For duck's sake

Local news cracks me up.

On the six'o'clock news, one of the local reporters did a story about a community in Rio Rancho that's up in arms because a local golf course was alledgedly "poisoning," the ducks that call the golf course's ponds home. The disgruntled citizens turned out to be a group of kids who gathered in front of the camera and spoke in a loud chorus. One chubby boy spoke the loudest, saying things like, "They're killing them all! We saw them sprinkle this white, powdery chemical into the water!"

Then comes this middle aged Rio Rancho lady who looks at the camera and says, "This is just ruining it for all of the people who moved to Rio Rancho because of the ducks."

Excuse me? This is Rio Rancho, New Mexico. The rico suave suburb of Albuquerque where everyone drives like they're in L.A., rhapsodizes about living the simple rural life then promptly builds a Chili, Outback Steakhouse and a Hooters.

I think lady, that perhaps the golf course was a bigger selling point for the Rio Rancho transplants than were the ducks.

The golf course people, by the way, insist they aren't poisoning the ducks although they admitted they are discouraging the ducks from living on the greens.

Broke da mouth leftovers

Getting off the rock

The texture of cold cuts, even the expensive kind they sell in the deli department of Safeway, makes me want to retch. So today I just had a cheese sandwich, sans the gross cold cuts. Luckily, Chris chooses good cheeses. This time smoked gouda.

Before I fell asleep last night, I thought about being a little kid again, tumbling on my neighbor's front yard. Me and Shari were best friends and practiced all these gymnastic tumbles. That's how I fractured my wrist, doing what's called a "backwards bridge from standing position." Ouch. So sore I couldn't even hold the pen to write. I was so ashamed to go to school with a cast on, I stood against a wall with my arm behind my back before school started. Jennifer was the first to notice. Everyone wanted to sign my cast, and I let them even if I hated some of the stupid shit they were scribbling. I was too shy to protest.

Hawaii and home are such a big part of me, I guess I never realized how much when I was actually living there yearning to get "off the rock." Now I find myself dropping Hawaii references in the most random conversations and being disappointed by the reactions I get. Hawaii is not as important to the people who have just visited. It's palm trees and beaches and fancy hotels and helicopter tours over the volcano.

It's also James, 300 lbs., used to play football for Konawaena, now living in a trailer home in Farmington with his wife and two kids. At the Hawaii club gathering I asked him if he ever went to Durango and he said, "Yeah. Last Christmas time we went. We nevah know they no sell beer in Farmington Christmas-time. Had to drive all the way to Durango just for find one six pack."

I would have been scared of James in elementary school. I would have let him write whatever he wanted to on my cast. Now he's driving trucks through the oil fields while the poi his family sent awhile back sits in his freezer.

James. Maybe it's better he got off the rock. Some people, if they stay, it's like any other place, they fall into the wrong crowd and end up in prison.

This weekend I:

• Met Kathleen Clarke, director of the U.S. Bureau of Land Management, watched her pick up trash for the camera and then sneeze like someone allergic to the environment. (She was here for a local clean up in conjunction with National Public Lands Day, but ironically spent most of her visit in an air conditioned SUV).

• Watched Born into Brothels, which I thought would be incredibly sad, and it was but it was also funny and hopeful and refreshing

• Went to a gathering for Hawaii people in Farmington. There's a whole dozen of us apparently. We ate Spam musubis, commiserated about how cold it gets in the winter and shared our disbelief about how hard it is to get a Steinlager here.

New Mexico, west

So, a couple weekends ago Chris and I hopped in the car to find ourselves a good sunset. The sunsets are so pretty here, prettier than the Kona sunsets that were so famed back home. We drove west from Albuquerque, briefly joked about gassing it all the way to Los Angeles, pulled over on an empty lot and waited.

It got kind of boring, so we ended up driving aimlessly for a few more minutes, then heading back to the city.

Well, we tried.

Can this really count as a sky light?

The City of Aztec has built a new public library, one twice, no three times, as big as the current public library. My favorite feature is the tower in the children's area. From the outside it resembles a Navajo hogan, but the foreman of the construction company said it was designed with more of the idea of a "modern castle," feel. There's a skylight in the ceiling of the tower, through which you get a clear view of the blue, blue New Mexico sky.

The foreman saw me looking and informed me that the crew is awaiting an order of green, blue and white opaque screens which they will suspend just below the sky light to mimic sky and clouds.

As opposed to the actual sky I'd been admiring.

Pointless, as usual

Over here they say "Rock, Paper, Scissors."

When I was a kid, we said, "Jan Ken Po."

Or, sometimes Chris' version, which was, "Jan Ken a monk and a socka socka Po."

It's all the same thing though. While talking about it at the latest work meeting, I slipped and said, "Oh Jan Ken Po," and my boss looked at me all puzzled.

"Drunk in the pool?" one of my co-workers ventured, equally puzzled.

Jan Ken Po! you fools.

Good night

My apartment looks like a big person's play pen, with yarn and clothes laying all over the place. It's like a bachelor pad gone bad. Other than the knitting kick, I don't think I have a domestic bone in me.

I need to clean this sty up.

Ugh

It used to seem like so much potential living on "the mainland." As much as I whined there was always the promise of the open road. Driving through state borders. Seeing the country. What an opportunity for an island girl.

Well, before gas reached $3.19 a gallon. Before it cost, like, $30 to fill up a Honda Civic.

But we're not going to stop driving. One person per car. We can't stop driving we're addicted.

I met this lady, she says the wacko environmentalists are to blame for the rising fuel costs. She and her husband are hauling ass in a 30-foot RV, and even though they don't like the rising prices, they're not going to stop traveling. Oh, no. They worked too hard all their lives and it's their right to travel. Once the wacko environmentalists go away and the U.S. government is allowed to use its own oil resources instead of depending on foreign oil everything will be ok.

As she spoke I let my gaze drift over the stark San Juan mountains looming in the background. Those mountains, I thought, they're just an obstacle. If it gets in our way, well lets just knock it down, flatten it, run right over it.

Lady, I wanted to say, you're a whore to manifest destiny.