In southern New Mexico, there are several harbingers of spring. There are everyone's favorite, the hummingbirds, who begin their six-months long period of flitting about and seeking red Kool-Aid in hanging bottles on patios from Lordsburg to Carlsbad. There are everyone's least favorite, the rattlesnakes, which never make a welcome appearance, and when they surprise, well, just hope you have some clean underwear handy, as well as a good sturdy shovel. To clarify, the underwear's for you; the shovel's for the snake.
But in Las Cruces, I discovered another sign of spring: The Dapper Man breaks out the shorts.
For those who aren't one of the eight people who saw my previous blog about Dapper Man, here's a brief introduction. He walks around Las Cruces, primarily in the downtown area, a sharp-dressed man with a nice, gray goatee and always a slick, nifty hat.
When I saw him last week, he was in shorts. And not some ratty dinks, or tight cutoff jeans. These were nice, like right off the rack at Dillard's or Kohl's. Of course, this is from my observation driving by at 35 miles per.
But, as always, Dapper Man was quite natty looking in his shorts, nice shirt, the ever-present cool hat and, I believe, some of those cool half-sandal, half shoes.
Here's the interesting thing. He was carrying a hanging clothes bag. Had it draped across one shoulder. Perhaps this carried his entire spring line. I'll be looking for the upcoming editions.
Here's an update on some local dining fare. In case you haven't seen it, check out the Pulse article comparing Go Burger burritos to Santa Fe Grill's. You can find it here — http://www.lcsun-news.com/pulse/ci_9185280. Short version: you can't go wrong either way. But also check out the comment posts below the story. Someone takes a hilarious jab at our sports editor Teddy Feinberg, who made some burrito comments in the story.
I tried La Fuente (a nice little Mexican restaurant on south Espina) for the first time. Very nice. I had take out, so I didn't get the full ambiance, but I look forward to it.
Also, during Gus Macker weekend, my Write Men Can't Jump teammates and I had breakfast at Delicias at Amador and Solano. I can't believe I'd never eaten here before. And I can't believe I haven't eaten there 10 times already since. It was packed on Saturday morning, but that didn't keep the waitresses from being right on top of our service. The salsa was great and the food was even better. Here's the clincher: You can get a two-egg, bacon, pancake and hash brown breakfast for only $2.65! And the Huevos a la Mexicana and Chilaquiles were both also under $3. Of course, I could not resist the eggs and chile verde for 5-something, but I plan to try them all before I'm through.
It's also a great place to have a birthday, or at least tell the waitresses that someone at your table has a birthday, because the staff will gather round the table and sing and clap a cumpleaños greeting. Great for embarrassing a hungover friend.
And another shout-out to La Nueva Casita at Organ and Mesquite, right across from Klein Park. Great food, great location. And wonderful for breakfast followed by hanging out in the park.
Sunday, May 11, 2008
Thursday, May 1, 2008
Hoopin' at the Mack, or Mackin' at the Hoop
I've been in love with basketball since I was seven years old, which is much longer ago than I care to admit. But here's a hint. His name was still Lew Alcindor when I was rooting for him and the Big O and the Milwaukee Bucks.
I've played basketball more or less regularly since then, but somehow, I had never participated in a Gus Macker tournament.
Until last weekend.
The streets around Las Cruces' Meerscheidt Recreation Center were packed with the sights and sounds of hoops and fans.
Here are some memorable moments.
• While lining up to register, the following conversation occurs in front of me: "Hey, man, when did you get out of jail?" I'd heard the Macker could be rough, but this seemed a little extreme.
• While waiting in line, the sound system was playing some of the worst music ever made, all 1970s schlock, including "Billy, Don't Be a Hero," "Run, Joey, Run," and "The Night Chicago Died."
• The Macker is a place for great hats. There was a Chinaman's hat that looked to be made of straw. There was a big, beautiful black, rhinestone-studded Mexico sombrero. There was another sombrero that was probably four feet in diameter with a peak that was four feet high. This guy did not want a sunburned face. I think there were baseball caps representing every team in the major leagues except my favorite, the Detroit Tigers. No wait. I was wearing a Tigers cap.
• Colors. There were uniforms of all colors. The most frightening were the team that wore black shirts and bright pink shorts that were just a little too tight. I also liked the Chupacabras' uniforms. They were a shiny metallic gold, but they looked like they'd be quite uncomfortable in Saturday's hot, hot sun. My own team, Write Men Can't Jump (so named because all of our members write for the Sun-News), had shirts in a nice, rich teal.
• Ages. It seemed like every fan had a young child in a stroller. There were not quite as many older people as I'd expected, but it seems every year there are fewer and fewer people older than me.
The actual games were not quite as fun as the sights and sounds. Thankfully, by Saturday morning, the bad 70s stuff had been replaced on the sound system by the good 70s stuff, stuff you can really hoop to, like Earth Wind & Fire, the Gap Band, Brick and Lakeside (Come along, pack your bags, get on up and jam!).
But our team (which also included Felix Chavez, Lucas Peerman and Teddy Feinberg of the Sun-News, was a total disappointment. We had practiced a few times prior to the Macker, and were feeling good about our chances.
But we stunk up the joint. We didn't hit one long-distance shot in any of our three games, and we missed an awful lot of close-range shots.
I'd always heard how violent the games could get, with lots of cursing and fighting and flying of teeth. And right after our first game, we saw two huge fights break out in one game.
But in our games, every one was very sportsmanlike, friendly, and fun to play with. Of course, I guess it makes sense that our opponents were nice to us — they were kicking our ass by double digits most of the time.
Our most heroic moment came in our second Saturday game when, because Felix and Teddy both had to work (employment can be so pesky), Lucas and I had to forge ahead playing with just us two. Fortunately our opponents (Their team name: Freeballin,' We're Goin' Commando) were good-natured enough to play us two on two. Of course, they had two to sub in.
One other detail. While I'm almost 6-2. Lucas is 5-foot-1. He's a great ballhandler and playmaker. But as it happens, most of the other teams had guys a little bit taller than 5-foot-1.
At one point, I was guarding my guy at the top of the key, and I heard a grunt behind me. I turned and saw Lucas on the ground. He had taken an incidental hit to the nose, and it was bleeding. After shaking it off, he got up and took a drink of water. The Gusbuster told him he had to go to the medical tent, so he took off. The Gusbusters were thoughtful enough to hold the game, rather than have me play one-on-three. Pretty soon, Lucas comes jogging back and goes back on the court like Willis Reed in Game 7 in 1970 (I told you I was old).
Except that he didn't go on to lead us to the championship.
Still, Lucas inspired me enough to score another basket, meaning we only lost the game 15-5 instead of 15-4.
Sunday morning, we had all four of our team members back, and the weather was much cooler for our 11 a.m. game. We were pumped. Our opponents were much shorter than we were, but were in better shape and hustled more, and kept hitting those damned outside shots. Another quick exit for Write Men. And another sportsmanlike congratulations from the winners.
Regardless of our lousy showing, I love the Macker. It was great to see such a sea of humanity, all sunburned and psyched for hoops. Old friends were constantly running into each other, on the court and on the sidelines. Write Men have about 350 days to work on our jump shots. And despite the fact my jumper has not improved in the past 9,000 days, we still have hope. We're like the Cubbies. There's always next year.
I've played basketball more or less regularly since then, but somehow, I had never participated in a Gus Macker tournament.
Until last weekend.
The streets around Las Cruces' Meerscheidt Recreation Center were packed with the sights and sounds of hoops and fans.
Here are some memorable moments.
• While lining up to register, the following conversation occurs in front of me: "Hey, man, when did you get out of jail?" I'd heard the Macker could be rough, but this seemed a little extreme.
• While waiting in line, the sound system was playing some of the worst music ever made, all 1970s schlock, including "Billy, Don't Be a Hero," "Run, Joey, Run," and "The Night Chicago Died."
• The Macker is a place for great hats. There was a Chinaman's hat that looked to be made of straw. There was a big, beautiful black, rhinestone-studded Mexico sombrero. There was another sombrero that was probably four feet in diameter with a peak that was four feet high. This guy did not want a sunburned face. I think there were baseball caps representing every team in the major leagues except my favorite, the Detroit Tigers. No wait. I was wearing a Tigers cap.
• Colors. There were uniforms of all colors. The most frightening were the team that wore black shirts and bright pink shorts that were just a little too tight. I also liked the Chupacabras' uniforms. They were a shiny metallic gold, but they looked like they'd be quite uncomfortable in Saturday's hot, hot sun. My own team, Write Men Can't Jump (so named because all of our members write for the Sun-News), had shirts in a nice, rich teal.
• Ages. It seemed like every fan had a young child in a stroller. There were not quite as many older people as I'd expected, but it seems every year there are fewer and fewer people older than me.
The actual games were not quite as fun as the sights and sounds. Thankfully, by Saturday morning, the bad 70s stuff had been replaced on the sound system by the good 70s stuff, stuff you can really hoop to, like Earth Wind & Fire, the Gap Band, Brick and Lakeside (Come along, pack your bags, get on up and jam!).
But our team (which also included Felix Chavez, Lucas Peerman and Teddy Feinberg of the Sun-News, was a total disappointment. We had practiced a few times prior to the Macker, and were feeling good about our chances.
But we stunk up the joint. We didn't hit one long-distance shot in any of our three games, and we missed an awful lot of close-range shots.
I'd always heard how violent the games could get, with lots of cursing and fighting and flying of teeth. And right after our first game, we saw two huge fights break out in one game.
But in our games, every one was very sportsmanlike, friendly, and fun to play with. Of course, I guess it makes sense that our opponents were nice to us — they were kicking our ass by double digits most of the time.
Our most heroic moment came in our second Saturday game when, because Felix and Teddy both had to work (employment can be so pesky), Lucas and I had to forge ahead playing with just us two. Fortunately our opponents (Their team name: Freeballin,' We're Goin' Commando) were good-natured enough to play us two on two. Of course, they had two to sub in.
One other detail. While I'm almost 6-2. Lucas is 5-foot-1. He's a great ballhandler and playmaker. But as it happens, most of the other teams had guys a little bit taller than 5-foot-1.
At one point, I was guarding my guy at the top of the key, and I heard a grunt behind me. I turned and saw Lucas on the ground. He had taken an incidental hit to the nose, and it was bleeding. After shaking it off, he got up and took a drink of water. The Gusbuster told him he had to go to the medical tent, so he took off. The Gusbusters were thoughtful enough to hold the game, rather than have me play one-on-three. Pretty soon, Lucas comes jogging back and goes back on the court like Willis Reed in Game 7 in 1970 (I told you I was old).
Except that he didn't go on to lead us to the championship.
Still, Lucas inspired me enough to score another basket, meaning we only lost the game 15-5 instead of 15-4.
Sunday morning, we had all four of our team members back, and the weather was much cooler for our 11 a.m. game. We were pumped. Our opponents were much shorter than we were, but were in better shape and hustled more, and kept hitting those damned outside shots. Another quick exit for Write Men. And another sportsmanlike congratulations from the winners.
Regardless of our lousy showing, I love the Macker. It was great to see such a sea of humanity, all sunburned and psyched for hoops. Old friends were constantly running into each other, on the court and on the sidelines. Write Men have about 350 days to work on our jump shots. And despite the fact my jumper has not improved in the past 9,000 days, we still have hope. We're like the Cubbies. There's always next year.
Thursday, April 24, 2008
The Krux of the Matter
As I type this, I'm listening to my iTunes. Of all 11,187 songs in the library, it has chosen randomly to play "Here Comes Santa Claus," by Elvis Presley.
That's appropriate because I'm setting out to write about a unique radio station, and what I love most about KRUX, 91.5 FM in Las Cruces, is its bizarrely eclectic and seemingly random playlist.
One morning I heard the 1969 country classic "Harper Valley PTA," by Jeannie C. Riley, followed by, I think, Marilyn Manson. I was jarred by the juxtaposition. But in a good way.
In a given hour, you can hear John Lennon, John Mayer, John Cash, John Legend and John Coltrane. Though I've not heard John Travolta.
Yet.
Almost all of the DJs are New Mexico State University students.
And man, are they hip.
Tuesday, during Lee Ryhanes' Representation Show/Soul Session, I heard a deep cut (Kalimba Story) from the 1974 Earth Wind & Fire album Open Our Eyes. I was so stunned to hear it on the radio, I had to call in. I requested another cut from the album, "Mighty, Mighty," and within minutes it was playing. I found myself driving down U.S. 70 loudly singing along with Maurice White, Philip Bailey and the crew while grinning from ear to ear.
A few weeks back on the Representation Show, I heard him play an incredibly obscure song by the group Brick, a 1970s funk band. It was good to know there's at least one other person in New Mexico who knows and loves the disco jazz music of the band whose biggest hit was "Dazz." My personal favorite is "Living from the Mind," one of the greatest headphone songs ever recorded.
Some mornings I listen to the coolly named "Two white guys from Ohio" show. At least until they play something that's way too hip (or too obnoxious, or too annoying, or too metal) for me.
Some mornings there's a very young and very cool sounding girl (maybe Adri G, according to the playlist at kruxradio.com) who will ramble on about whatever topic falls into her brain. Sometimes it's enlightening. Sometimes it's inane. But it's always entertaining. And like all of the DJs I've heard so far, a third of the music she plays I absolutely love, a third I can't stand, and the other third I can't UNDERstand.
From what I DO understand, just about any NMSU student who wants to have a show, can. It's enough to make me want to enroll.
And I would play stuff most people would love (such as the Rev. Al Green singing "Tired of Being Alone"), stuff most people couldn't stand (like Bob Wills and the Texas Playboys doing "Roly Poly") and stuff most people couldn't UNDERstand (like "Good King Wenceslas" by Mojo Nixon and the Toadliquors).
The title of this blog is In Search of the Crosses.
And since KRUX (or crux) is Latin or Greek or maybe Yugoslavian for cross, perhaps I've found one of the true crosses in Las Cruces. If so, that means there are two more hidden ones out there.
I'm open to clues if anyone's out there reading at 1:39 a.m. on Thursday, April 24, 2008. Why am I still awake at this ungodly hour? I'm supposed to be on a basketball court in Alamogordo in 4 hours and 21 minutes. And, can there really be such a thing as an ungodly hour?
Buenas noches, my fellow cross-bearers.
That's appropriate because I'm setting out to write about a unique radio station, and what I love most about KRUX, 91.5 FM in Las Cruces, is its bizarrely eclectic and seemingly random playlist.
One morning I heard the 1969 country classic "Harper Valley PTA," by Jeannie C. Riley, followed by, I think, Marilyn Manson. I was jarred by the juxtaposition. But in a good way.
In a given hour, you can hear John Lennon, John Mayer, John Cash, John Legend and John Coltrane. Though I've not heard John Travolta.
Yet.
Almost all of the DJs are New Mexico State University students.
And man, are they hip.
Tuesday, during Lee Ryhanes' Representation Show/Soul Session, I heard a deep cut (Kalimba Story) from the 1974 Earth Wind & Fire album Open Our Eyes. I was so stunned to hear it on the radio, I had to call in. I requested another cut from the album, "Mighty, Mighty," and within minutes it was playing. I found myself driving down U.S. 70 loudly singing along with Maurice White, Philip Bailey and the crew while grinning from ear to ear.
A few weeks back on the Representation Show, I heard him play an incredibly obscure song by the group Brick, a 1970s funk band. It was good to know there's at least one other person in New Mexico who knows and loves the disco jazz music of the band whose biggest hit was "Dazz." My personal favorite is "Living from the Mind," one of the greatest headphone songs ever recorded.
Some mornings I listen to the coolly named "Two white guys from Ohio" show. At least until they play something that's way too hip (or too obnoxious, or too annoying, or too metal) for me.
Some mornings there's a very young and very cool sounding girl (maybe Adri G, according to the playlist at kruxradio.com) who will ramble on about whatever topic falls into her brain. Sometimes it's enlightening. Sometimes it's inane. But it's always entertaining. And like all of the DJs I've heard so far, a third of the music she plays I absolutely love, a third I can't stand, and the other third I can't UNDERstand.
From what I DO understand, just about any NMSU student who wants to have a show, can. It's enough to make me want to enroll.
And I would play stuff most people would love (such as the Rev. Al Green singing "Tired of Being Alone"), stuff most people couldn't stand (like Bob Wills and the Texas Playboys doing "Roly Poly") and stuff most people couldn't UNDERstand (like "Good King Wenceslas" by Mojo Nixon and the Toadliquors).
The title of this blog is In Search of the Crosses.
And since KRUX (or crux) is Latin or Greek or maybe Yugoslavian for cross, perhaps I've found one of the true crosses in Las Cruces. If so, that means there are two more hidden ones out there.
I'm open to clues if anyone's out there reading at 1:39 a.m. on Thursday, April 24, 2008. Why am I still awake at this ungodly hour? I'm supposed to be on a basketball court in Alamogordo in 4 hours and 21 minutes. And, can there really be such a thing as an ungodly hour?
Buenas noches, my fellow cross-bearers.
Wednesday, March 26, 2008
Nice People and a Cuban
The Cuban
A few weeks ago, when Fidel Castro stepped down after almost 50 years in power, I decided to treat myself to a Cuban. And I'm not talking about a cigar. Or a human being.
A step into Pullaro's Italian Restaurant is a little like a step back in time. John Pullaro opened his restaurant on 901 W. Picacho in 1972, but in a lot of ways, it feels like 1952 inside.
The walls are filled with Italian paintings, maps, pictures, flags, family photos and memorabilia. There's even a signed photo collage of NMSU basketball coaching legend Lou Henson.
You're welcomed by Italian-friendly music, classic 1940s and 1950s tunes by crooners such as Dean Martin and Jimmy Durante. On a previous visit, I heard Durante singing "Hello Young Lovers" and some stuff that sounded like Leon Redbone.
The menus are in vintage red covers with tassels, and the red shutters keep the room darkened to an intimate level, even on the brightest summer day.
The day Castro stepped down, there was a foursome at the next table speaking a foreign language that sounded vaguely like Spanish. But even a gringo like me could tell it was actually Italian. I figured, wow, Italian tourists.
I asked Pullaro about it after they left and he said, "I passed the test."
They were seeking spaghetti al dente, meaning it's cooked less, with a little bite to it, not soggy like many Americans make it. I figured that says something, if real Italians like the place.
And while he wanted to be sure those customers were satisfied, that's the way he treats everyone.
"Hi Frank," says Pullaro in his boisterous voice, greeting a customer who's obviously a regular.
I'd stopped in a couple of years ago and tried John's Cuban sandwich. He regaled me with the history of it, and I asked him to refresh my memory.
John spent time in Florida, where the Cuban sandwich is ubiquitous.
"It's like a burrito is around here," John says. "Everybody sells them."
Everybody except John Pullaro.
"I'm the only Italian restaurant here that doesn't sell Mexican food. I'm a diehard."
He's also a diehard about his ingredients.
"When I started in 1972, I bought my cheese from Italy. I still buy my cheese from Italy."
It's Picarino Romano cheese, and he pays $300 for a block of it. But to John, it's well worth it to maintain the quality of ingredients and the continuity for his loyal customers.
The Cuban is a cold cut sandwich with ham and salami, mustard and pickles.
You can get it served hot or cold. Both are delicious.
But the signature of the Cuban is the long, thin bread roll on which it's served. Some would mistakenly call it a sub sandwich or a hoagie, but it has its own distinctive style.
Just like Pullaro's Restaurant. And just like Pullaro himself.
Nice People
Business Products Center, on El Paseo, occasionally runs an ad in the Sun-News with a simple, yet unique, headline.
It says, Nice People. That alone caused me to venture into the store. Just curious, I guess, to see if the headline was right.
And it was. And there's more than just business products in there.
Over Christmas, I found it much easier and quicker to mail packages from BPC than the post office. I guess that's no surprise.
But they also sell boxes and stamps and wrapping paper, and greeting cards.
I found a really cool card for my oldest daughter's birthday. When you opened it, it played the classing song "Shining Star" by Earth, Wind & Fire.
A few weeks ago, when Fidel Castro stepped down after almost 50 years in power, I decided to treat myself to a Cuban. And I'm not talking about a cigar. Or a human being.
A step into Pullaro's Italian Restaurant is a little like a step back in time. John Pullaro opened his restaurant on 901 W. Picacho in 1972, but in a lot of ways, it feels like 1952 inside.
The walls are filled with Italian paintings, maps, pictures, flags, family photos and memorabilia. There's even a signed photo collage of NMSU basketball coaching legend Lou Henson.
You're welcomed by Italian-friendly music, classic 1940s and 1950s tunes by crooners such as Dean Martin and Jimmy Durante. On a previous visit, I heard Durante singing "Hello Young Lovers" and some stuff that sounded like Leon Redbone.
The menus are in vintage red covers with tassels, and the red shutters keep the room darkened to an intimate level, even on the brightest summer day.
The day Castro stepped down, there was a foursome at the next table speaking a foreign language that sounded vaguely like Spanish. But even a gringo like me could tell it was actually Italian. I figured, wow, Italian tourists.
I asked Pullaro about it after they left and he said, "I passed the test."
They were seeking spaghetti al dente, meaning it's cooked less, with a little bite to it, not soggy like many Americans make it. I figured that says something, if real Italians like the place.
And while he wanted to be sure those customers were satisfied, that's the way he treats everyone.
"Hi Frank," says Pullaro in his boisterous voice, greeting a customer who's obviously a regular.
I'd stopped in a couple of years ago and tried John's Cuban sandwich. He regaled me with the history of it, and I asked him to refresh my memory.
John spent time in Florida, where the Cuban sandwich is ubiquitous.
"It's like a burrito is around here," John says. "Everybody sells them."
Everybody except John Pullaro.
"I'm the only Italian restaurant here that doesn't sell Mexican food. I'm a diehard."
He's also a diehard about his ingredients.
"When I started in 1972, I bought my cheese from Italy. I still buy my cheese from Italy."
It's Picarino Romano cheese, and he pays $300 for a block of it. But to John, it's well worth it to maintain the quality of ingredients and the continuity for his loyal customers.
The Cuban is a cold cut sandwich with ham and salami, mustard and pickles.
You can get it served hot or cold. Both are delicious.
But the signature of the Cuban is the long, thin bread roll on which it's served. Some would mistakenly call it a sub sandwich or a hoagie, but it has its own distinctive style.
Just like Pullaro's Restaurant. And just like Pullaro himself.
Nice People
Business Products Center, on El Paseo, occasionally runs an ad in the Sun-News with a simple, yet unique, headline.
It says, Nice People. That alone caused me to venture into the store. Just curious, I guess, to see if the headline was right.
And it was. And there's more than just business products in there.
Over Christmas, I found it much easier and quicker to mail packages from BPC than the post office. I guess that's no surprise.
But they also sell boxes and stamps and wrapping paper, and greeting cards.
I found a really cool card for my oldest daughter's birthday. When you opened it, it played the classing song "Shining Star" by Earth, Wind & Fire.
Friday, March 14, 2008
The Dapper Man and the Roberto's Can
The Dapper Man With No Name
Every day I drive in to work on North Main, heading toward downtown. Once every three weeks or so, I see a guy I dubbed the Dapper Man. He's always walking north, away from downtown, on the west side of the street. He's the Dapper Man because he's always dressed up. Usually with a suit and tie, though the suits look as if they were last stylish in 1979. OK, by me, since I'm sort of stuck in the 1970s myself. The Dapper Man has a nice beard and always wears a cool hat, kind of a flat top hat with a wide brim that appears to be of leather. The beard is more gray than dark, and I'd guess he's probably close to 60. But he walks swiftly, his movements unencumbered by age. One day I was listening to Q-101, and they were playing War's classic "All Day Music" as the Dapper Man was walking by. I felt briefly transported to 1973.
But here's the coolest part. When it's chilly outside, he wears a poncho. Not just any poncho. It's a wool poncho with a Southwestern pattern. I swear it's the same one Clint Eastwood wore as the Man with No Name in the Good, the Bad and the Ugly trilogy. I don't know where Dapper Man is headed on these days, but he always looks and moves like he knows exactly where he's going.
Roberto's Can Full of Fame
I went through the Roberto's restaurant drive-through the other day to get a chicken taco plate. You can't go wrong with Roberto's. Roberto is most famous for making the giant enchilada at the Whole Enchilada Fiesta.
But in my book, his crowning achievement is the Roberto's red chile tamale. Growing up in Oklahoma, my experience with tamales were nasty things that came in a can, or something bad chain Mexican restaurants made with a flimsy, soggy, corn tortilla. When I finally had a real, New Mexican tamale, it was an epiphany. And when I finally had a Roberto's red chile tamale, it went beyond that. I swear one time it cured me of a cold.
Anyway, I placed my order at the sign into the talking speaker with the Charlie Brown teacher filter. The only local drive-through speaker that's more difficult to understand is the one at Jack in the Box on El Paseo. No biggie though; if you know you're in for a Roberto's meal, you don't fret over slight imperfections. Besides, if they somehow screwed up your order and you got a chile relleno plate, or a red enchilada plate instead of the chicken taco plate, you're still in for a big treat.
Anyway, after I told the speaker that was it for my order (at least I think that's the question I answered), I rolled around the corner to the pickup window. And it was gone! The window wasn't gone — in fact, a brand new window was there. What was gone was the big aluminum can in the wall. Roberto's fans know exactly what I'm talking about. If you're not familiar with Roberto's, up until recently their drive-though window featured a big aluminum cylinder that worked kind of like a revolving door. When you drove up, you saw the closed side. On the other side of the wall, they'd put your order in and spin the cylinder. One-hundred-and-eighty degrees later, you'd have the open side and there would be your order. It was like a magic trick. To me though, it was beyond magic and closer to divine. The cylinder somewhat resembled the tabernacle that holds the eucharistic communion wafers at a Catholic church. I don't mean to be sacrilegious — I'm Catholic myself. But if your order happened to be a Roberto's red chile tamale, well, that truly is like tasting a slice of heaven.
The new window is clearly more functional and practical. The old cylinder wouldn't hold big orders very well. But as you have guessed by now, I'll miss the beautiful old icon.
Every day I drive in to work on North Main, heading toward downtown. Once every three weeks or so, I see a guy I dubbed the Dapper Man. He's always walking north, away from downtown, on the west side of the street. He's the Dapper Man because he's always dressed up. Usually with a suit and tie, though the suits look as if they were last stylish in 1979. OK, by me, since I'm sort of stuck in the 1970s myself. The Dapper Man has a nice beard and always wears a cool hat, kind of a flat top hat with a wide brim that appears to be of leather. The beard is more gray than dark, and I'd guess he's probably close to 60. But he walks swiftly, his movements unencumbered by age. One day I was listening to Q-101, and they were playing War's classic "All Day Music" as the Dapper Man was walking by. I felt briefly transported to 1973.
But here's the coolest part. When it's chilly outside, he wears a poncho. Not just any poncho. It's a wool poncho with a Southwestern pattern. I swear it's the same one Clint Eastwood wore as the Man with No Name in the Good, the Bad and the Ugly trilogy. I don't know where Dapper Man is headed on these days, but he always looks and moves like he knows exactly where he's going.
Roberto's Can Full of Fame
I went through the Roberto's restaurant drive-through the other day to get a chicken taco plate. You can't go wrong with Roberto's. Roberto is most famous for making the giant enchilada at the Whole Enchilada Fiesta.
But in my book, his crowning achievement is the Roberto's red chile tamale. Growing up in Oklahoma, my experience with tamales were nasty things that came in a can, or something bad chain Mexican restaurants made with a flimsy, soggy, corn tortilla. When I finally had a real, New Mexican tamale, it was an epiphany. And when I finally had a Roberto's red chile tamale, it went beyond that. I swear one time it cured me of a cold.
Anyway, I placed my order at the sign into the talking speaker with the Charlie Brown teacher filter. The only local drive-through speaker that's more difficult to understand is the one at Jack in the Box on El Paseo. No biggie though; if you know you're in for a Roberto's meal, you don't fret over slight imperfections. Besides, if they somehow screwed up your order and you got a chile relleno plate, or a red enchilada plate instead of the chicken taco plate, you're still in for a big treat.
Anyway, after I told the speaker that was it for my order (at least I think that's the question I answered), I rolled around the corner to the pickup window. And it was gone! The window wasn't gone — in fact, a brand new window was there. What was gone was the big aluminum can in the wall. Roberto's fans know exactly what I'm talking about. If you're not familiar with Roberto's, up until recently their drive-though window featured a big aluminum cylinder that worked kind of like a revolving door. When you drove up, you saw the closed side. On the other side of the wall, they'd put your order in and spin the cylinder. One-hundred-and-eighty degrees later, you'd have the open side and there would be your order. It was like a magic trick. To me though, it was beyond magic and closer to divine. The cylinder somewhat resembled the tabernacle that holds the eucharistic communion wafers at a Catholic church. I don't mean to be sacrilegious — I'm Catholic myself. But if your order happened to be a Roberto's red chile tamale, well, that truly is like tasting a slice of heaven.
The new window is clearly more functional and practical. The old cylinder wouldn't hold big orders very well. But as you have guessed by now, I'll miss the beautiful old icon.
Friday, November 9, 2007
A life, called Bobby Mitchell
I used to maintain that you officially became part of a community when you attended the funeral of a friend in that place.
A few weeks back, I attended my first Las Cruces funeral.
The service was graveside at dusty, grassless Doña Ana Cemetery, high on a hill in the Chihuahuan Desert, with mountains at the horizon all around. To the east, you could hear the screams and laughter of children on recess at a nearby elementary school. In the distance to the west, you could hear the periodic crowing of a rooster. A dull buzz from traffic on Interstate 25 was barely audible.
Bobby Mitchell's body lay in a plain pine box, the heat of the New Mexican sun blazing down on the casket as well as the guests, which included a young black hipster, an old black Muslim, at least three people in Converse All-Stars (surprisingly none of them were me), some in suits and ties (thankfully none of them were me), people ranging in age from 3 months to 85 years, white, Hispanic, bikers, priests, healthy and infirm. Some tried to catch some shade from the few haggard trees. Wisely, there was an Igloo water cooler set up on a table, with those paper cone cups available.
The service was performed in the B'ha'i faith, the way Bobby Mitchell chose to worship God. It was beautiful, with wonderful prayers and chants. One of his four sons, Nathan, decked out in an ugly green T-shirt, shorts and tennis shoes, played Amazing Grace on the flute. A variety of friends and family spoke of the life of this odd, eclectic man.
The service opened with Nathan reciting one of Bobby's poems, entitled The Question May Now Be Asked:
The question may now be asked;
Are there assholes in heaven?
After all, everybody's got one;
Or been one
At one time or another ...
- Bobby Mitchell, Oct. 15, 1985
Later, someone read a scripture from Abdu'l Baha, which described the afterlife in heaven with the best analogy I'd ever heard. It went like this:
To consider that after the death of the body the spirit perishes, is like imagining that a bird in a cage will be destroyed if the cage is broken, though the bird has nothing to fear from the destruction of the cage. Our body is like the cage, and the spirit is like the bird. ...therefore if the cage becomes broken, the bird will continue and exist: its feelings will be even more powerful, its perceptions greater, and its happiness increased.
I cannot accurately call Bobby Mitchell my friend; we only met on a couple of occasions. But we were (are?) kindred spirits. He founded the Otero County Martin Luther King Jr. Committee and was its first chairman. I have been chair of the same organization since 2003.
Oddly, though, after seeing the people react to him at the funeral, only now do I really feel like I know him. And I'm much better for it.
A few weeks back, I attended my first Las Cruces funeral.
The service was graveside at dusty, grassless Doña Ana Cemetery, high on a hill in the Chihuahuan Desert, with mountains at the horizon all around. To the east, you could hear the screams and laughter of children on recess at a nearby elementary school. In the distance to the west, you could hear the periodic crowing of a rooster. A dull buzz from traffic on Interstate 25 was barely audible.
Bobby Mitchell's body lay in a plain pine box, the heat of the New Mexican sun blazing down on the casket as well as the guests, which included a young black hipster, an old black Muslim, at least three people in Converse All-Stars (surprisingly none of them were me), some in suits and ties (thankfully none of them were me), people ranging in age from 3 months to 85 years, white, Hispanic, bikers, priests, healthy and infirm. Some tried to catch some shade from the few haggard trees. Wisely, there was an Igloo water cooler set up on a table, with those paper cone cups available.
The service was performed in the B'ha'i faith, the way Bobby Mitchell chose to worship God. It was beautiful, with wonderful prayers and chants. One of his four sons, Nathan, decked out in an ugly green T-shirt, shorts and tennis shoes, played Amazing Grace on the flute. A variety of friends and family spoke of the life of this odd, eclectic man.
The service opened with Nathan reciting one of Bobby's poems, entitled The Question May Now Be Asked:
The question may now be asked;
Are there assholes in heaven?
After all, everybody's got one;
Or been one
At one time or another ...
- Bobby Mitchell, Oct. 15, 1985
Later, someone read a scripture from Abdu'l Baha, which described the afterlife in heaven with the best analogy I'd ever heard. It went like this:
To consider that after the death of the body the spirit perishes, is like imagining that a bird in a cage will be destroyed if the cage is broken, though the bird has nothing to fear from the destruction of the cage. Our body is like the cage, and the spirit is like the bird. ...therefore if the cage becomes broken, the bird will continue and exist: its feelings will be even more powerful, its perceptions greater, and its happiness increased.
I cannot accurately call Bobby Mitchell my friend; we only met on a couple of occasions. But we were (are?) kindred spirits. He founded the Otero County Martin Luther King Jr. Committee and was its first chairman. I have been chair of the same organization since 2003.
Oddly, though, after seeing the people react to him at the funeral, only now do I really feel like I know him. And I'm much better for it.
Saturday, July 21, 2007
Santa Fe vs. Las Cruces: You can have both
As a rule, I avoid attempting to eat any real food at a convenience store. My stomach still turns at memories of microwave burritos from 7-11 in the 1980s. And have you seen those unidentifiable fried things under the heat lamps at Allsups? My blood pressure and cholesterol go up just by walking by the the little glass window on the counter. I've never had the nerve to actually try to eat something at Allsups.
For me, the only real purposes of convenience stores (especially on road trips) are to:
1. use the rest room
2. fill up with gas
3. get an RC Cola (if they have them)
4. get a water (if they don't have RC)
5. grab a Moon Pie or peanut butter cheese crackers (the kind with the unnaturally orange hue) or a banana (usually harder to find in a convenience store than RC Cola)
But here in Las Cruces, I found another genuine reason to visit a convenience store.
It's the Santa Fe Grill inside Pic Quik. And you have your choice of several locations in the area.
I visited based on the recommendation of co-worker Eric Seo. In fact, a fair portion of the Sun-News newsroom seems to subsist on the Santa Fe Grill burrito.
I was skeptical, however, those 7-11 memories still burning in my gut.
Walking in the Pic Quik on Avenida de Mesilla (near the Valley intersection), I felt OK. The store is nice, roomy and airy. I walked over to the Santa Fe Grill, surprised to find, well, an actual grill there.
Working the grill this evening was a young man named Tony. Eric had suggested I try the Mario Brothers burrito. For a while, I thought he was just making up the name, so I'd feel goofy when I ordered it and got a blank stare.
But at Pic Quik, I saw the roster of about 52 burritos, and Mario Brothers was about the most normal-sounding name. The list read about like the list of band names from the Warped Tour. I'm looking forward to trying the Deer Hunter and the Devil's Breath in the future.
Tony was friendly and helpful, and he actually asked me how my day was. Not typical convenience-store employee behavior.
The Mario Brothers burrito is surely no healthier than an Allsups chimichanga, but at least it's fresher.
Tony tossed what seemed like a pound each of ham, bacon, beef, potatoes, and green chile on the grill and started working it, with the tortilla warming on the side.
When the meat was cooked, Tony started gathering it to put on the tortilla. I glanced at the giant mound of meat, then back at the tortilla. I glanced again at the meat, and again at the tortilla. I thought, There's no way he's getting all that meat on that tortilla. He did get it on the tortilla, however, then tried something even more daring.
He lifted the tortilla, meat and all, and carried it over to the other counter to top it with cheese. I just knew he would spill the meat, or the tortilla would break and everything would fall on the floor.
But everything made it safely, as if he'd done it 100 times already that day, which he probably had.
Then he began his boldest move: Trying to fold the tortilla.
Yeah, right, I thought as he began to fold, but fold he did, and almost everything stayed inside. Though I feared that later, when I bit into it, it might explode.
"Do you want salsa?" he asked.
"Yes," I said, and he reached for the small plastic containers of salsa.
"I'll give you three," he said. "That's a big burrito."
Tony does not lie.
When I actually got to eat it, I was even more impressed. Tons of flavor, the right amount of heat, and the salsa was a good complement.
I've heard people brag about Santa Fe Grill cooks at other Pic Quik locations. But as another co-worker, sports editor Teddy Feinberg, said, "Tony's our man!"
I smell a competition coming on ...
Shifting gears a bit, I wanted to follow up on an earlier blog comment about the crazy streets in Las Cruces.
The crazy street situation is exacerbated because, at times, there is little or no indication when a street may suddenly go from four lanes to two, or two lanes to one, or if a lane is a turn-only lane or a straight-only lane. More than once, I've had to go a block or more out of my way because I was forced to turn when I didn't want to, or missed a turn lane and had to go straight.
But here's the thing: Almost everybody in Las Cruces is aware of this, and they are extremely friendly about letting you squeeze in.
Some of the maneuvers I've done here would have gotten me multiple honks and hand gestures in Dallas or LA. But here, every one slows down and waves you in.
Very cool.
And naturally, that stuff is contagious. Now I find myself letting someone in at times normally I would have thought, You have to wait your turn, too, buddy.
The nice traffic behavior seems to contradict something else I've discovered about Las Cruces: People like to curse.
I lived in nearby Alamogordo for 11 years, and I think people in Las Cruces curse about 137 percent more than people in Alamogordo. But they don't do it in an aggressive, nasty way. It's just part of their everyday conversation. In fact, I don't think I've seen anyone in Las Cruces yet who wasn't smiling or happy when they cursed. They do it in professional settings, public settings, private settings, just about anywhere.
Obviously, I know there are times when people in Las Cruces — as everywhere — curse in violent anger. I have not witnessed that yet here, but that's not what I'm talking about anyway, dammit. Unfortunately, that stuff is contagious, too.
It's just a freaking observation that people in Las Cruces seem to really enjoy their cursing. Hell, yeah!
For me, the only real purposes of convenience stores (especially on road trips) are to:
1. use the rest room
2. fill up with gas
3. get an RC Cola (if they have them)
4. get a water (if they don't have RC)
5. grab a Moon Pie or peanut butter cheese crackers (the kind with the unnaturally orange hue) or a banana (usually harder to find in a convenience store than RC Cola)
But here in Las Cruces, I found another genuine reason to visit a convenience store.
It's the Santa Fe Grill inside Pic Quik. And you have your choice of several locations in the area.
I visited based on the recommendation of co-worker Eric Seo. In fact, a fair portion of the Sun-News newsroom seems to subsist on the Santa Fe Grill burrito.
I was skeptical, however, those 7-11 memories still burning in my gut.
Walking in the Pic Quik on Avenida de Mesilla (near the Valley intersection), I felt OK. The store is nice, roomy and airy. I walked over to the Santa Fe Grill, surprised to find, well, an actual grill there.
Working the grill this evening was a young man named Tony. Eric had suggested I try the Mario Brothers burrito. For a while, I thought he was just making up the name, so I'd feel goofy when I ordered it and got a blank stare.
But at Pic Quik, I saw the roster of about 52 burritos, and Mario Brothers was about the most normal-sounding name. The list read about like the list of band names from the Warped Tour. I'm looking forward to trying the Deer Hunter and the Devil's Breath in the future.
Tony was friendly and helpful, and he actually asked me how my day was. Not typical convenience-store employee behavior.
The Mario Brothers burrito is surely no healthier than an Allsups chimichanga, but at least it's fresher.
Tony tossed what seemed like a pound each of ham, bacon, beef, potatoes, and green chile on the grill and started working it, with the tortilla warming on the side.
When the meat was cooked, Tony started gathering it to put on the tortilla. I glanced at the giant mound of meat, then back at the tortilla. I glanced again at the meat, and again at the tortilla. I thought, There's no way he's getting all that meat on that tortilla. He did get it on the tortilla, however, then tried something even more daring.
He lifted the tortilla, meat and all, and carried it over to the other counter to top it with cheese. I just knew he would spill the meat, or the tortilla would break and everything would fall on the floor.
But everything made it safely, as if he'd done it 100 times already that day, which he probably had.
Then he began his boldest move: Trying to fold the tortilla.
Yeah, right, I thought as he began to fold, but fold he did, and almost everything stayed inside. Though I feared that later, when I bit into it, it might explode.
"Do you want salsa?" he asked.
"Yes," I said, and he reached for the small plastic containers of salsa.
"I'll give you three," he said. "That's a big burrito."
Tony does not lie.
When I actually got to eat it, I was even more impressed. Tons of flavor, the right amount of heat, and the salsa was a good complement.
I've heard people brag about Santa Fe Grill cooks at other Pic Quik locations. But as another co-worker, sports editor Teddy Feinberg, said, "Tony's our man!"
I smell a competition coming on ...
Shifting gears a bit, I wanted to follow up on an earlier blog comment about the crazy streets in Las Cruces.
The crazy street situation is exacerbated because, at times, there is little or no indication when a street may suddenly go from four lanes to two, or two lanes to one, or if a lane is a turn-only lane or a straight-only lane. More than once, I've had to go a block or more out of my way because I was forced to turn when I didn't want to, or missed a turn lane and had to go straight.
But here's the thing: Almost everybody in Las Cruces is aware of this, and they are extremely friendly about letting you squeeze in.
Some of the maneuvers I've done here would have gotten me multiple honks and hand gestures in Dallas or LA. But here, every one slows down and waves you in.
Very cool.
And naturally, that stuff is contagious. Now I find myself letting someone in at times normally I would have thought, You have to wait your turn, too, buddy.
The nice traffic behavior seems to contradict something else I've discovered about Las Cruces: People like to curse.
I lived in nearby Alamogordo for 11 years, and I think people in Las Cruces curse about 137 percent more than people in Alamogordo. But they don't do it in an aggressive, nasty way. It's just part of their everyday conversation. In fact, I don't think I've seen anyone in Las Cruces yet who wasn't smiling or happy when they cursed. They do it in professional settings, public settings, private settings, just about anywhere.
Obviously, I know there are times when people in Las Cruces — as everywhere — curse in violent anger. I have not witnessed that yet here, but that's not what I'm talking about anyway, dammit. Unfortunately, that stuff is contagious, too.
It's just a freaking observation that people in Las Cruces seem to really enjoy their cursing. Hell, yeah!
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