In Search of the Crosses

Counting down to combat cancer in Cruces

2010-03-20T12:53:00.001-07:00

Not sure how you ladies — and you gentlemen with long hair — do it. My hair has been left uncut since November and is going everywhere all over my eyes and face.

Takes forever to dry, and uses a lot of shampoo and green alien slime hair gel.

Don't take that as a complaint. I'm grateful to have the hair. The people I'm getting my hair cut for don't have an alternative.

The chemotherapy is a nasty thing in many ways. Losing the hair, while externally obvious, may be the easiest thing about the cancer treatment.

And, of course, there are plenty of guys out there facing genetic hair loss that don't want to hear me whine about my hair being too long.

At any rate, it's now about two hours away from the big shaving at St. Baldrick's here in Las Cruces.

There is still time to attend the event, as well as to donate to children's cancer research.

Here's how:

http://www.stbaldricks.org/events/mypage/eventid/800/eventyear/2010

Shiny, happy heads

2010-03-18T13:28:00.001-07:00

Back in October, my flatbed trailer was stolen from my yard.

I never knew there were so many trailers in town until mine was gone and I was looking at every passing trailer with Sherlock Holmes eyes.

Since I made the commitment to shave my head for the St. Baldrick's event, raising money for children's cancer, I have begun noticing bald heads.

It seems like they're everywhere.

Tall bald guys. Short bald guys. Skinny bald guys. Fat bald guys.

I've long held the belief very few white guys can effectively pull off the bald look. Black guys look cool, slick or tough with the cleanhead look. Latinos make it work well. But white guys tend to look like thumbs.

But I've reassessed.

Almost everyone I've seen in Las Cruces, at least the guys who've gone completely shaven, look decent. Many of their heads literally shine. As if they've used a car-polish buffer from Auto Zone. They also seem to carry a bit of swagger. Maybe it's because they've shed some baggage.

Despite this hopeful observation, there's only one thing I'm confident about regarding my baldheadedness: I'll look like a goober.

At any rate, as long as people donate some money for this great cause, it is well worth it.

Donate here: http://www.stbaldricks.org/participants/mypage/participantid/376011

Bald is beautiful, or at least a beautiful honor

2010-03-16T23:04:00.001-07:00

We think a lot more about our hair than about cancer. Until we get cancer. Or until someone we love gets cancer.

Then we don't think about hair at all. Until someone we love loses their hair from chemotherapy.

This week, a hundred or so Las Crucens — myself included — are thinking about hair and cancer a lot. We're thinking about our hair, because in three days, it's getting all shaved off. And we're thinking about cancer because we're shaving our heads to draw attention to the need for children's cancer research. And the need for funds for the research. And the bald heads will pay homage to all the kids who have to go through chemo each year. Many of them don't make it.

You can help by making a donation to the St. Baldrick's Foundation.

The link for the Las Cruces event is http://www.stbaldricks.org/events/mypage/eventid/800/eventyear/2010

Click on View all participants or View all teams to find someone you know, and make a donation under their name.

Donations made in New Mexico will go to cancer research at the UNM Children's Hospital in New Mexico.

The Las Cruces event is Saturday at 3 p.m. at Dickerson's Event Center, 3920 W. Picacho Ave. In addition to the head shaving, there will be lots of music, food, and some powerful words from some people who have dealt first-hand with the draining power of cancer.

There will also be a hugely important bone marrow drive. A simple swab of the cheek could help save a life.

My hair right now is longer than it's been since 1989. The last time I had a burr haircut, I was eight. By the end of the day Saturday, my head will be shiny bright and crazy clean. Some dudes look good bald. I guarantee I will NOT be one of them. But if I continue to raise money for the research, I don't care how I look.

Land of Lotaburger

2010-03-16T22:42:00.001-07:00

Some colleagues brought in some Blake's Lotaburger for lunch yesterday.

Is there anything more New Mexican than a Blake's green chile burger for lunch?

From Aztec to Tucumcari, from Alamo to Santa Fe, there are few better ways to spend a hungry Saturday afternoon at Blake's.

My personal favorite is the double Lotaburger with grilled onions, bacon, cheese and green chile. But you gotta be careful with that stuff. You can't do that every day.

Saturday, my daughter and I dined at the Blake's on North Main in Las Cruces.

You've probably all noticed this, but Saturday was the first time I consciously thought about it, but Blake's has, on its walls, framed, faded photographs of Blake's meals.

Isn't that kind of odd?

Are there other restaurants that have pictures of the food you're eating on the wall?

These photos feature the burgers and fries with cups of Pepsi and piles of fresh, whole tomatoes and lettuce, which by the way don't come with the meals.

I'm especially glad that local Mexican restaurants. How would you like to be dining on a Saturday or Sunday morning, with your face over a bowl of hot menudo, and you look up to see a photo of another bowl of hot menudo amid a pile of pig entrails?

Anyway, for the joy of eating at Blake's, I'll certainly overlook the small quirk of the photos of food.

Especially at the North Main location, which also features outdoor dining, with one of the best views of the Organ Mountains of any restaurant in Las Cruces. True, you have to overlook one of the busiest streets in town, but if you catch it a little while before sundown, with the alpenglow coloring the Organs magenta, and you've got a green chile Lotaburger in your hand, well, it doesn't get much better.

Aggies one win away from Big Dance

2010-03-13T01:13:00.002-07:00

One point. When you win by one point, every single thing that happened in the previous 40 minutes has absolutely mattered.

Hamidu Raman's two free throws early in the game were as important for New Mexico State University as Jahmar Young's jumper with 3.8 seconds left that gave the Aggies their 80-79 margin of victory in the Western Athletic Conference tournament semifinal game in Reno.

Saturday night, Feb. 27, after the Aggies beat Boise State in the Pan Am Center, 95-92, I was disappointed. I didn't want the home season to end. I wanted to watch the Aggies more.

Watching them on ESPN2 last night was fun, particularly watching, or more accurately, hearing, ESPN analyst Steven Bardo (a former player for Lou Henson when Lou was in Illinois) fall in love with Wendell McKines.

Here are the top seven Aggies this year, and why I've enjoyed all of them so much this season.

HAMIDU RAMAN, sophomore, center: Hamidu is the tallest Aggie, and the only one I've ever had a conversation with. It went like this.

Me: Hey, Ham, how's it goin?

Ham: Good, good.

Many people shudder at the thought of Hamidu going to the free throw line, and his percentage IS less than 60 percent. But I've always felt good about Ham at the line. And, remember, he won a game for us last year at the line. He fouls a lot, but the only time I got upset with him was when he jacked a 14-footer late in a game when we were trying to use up some clock. He would be fun to go to the movies with.

GORDO CASTILLO, junior, wing: Gordo looks exactly like Jon Cryer, the co-star of the CBS sitcom Two and a Half Men. Gordo even wears black socks, like the nerdy Cryer character would do.

Everyone in the Pan Am loves Gordo because he's the hometown kid from Las Cruces High. He has had a great career by having a limited but definite role, and performing that role incredibly well. Gordo hits the three. 'Nuff said.

HERNST LAROCHE, junior, guard: Of all the top seven Aggies, Hernst is the least likely to make a mistake, especially at a critical juncture in the game. He wears No. 13, which tells you he's not superstitious. It is said he can speak four languages. He's from Montreal and speaks French well. Also English, Spanish and Creole. I took five years of French and even got to go to France. If I met Hernst, I might say to him the first thing I said to a real French person when I was in the heart of Paris: Mes levres est mal. Avez-vous du Chap-Stik?

TROY GILLENWATER, sophomore, post: Troy seems the most relaxed of the Aggies on the court. I've heard cynics say it's because he's the laziest of the Aggies. I disagree. I think when he first returned, he was a little slower because he wasn't in game shape, but he's been a dominant force inside and out in every game. Has a great touch around the basket, and the strength to finish and draw fouls.

JONATHAN GIBSON, senior, guard: Friday night, I screamed at Gibson through my TV when he fouled Nevada's 90-percent free-throw shooter Luke Babbitt while the Aggies clung to a one-point lead with under a minute to play. He occasionally will make you do that, but more often he'll make something positive happen on the offensive end. He drives well in the paint, can dish or finish, and, of course, drain the three-pointer. What impresses me most, however, is his toughness. At least once a game, he takes a hard hit to the gut, chest or face, and never winces. It strengthens his resolve, and in a short time he is making a key play. He will be greatly missed next year. My biggest disappointment was that he always wore his hair in cornrows and a headband. Just once I'd like to see him set his extension free. Gib, if we make the Big Dance, will you let your hair out for the first game?

JAHMAR YOUNG, junior, wing: Here's one of my favorite Aggie plays: when Jahmar grabs a defensive rebound and takes off on the fast break. He handles the ball well in transition, and usually makes good decisions in the open floor. He has broadened his game this year, proving to be a good passer and even working hard at times on defense. I once sat in the barber chair next to Jahmar as he held court at City Barber Shop. Let's put it this way: Jahmar has an unorthodox perspective on the world. That's why I was not surprised when he mouthed off at a Nevada player after a bump, drawing a critical technical that helped the Wolfpack to a five-point possession that changed the game. I was not surprised, but it didn't stop me from yelling at the TV again. But maybe knowing he made that mistake gave him more determination to correct it, as he did when he hit the eventual game winner.

WENDELL McKINES, junior, forward: Saving the best for last, everyone's favorite Aggie. Here's how ESPN analyst Bardo put it: "If something happens outside after the game, I want this guy with me." And that's the way every Aggie on the floor feels, and every Aggie fan in the arena. He calls himself Wen, but I call him WenDELL, with the emphasis on the Dell. I overheard one Aggie fan say he looks like a young Mike Tyson. That may or may not be, but he certainly projects the image of strength and invincibility the pre-Buster Douglas Tyson had. McKines will not get out-hustled on the floor. He will go and get the rebound. He will dive and get the loose ball. He will put back the missed shot. He will make the great pass. And he WILL dunk straight on your head. With considerable authority. He clearly loves basketball, and he does everything he can to win the game. However, my favorite Wendell McKines play of the whole season came on a play after the clock was stopped. I believe it was the Hawaii game. The Aggies were in their 2-2-1 zone press (which I hate, and could spend a whole hour explaining why, but that's another blog). Gibson got a steal, drove in for a layup, was fouled and knocked to the floor. Wendell was the first one there, helping Jonathan up. Then I thought, How did Wendell get there? Wasn't he beyond half-court on the back side of the press? Wasn't he 60 feet away from Gibson? Now he's helping him up? Then they showed the replay on the Aggievision scoreboard, and I saw exactly what happened. Sure enough, as soon as Gibson was going down, Wendell burst into a full sprint, racing down the court to greet, help, encourage, congratulate and energize his teammate.

I know Utah State is a well-disciplined, well-balanced team that does all the fundamental things you're supposed to be. But damn, they don't have Wendell McKines, and Wendell McKines is the type of player who should be playing in the NCAA tournament.

Let's go, NMSU. Let's go to the Big Dance. Let's win tonight.

She who has the last straw laughs best

2010-03-13T00:44:00.006-07:00

Friday morning, as I have almost every day for the past three years, I drove across the U.S. 70 bridges over Del Rey Boulevard and I-25. Usually the only things to look for are the occasional cop, the people who are still traveling 55-60 after the speed limit drops to 45, and other drivers' license plate frames that say things like "Ask me about slumber parties."

Today, though, I glanced at the side of the road and saw a battered straw hat with a bright green hatband.

I wondered where the hat might have come from, and who wore it last.

Was someone driving a Jeep or convertible and the hat blew off? Had someone tossed it in the back of the pickup and it flew out? It was the perfect kind of hat for a scarecrow.

Who might wear such a hat? It was ideal for doing yard work on a sunny southern New Mexico day. Or for laying bricks. Or reading out on the patio at midday. Whatever it would be, it struck me you couldn't ever wear this hat and be angry.

For whatever reason, I found myself fixating on this floppy straw hat. I hadn't seen one in quite a while.

About four hours later, at lunchtime, I was driving south on Alameda Boulevard between Madrid and Picacho.

And there was another floppy straw hat. This one was darker, and the hatband may or may not have been a dark green.

And it was atop someone's head.

It was a lady, maybe a girl, walking on the sidewalk. With the floppy hat and big sunglasses, her age was indeterminant. She could have been anywhere between 16 and 36.

If you were out Friday, you know what a beautiful day it was. Perfect temperature. No real wind.

The floppy hat girl was walking not one, but two smallish dogs. The other thing that stood out was the large, contented smile on her face.

And really, how could you not be happy. On such a beautiful day, dogs underfoot and a big floppy hat overhead.

The high was 42 degrees in Denver this day. Denver: stocking cap, late-winter frustration. Las Cruces: floppy hat, early spring bliss.

One of many reasons it's great to be here.

Dapper Man ushers in spring

2008-05-11T08:52:00.002-07:00

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.

Hoopin' at the Mack, or Mackin' at the Hoop

2008-05-01T16:51:00.003-07:00

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.

The Krux of the Matter

2008-04-24T00:16:00.006-07:00

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.

Nice People and a Cuban

2008-03-26T20:48:00.002-07:00

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.

The Dapper Man and the Roberto's Can

2008-03-14T19:02:00.000-07:00

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.

A life, called Bobby Mitchell

2007-11-09T11:39:00.000-07:00

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.

Santa Fe vs. Las Cruces: You can have both

2007-07-21T22:38:00.000-07:00

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!

The desert conceals more than it reveals

2007-06-05T20:48:00.000-07:00

(EDITOR'S NOTE: Some passages may not be suitable for those in the middle of eating a meal)
When you are in search of the crosses, you first have to find Las Cruces. If you're traveling, there are four primary routes.
You can come from El Paso on I-10. You can come in from Deming, from the west, on I-10. You can come in from the north on I-25. Or, you can come from the east on U.S. 70.
After living in Alamogordo for 11 years, I'm most familiar with the route from the east. Even more so now, since I'm commuting every day.
Until I started driving U.S. 70 on a daily basis, I didn't realize how much wildlife you can encounter on the route.
For years I've noticed the hawks that perch on the telephone poles in the late afternoon/early evening. If you're heading east the ideal number of minutes before sunset, it seems like there's a hawk on every other pole.
They appear to be checking the ground for a wayward ground squirrel or some other tasty desert meal. Or, since I've never actually seen one diving after anything, maybe that's just their favorite time to hang out.
Either way, they are beautiful, majestic birds.
Sometimes, from a distance, you'll think it's a hawk but it turns out to be a crow.
Lately, I've noticed a trend of much smaller, yellow-breasted birds chasing crows five times their size. The little guys are the aggressors, chasing the hawks up, down and all around.
And while there's lots of wildlife floating gracefully above, there's also lots of less mobile wildlife right on the ground. I'm referring, of course, to roadkill.

Aaaah, roadkill. The roadkill on U.S. 70 provides pretty much a living (well, actually, dead) textbook of desert animal life.
The most noticeable example is the coyote. On any given day, there will be three or four coyotes, or parts of coyotes, strewn about the highway. Currently, there's one that's been there about three weeks. In that time, the coyote has desiccated from a normal, bloated dead coyote to one that's about as thick as a piece of cardboard. Yet all of his body parts are intact and contiguous.
He's so thin now, I fully expect in the next day or two a gust of wind to lift him up, and send him flying through the air like a Frisbee.
Predictably, perhaps, I almost never see a roadrunner.
I'm sure most of the dead coyotes don't actually get hit by cars. More likely, they've come up with some elaborate scheme to capture a roadrunner (probably with a product from Acme), and it backfires, killing the coyote while the roadrunner speeds blissfully away. Meep-meep.
But I digress.
The aforementioned ground squirrel shows up as roadkill from time to time, as does the mighty rattlesnake.
One day I saw a squashed ground squirrel, and about four feet to the left was a squashed rattler. I wondered if the rattle snake was chasing the critter for a light snack, when both were hit by tires of the same vehicle.
I don't know if the driver got his 2-for-1 intentionally, but if so, he probably should have let the little ground squirrel go. He was probably going to get it from the rattler's brother later anyway.
The most disappointing roadkills are the small rabbits. Something about seeing that little cottontail that kind of breaks your heart.
Occasionally I'll see a tarantula, but most of the time, they've managed to escape with their eight legs intact.

Aside from dead animals, there's lots of other nature to see. Right now the yuccas are in full bloom, and when you look across White Sands Missile Range you can see hundreds of them. When the light is just right, they seem to be glowing.
In addition to the coolest state flag, New Mexico, with the yucca, also has the coolest state flower.
There are also hundreds of the supposedly endangered prickly poppy plants.
I was traveling recently with my parents, from Phoenix to Alamogordo. All the way from Las Cruces, my mom would look at any patch of light colored dirt and ask, "Is that the White Sands?" I said, "Mom, when you see the White Sands, you'll KNOW it."
And indeed, they are the whitest dunes you could imagine. White Sands National Monument is one of three places I've been where I felt like I were on another planet.
The clouds can also be incredible, particularly when you're cresting the San Augustin Pass (going in either direction), and you can look across the whole range, and the sky seems utterly immense. It's great for watching rainbows and lightning strikes.
Still, it's hard to beat the animals. The ones that are still alive, I mean.

And I don't mean the little boy I saw recently. His family had pulled their van over to the side of the road, and the little boy was joyously and unabashedly peeing skyward into the desert. With the wind.
What I mean most are the oryx.
Used to be I'd see the beautiful oryx frequently on U.S. 70. But the past four or five years, they've stayed mostly in hiding. I almost never see them.
However, they have a tendency to be summon spirits, appearing only when conjured.
Twice in the past year, people who were making the trip with me said before the trip, "I hope we see an oryx. I've never seen one."
I said, in both cases, "No chance. They stay away from the road these days."
"I think we'll see one," they said.
In both cases, when we actually made the trip, sure enough, about midway, there appeared a flock of six oryx.
If you haven't seen them, these horse-sized deer-like creatures have towering horns and striking black, white and tan markings.
There's another really cool animal, at least it's named for an animal. It's the F-117A Nighthawk, more commonly known as the Stealth fighter. If you don't know, it's a jet based at Holloman Air Force Base. It looks more like the Batplane than a typical aircraft.
A couple of weeks ago, I was cruising down 70 just west of Holloman. I noticed the car ahead of me made a brief, quick swerve before correcting. As I was wondering what had happened, my vehicle was enveloped in a sudden shadow, right before I heard the crushing, vibrating, Who-concert-volume whoosh of jet exhaust. I looked up to my left to see the Nighthawk pulling up and preparing to land at the base. It felt like it was only 20 feet above my vehicle.
And true to its nickname, the Stealth had approached so stealthily, I did not even see it until it was literally right on top of me.
Sadly, the Nighthawks are yet another endangered species. The Air Force has decided to retire them, and they'll all be out of commission by the end of next year.
But, as much as I love seeing the oryx and the Nighthawk, there's another animal I find even more stunning, more fascinating.
I've only seen one once, at dusk, when the setting sun was producing the purple-hued alpenglow on the Organ and Sacramento Mountains.
I saw the animal leap from the side of the road back into the desert.
Sure, the light was a little tricky, but the animal was unmistakable.
The rare, benevolent and beautiful jackalope.
He paused when he got into the desert and, I swear, he looked me right in the eye. A glint of sunlight bounced off his left antler.
I know you may not believe in jackalopes, but I'm pretty sure they exist.

The streets may not be lined with gold, but it's as if they're lined with green chile — close enough

2007-05-02T22:07:00.000-07:00

As many of you know, Inc. magazine recently ranked Las Cruces as the No. 9 small city in the nation for doing business.
So you would expect to find some entrepreneurs here, right?
Well, in the past week, without really trying, I encountered two such entrepreneurs.
One is Richard Cole who, along with partner Bob Baur, owns and operates the Toucan Market at 1701 University in the Pan Am Plaza.
The other gave me his name simply as José, and he owns and operates El Vaquero, basically a mobile burrito stand.
While the two businesses are pretty much on opposite ends of the spectrum in terms of scope and scale, they are both taking advantage of the things putting Las Cruces No. 9 on that list.
Both are providing a service, working to find their niche among our diverse and growing population, and then working to keep customers satisfied while hoping to find new ones.
For Cole and Baur, they're providing things they could not previously find as grocery shoppers in Las Cruces.
"Natural foods, organic foods, gourmet foods," Cole said. "That's our niche."

Yeah, you can find Heinz ketchup and Campbell's soup at Toucan Market, but that's not what's featured. What's featured are the items you can't find other places, including their own Toucan brands of soups and ketchup. They have hundreds of different cheeses.
And did you know there are gluten-free beers?
Neither did I.
But you can find them at Toucan, along with a lot of other unique beers, and lots and lots of wines.
Cole tends to hang out in the back part of the store, near the beer and wine and liquor. I barely had a chance to talk with him between his time spent helping people with wine and beverage selections. He's knowledgeable on the subject, customers sought him out, and he was attentive and helpful.
The other staff were equally friendly and helpful, something Cole said is a focus of the store and its employees.
I discovered El Vaquero on Holman Road just north of U.S. 70 for breakfast one morning. José works out of a big, orange, boxy stepvan. The menu is limited — breakfast burritos, regular burritos, and hamburguesas.
That morning I had the brisket burrito for $2.65. He made it there on the spot, and it was big and tasty. There was another guy standing outside the truck eating a brisket burrito, and when he finished, he ordered another one. It was that good.

Mine stayed with me all day, in more ways than one. Next I'll have to try one of his green chile cheeseburgers.
José has been doing this for a few months, at least that's what I gathered from our limited conversation. His English was better than my Spanish (mi español es muy mal), but we did not exactly have a meaningful discourse. I understood enough to know that if I go back to Holman Road in the next few days, before 5 p.m., I can try out that hamburguesa chile verde con queso.
Speaking of green chile cheeseburgers, I recently made the three-minute walk from the Sun-News office to Day's Hamburgers for a late lunch consisting of a double Great Day with cheese and green chiles, and some fries. The sign says Day's has been around since 1932 and, for all I know, they may still be using some of the original grease. Thank God 75 years of technology has not managed to kill the classic greasy burger.
Like all great green chile cheeseburgers, the Great Day is less a meal and more an experience. These are old school burgers. The faint of heart (figuratively and literally) need not apply. No flame broiling here. Just plain fried on a griddle. Probably enough cholesterol to fuel a battleship for a few miles.
But when you're eating at Day's, you put your dietary concerns on the shelf for a few hours.

About three-quarters through, I began to hallucinate, overwhelmed with the wonderful flavor and the sheer quantity of the food. I'm sure, technically, it was some sort of blood-sugar overload, but I'll call it a state of green chile burger bliss. It was like the time when Bart and Milhouse drank the all-syrup Squishee at the Kwik-E-Mart.
A couple of days later, I read this in the Sun-News:
"Meditation for World Peace will take place from noon to 1 p.m. Tuesdays through June 26 at 116 W. Las Cruces Ave. (directly across from Day's hamburgers). Cultivate a calm, happy mind through the practice of meditation."
I don't think it's a coincidence the meditation is right across from Day's.
I cultivated that same calm, happy mind through the snarfing down of the double Great Day.
Perhaps the meditators know that, and figure they can find some new recruits already mentally and spiritually prepared.
I also think the Great Day helps promote world peace. I know I couldn't think violent thoughts after eating my burger. I also was so stuffed, I couldn't move quickly enough to do anything non-peaceful. I also was pretty dang close to falling asleep.

What I have not found so blissful are the streets of Las Cruces. While living in Alamogordo the past 11 years, I've made dozens of trips to Las Cruces. And generally I can get around to all the main drags.
But when you live here, and you go in and out of all the little different stores and shopping centers, you realize how many streets there are, and how none of them are perpendicular, and none of them go in a straight line, and half of them are one way, and a quarter of them go in circles, and some of them change names mid-stream for no apparent reason.
You're on one road, and you drive halfway across town, and you look up and you've unintentionally wound up back on the road where you started.
It's the thoroughfare equivalent to Doc Watson singing the bluegrass classic "I'm My Own Grandpa."
And the roads and buildings are deceptive.
A road that looks like a back alley for 50 feet could suddenly turn into a major arterial. And a road that looks like it will take you across town will suddenly turn into a dead end.

And a place that looks like an abandoned building could have a great store or restaurant.
I had lunch at International Delights at 1245 El Paseo last week. A very cool place, but I would never have found it without someone else's guidance. It's tucked into the corner of a shopping center, and even when you're right upon it, you have to look closely.
You go through the patio (a great area for dining al fresco) and once inside, you find a wonderfully appointed restaurant with all sorts of unique fare. If you're into coffee and wi-fi, this is the place for you, complete with late-night hours.
Lots of Greek and Middle Eastern food made fresh for your plate. You can buy many of the items for your own kitchen from a small area of the restaurant devoted to a grocery store.
I was not too adventurous with the menu that day and went with the tuna sandwich on pita, with the cream of green chile soup.
If you haven't guessed by now, I''m a sucker for all things green chile.

Richard Coltharp is special sections editor for the Sun-News. He can be reached at rcoltharp@lcsun-news.com. Perhaps not surprisingly, Richard has regular appointments with a gastroenterologist.

City Barber Shop Offers Slice of Wrigleyville

2007-04-24T15:56:00.000-07:00

EDITOR’S NOTE: This is the first entry in a blog called In Search of the Crosses. I’ve always been fascinated with the quirky, interesting people and places that give cities a unique local color and flavor. Having lived in Alamogordo for 11 years, I’ve got some familiarity with Las Cruces, but I’m looking forward to finding the lesser known things, the hidden gems, that really make this area what it is. Over the course of time, I’ll bombard you with opinions on local barbecue rib dinners, red-chile-cheese-and-onion enchiladas and, of course, green chile cheeseburgers. If you haven’t guessed, I’m a big fan of eating. I already have a favorite area restaurant — Chope’s in LaMesa, which is heaven for good green chiles when they die. But I have at least a passing interest in non-gastronomical things as well.

Friday, April 20, was a great day for finding some local color. With perfect weather at lunchtime, I walked from the Sun-News office to the downtown mall. There I found some live music from a five-piece group called Siempre. They entertained me and about 40 others while I downed a chile relleno plate from Antonio’s Restaurant.
The band was a lot of fun, featuring an excellent lead guitarist (and a boy, about 4, in cowboy boots with his own unplugged guitar).
The chile rellenos were just as good. The proprietress at Antonio’s would not tell me what comprised the delicious cream sauce they put on top (a family secret recipe), but she did tell me they used Monterey Jack cheese inside, and sometimes Asadero.
For my money, a chile relleno HAS to have a white cheese. I usually prefer mozzarella, but the Jack and Asadero work quite nicely as well.
But the highlight of my Friday was a visit to City Barber Shop at 1201 N. Main.

There are places you can go to get your hair styled, or “done.” Most of them have names that are hair-related. For example, most cities in America will have a shop called The Mane Event, or Shear Magic. As an aficionado of bad puns, I always have fun spotting these places.
But if you’re a guy, and you want to get your hair “cut,” you go to a good, old-fashioned barber shop. This is one thing modern technology or overseas outsourcing have not been able to replace. Thank God.
I know there are several real barber shops in Las Cruces, complete with the classic red, white and blue pole, but I was convinced to try City because of the Cubs flag flying out front. The Cubs have long been my favorite National League team, and I’ve made a handful of pilgrimages to Chicago’s Wrigley Field, the temple of baseball.
My favorite American League team is the Tigers. (How a kid raised in Oklahoma grew up rooting for the Cubs and Tigers is subject matter for a later blog for people who are extremely bored or insomniacs.)

City Barber Shop looks small from the outside, and I was expecting to find a quiet two- or three-chair operation.
Man, was I wrong.
The first clue was the wall-to-wall crew waiting for a cut. They have a sign-in sheet to keep track of everyone, and they need it.
The second clue was the four chairs. A later peek around the corner revealed a second room with three more chairs. A seven-chair shop. Floyd the barber from the Andy Griffith Show would have had a heart attack.
The Cubs flag was no fluke. Two of the barbers Friday were wearing Cubs T-shirts (Zach Mirabal’s read, “Chicks Dig the Long Ball”). Cubs memorabilia was plastered over almost every wall, with a little bit of NMSU Aggies, Pittsburgh Steelers, Las Cruces Bulldawgs, Mayfield Trojans and Oñate Knights stuff thrown in to fill in the gaps.
Also on the wall was a 3-foot-by-4-foot painting of the late Henry Mirabal, Zach’s grandfather and the patriarch and founder of City Barber Shop.
Henry’s son Steve also cuts hair in the shop, which will have its 50th anniversary next year.
And despite long waits, everyone in the shop Friday was having a great time.
It also seemed like just about everyone knew at least one other person in the shop, either a barber, a customer, or both.
Imagine how high spirits would have been if the Cubs had not lost earlier in the day to St. Louis.
Friday afternoon must be Shorties Haircut Day; there were several 2-, 3-, and 4-year-old boys getting cuts. Barbers Vince and Russell were having a particularly tough time trimming the hair of a couple of reluctant tots, even when the boys’ moms were squeezing their heads to keep them still.
While waiting, I got to sit in a quite comfortable Low Rider chair, and got to read — what
else? — a Cubs spring training program.

My turn came, and Bruno was my barber. I asked him if it was a requirement to be a Cubs fan before you got hired. He said it was not, but that it was hard not to become a Cubs fan once you started working there.
Bruno was friendly and shared with me some of the history of the Barber Shop. He also gave me a great haircut.
There was a time when I judged a haircut by two criteria: How cheap was it, and How quick was it.
During my college days at beautiful Oklahoma State University, “Whisperin’” Richard Danel ran the Varsity Barber Shop in Stillwater. He would typically cut your hair in seven minutes, and the price back then (from 1981-85) was $4.50. You’d usually pay with a five, and he’d always give you your change in the form of a 50-cent piece.
I would normally grow my hair as long as I could stand it, then go visit Whisperin’ Richard and have him cut it as short as I could stand it.
As a result, I probably less than 15 haircuts during a four-year college career, which means I spent less than $70 for haircuts over that time.

If I had been able to keep up that pace, it would have taken me an amazing 20 years to spend $400 — the same amount presidential candidate John Edwards spent on ONE haircut recently.
But I digress.
City Barber Shop can’t match Whisperin’ Richard on either time (I spent more than an hour there — 30 minutes waiting and 30 minutes getting cut), or price (though $12 in 2007 prices is probably fairly comparable to $4.50 in 1985 dollars, and still a hell of a lot less than $400).
But the atmosphere and the experience at City made the time and the price well worth it.
Next time, maybe I’ll time my haircut with a Cubs game, so I can watch a few innings on one of their multiple TVs while I’m there.
On second thought, it may be better to go when they can focus on my haircut and not the Cubbies.

Richard Coltharp is special sections editor for the Sun-News. He can be reached at rcoltharp@lcsun-news.com. The above photo was taken BEFORE his haircut.