then, and here's where my mind gets blown, Mr. Lucero indicated that a Mr. Ogaz from Seco Spice would be happy to send me along a box of roasted and peeled chile if I'd be willing to pay shipping.

Holy jumping jehoshaphat!

So I'm currently getting shipping costs from the very kind Mr. Ogaz.

That's amazing.

I want to publicly thank both Mr. Lucero and Mr. Ogaz for helping a poor New Mexico expat find her way home via the ol' dinner plate.

By the by, I checked with my friends down in the greater Las Cruces and Anthony metropolitan areas and they know the Ogaz family and Seco Spice and can vouch that they are top notch people and growers.

So here's a HUGE public thank you and a plug for the good people over at Seco Spice and the NMDA.

: sniffle : It makes me very proud to be a New Mexican.

The Things I Could Talk About Today

Every morning after I wake up, stumble over the cat and yawn three times, I start to think about my day.

Part of that thinking involves devising a topic for my daily entry to this little ol' blog.

Over the years, the topics have varied widely from news of the world to news of crevices of my mind. And food. Lots of talk about food.

So I thought quite a bit about what to write about today for this, my 997th post in the life of Oh Fair New Mexico.

I could write more about the really awful fire in San Bruno last night. About the stutter-stall from PG&E in addressing the situation, about the homes and lives lost.

I could go on a rant about the nature of mega-corporations (*coff*BP*coff*) and their inability to respond in crisis situations.

I could even write about the fact that my own employer is a way-too-huge corporation, and sometimes that worries me.

I might even wander out of my local area and riff on that wack-a-doodle "minister" (I use sarcastic quotes on purpose) who is so filled with hate and not a small amount of insanity, that he would endanger the lives of people around the world and American military troops just to get a little publicity for his wack-a-doodle 50 follower church.

I seriously considered discussing the conversation I had this morning with my boss, who is here in the US for three weeks, but who usually lives in London. He is a very kind, gentle and mellow man. He said to me this morning, "I don’t understand this man who wants to burn the Quran. Can you explain it to me?" I couldn't. It is beyond my grasp.

I could discuss my growing dread regarding the upcoming California governor's election in my state.

Or my belief that on both sides of the political spectrum, our US Congress has run so far off the rails that I’m unsure how we will ever find our way back.

And I could talk about how, really, this must be end of days because I can't fathom this world where being so rude, being so self-centered, and being so utterly oblivious are acceptable. And yet, it is.

I even considered discussing how I'm what is considered a very sensitive person. In fact, there are books written on this subject, "The Highly Sensitive Person" and such. And because of that, how my choice to watch a blazing fire on my television all last night is really NOT good for my soul. How tweaked out I am about this whole thing.

Yes. I considered all of those topics and more.

But it's Friday, and I'm exhausted. Three weeks ago one of my dearest friends died and I still can't seem to climb up out of that grief.

And watching people lose their homes and their lives last night really did me in.

So today, I’m going to talk about a dog.

My first god dog, a heeler and Chihuahua mix, has been a good dog. She's deaf and near blind and still very sweet. But she doesn't run around and chase the ball like she used to.

My second god-dog is an adorable little beast. I'm not good with dog breeds, but I think he is a boxer. He's a big, muscular dog with a menacing bark.

But he's the sweetest little pea-pod of a dog I've ever known.

And he likes his godmom back.

There now. Let's not think about the jacked up things in the world.

Look into those eyes. Doncha just feel better basking in the glow of this little bubba of a dog?

I know it makes me feel better.

Everyone just pat a cute dog on the head and love your neighbor and hug your family.

And let's all have a nice weekend, ok?

Utterly Speechless Thursday

The Bay Area city of San Bruno is still on fire after a gas main exploded about 6:15pm and continued to burn pressurized natural gas for almost two hours while our utility company, PG&E spent those hours denying the pipe was theirs.

Home were burned to the foundation in a matter minutes and the fire kept burning.

I'm angry at PG&E.

But I'm incredibly grateful to the fine people with the fire, police, ambulance, rescue and medical services. Oh, and the Red Cross.

What a horrible thing to happen.

I have a special place in my heart for the California Fire team who mixed slurry and got planes off the ground. Their precision drops along with helicopters dropping water were the only ray of hope I saw for almost two hours of raging fires.

This is one of those tragedies that will take a long time for the town to recover from. Send up a good word for all those people.

Photo from SFGate.com

The Delicious Eagle Has Landed

So there I am, sitting on a Southwest Airlines flight, headed for El Paso.

As we haven't yet cleared 10,000 feet, I can't use my Kindle, so I'm idly flipping through the pages of the Spirit in flight magazine.

And what to my wondering eyes should appear, but an ad for the beautimous Hatch green chile.

The copy claims that this precious commodity will be for sale in many grocery chains near me!

Look!

I unceremoniously tore the ad out of the mag. I had to clutch it to my heart!

I showed the ad to my friends there in the southern part of New Mexico, and they told me that due to NAFTA, the local farmers are getting beat out on selling their beautiful crops.

The New Mexico Department of Agriculture is putting on a marketing drive to try to stir up some sales.

The tagline? "Get Your Fix."

Why yes, I think I will. Thankyouverymuch.

So I was in my local Whole Foods store, perusing the fresh produce, when my peripheral vision locked on the word, "Hatch."

There, in my very store, shiny green peppers stacked high.

I RAN over to the display.

But my brain said, "hoooooold on a minute."

I looked a little closer at the sign.

Can you read the sign in this image?

It says, "Hatch peppers" and just above that it says, "Grown in California."

What the @#*$%@&*^%$!!!!

No.

Just no.

This is not right.

This is NOT correct.

This is definitely not ok.

So I laid the waxy green vegetable back on the pile and walked away.

This was not the treasure I sought.

Over this Labor Day weekend, I wrote a terse email to the NMDA asking them if the word "Hatch" can be applied to California grown chiles, or if this sign is in error.

I await their reply.

Yesterday, during my lunch hour, I ran to the Nob Hill Foods (also known as Raley's) near where I work to pick up a couple things. I never shop at Nob Hill, but it was the closest grocer near work.

Once again, my "Hatch" radar picked up something at the periphery.

I fear I couldn't get excited.

I slowly walked toward the word "Hatch" and sniffed the air near the display.

And I looked closely at the sign. They spelled "chile" wrong.

But still...could it be? Have I found the good stuff? Did I just accidentally stumble upon The Precious?

Yes. Yes I did.

I filled a produce bag to bursting and made them mine. Those beautiful chiles sat in the backseat of my car all afternoon, and they made the inside of my car smell heavenly.

This year, The Good Man finally gets to know what the smell of roasting green chile (and the smell of Autumn) is truly about, because it will permeate the corners our home.

Aw. Yeah.

When Hugging a Coworker is Totally Appropriate

As a manager of employees in the State of California, I am required, by law, to attend and complete some very lengthy and detailed courses designed to keep the workplace "appropriate."

The courses are always very alarming because they teach to the worst possible examples, things that make you think "do people really do that?"

But it's good. Having a safe, conflict free work environment is essential. Everyone has a right to feel comfy at the place where they spend the majority of time during their weekdays.

As a new hire, I recently completed the mandatory training for my new company.

It's made me all very aware, very sensitive to potential "situations."

That said, I almost walked right through all my training to drop a big hug on a coworker.

That coworker is the nice man working the grill at the company cafeteria.

Today's special is fish and chips, one of my fave meals.

I figured they'd pull a pre-battered fish plank out of the freezer, dunk it in the fryer, and serve it up.

Fair enough, I'd still eat it.

But no.

After placing my order, the gentleman at the grill pulled two fresh fish filets out of the refrigerator. They were real fish filets, not some amalgam of fish parts.

Then he hand dipped them in batter and laid them gently in the fryer.

He then he served them golden brown over fresh-from-the-fryer, made just for me French fries he's hand seasoned by tossing them in a big bowl.

When he handed me the plate, he smiled and said, "enjoy."

Really, I almost wrapped him in a big bear hug.

He deserved it, California laws be damned!

Experiments at Night

A couple weeks back, I posted some of my first experiments with night photography, including my favorite shot of the Golden Gate Bridge.

This past week, while visiting New Mexico, I decided to try the next step in my night photography lessons, and that is capturing star trails.

Figuring this out required a little astrology, a little photography understanding and a LOT of knowledge about my camera.

Fortunately I had the incredibly well written book Creative Night: Digital Photography Tips & Techniques by Harold Davis (a Bay Area guy), to guide my way.

Due to the very long exposure times on night photos, a tripod is a must. Since I didn't feel like carrying my tripod on a plane, I borrowed one from my best friend's husband.

He uses the tripod to mount his field glasses when he goes hunting, so the tripod head had been...uh...modified. I think "modified" is the best way to describe the carnage that had occurred to the tripod head.

In order for me to use the device, he had to pound out the ten-penny nail wedged in there to help stabilize his field glasses. He also had to find the right sized wrench so I could tighten the bolt that holds the camera in place.

And even then, the camera would suddenly droop but thankfully didn’t drop.

Despite my less than super high tech borrowed tripod, I was able to make it work and was grateful for the borrowed gear.

I took a few photos that night and learned a whole lot about the process. Like, did you know a full moon is so bright it will wash out an exposure? I didn't...until a few nights ago.

The most exciting of the photos from that night is below. It's not well composed at ALL because it has nothing in the foreground to provide a sense of perspective.

What this photo DOES prove is that I have figured out how to take photographs of star trails. This was an eight-minute exposure. A longer exposure will net longer star trails.

I'm incredibly excited about this new knowledge!

Onward to the stars!

(click the photo here then click the photo again in Flickr to see larger sizes, if interested)

Propagation of the Species

I work across the street from a public park that borders on marshlands, very near the actual Bay. The proximity of water and the tasty grasses in the marsh entice lots of birds to come visit and stay.

Among others, we have egrets, herons, spoonbills and sandpipers. All so elegant and beautiful.

Here's a rather grainy shot of a snowy egret, one of my favorite birds. This one usually keeps a beady eye on everyone walking by:

Many of the birds that we get in our beautiful marshes are on the endangered or near endangered species lists.

So it's good we have a nice habitat here for them.

That said, ya wanna know what bird isn't on any endangered list and is pretty much in zero danger of extinction?

Geese.

@#$%ing Canada Geese.

Or, as I like to call them, feathered poop factories.

Taken with my iPhone, this is by a walking trail:

That's not even a small portion of the inventory.

Here's a wider shot:

Again, to the left and right of this frame there are at least this same number if not more geese.

The one in the center of that photo charged at me, hissing, so I didn't take any more photos.

The geese eat grass, lots and lots of grass, then they process it internally and drop the leftovers right in the middle of the walking trails.

Their drop offs equal the size of the leavings of a large dog. Only a whole lot greener.

Just. Ew.

This morning coming into work, there was a goose right in the middle of the driveway (which is a long narrow single car path). The goose moved neither right nor left, but strutted right down the center of the lane. I counted ten cars in line behind while Mr. Goose waddled his way into the day.

I was in car number eleven.

These cranky birds have certainly figured out how to continue the prosperity of their species. In a big way.

My elderly uncle, unfortunately now deceased, used to shoot bottle rockets at the Canada geese that befouled the walkway in front of his house in Indiana.

They sort of frown on that here in California, don't they?

All photos by Karen Fayeth. Click on any photo to see a larger size.