In another couple of weeks we’re moving AGAIN. There is nothing else I loathe worse that I seemingly do so often. That it’s MY idea this time, and for a practical reason, won’t lessen the misery either.

The impetus this time is almost purely economic; this apartment is more expensive in rent than we care to afford (and the floorplan sucks, too). We have a mind to do all we can to become debt-free[ish] within five years, and tossing cash at an apartment we don’t like isn’t fiscally sound. So we’re moving across the parking lot to a 1bdrm/1bath, for an eventual savings of $260 per month. I say “eventual” because the corporate (pirate) entity that runs this community insists upon another deposit and a 30-day waiting period for the refund of the original deposit we paid for this unit, instead of merely transferring. Plus some other little fees and expenses here and there. Thanks so much, and may I point out that in some nations of the world a bullet-pocked wall in the central square has often been the response to this sort of crap? Just a cultural-slash-historical aside offered for edification.

Other than the slogging of possessions across hot pavement for hours on end (how can two people amass so much junk? Excuse me, how can ONE person amass so much junk? These “curios” are NOT mine), I’m looking forward to living in a smaller space. Let’s say “more utile space” instead. The living area and balcony are actually somewhat larger and much more arrangement-friendly in the smaller unit. No more shoe-horning my bike in and out of a cramped space (what, you thought I stored my bike OUTSIDE? Dudes! I’m from PDX!) AND there’s a breeze-way right outside the front door where I can clean it under cover. Sweet.

One slight disadvantage: no washer and dryer in the unit. This bothers the missus more than me, but I told her I’d gladly take care of the laundering. I prefer doing laundry in an hour-and-a-half rather than four anyway. Makes for a less-noisy household, too. Freakin’ dish washer is bad enough. I haven’t checked out the laundry facilities here, but should they be inadequate (surely not, in a “luxury” community) I’ll need to find a decent laundromat in the neighborhood. Other quibbles that I’ll make someone else’s problem if they aren’t addressed: what’s with the cheap plastic base moulding in a “luxury” apartment? And the soot on the ceiling next to the vent? And the debris shoveled into the storage closet? Are we in Green Acres here? I’ve been a cliff-dweller most of my adult life, so I don’t expect faeries and chocolates every time I rent in a complex, but if one’s brochure suggests filet mignon, one better not be slingin’ Hamburger Helper.

Ever seeking the easiest way to do any damned thing, I’ve hit upon an idea for moving our stuff. Rather than boxing up the books and kuhnick-kuhnacks, I’ll use a few of the canvas grocery bags we’ve accumulated. This will mean a lot of trips to and fro. Oh well. I’d rather do it this way than spend a bunch of time filling unwieldy cartons to carry up and down flights of stairs (of COURSE we’re moving into yet another second-floor unit to appease the little woman’s security anxieties; I swear next time I’ll just offer to install punji sticks in all the windows). We’ll have to hire a couple of guys for the big stuff because the wife can’t carry anything that heavy and I’m not about to Ferrigno a sofa by myself; my middle-age insecurities don’t yet extend quite that far.

One interesting bit is that this “office” will have to be incorporated into the dining area. This prospect pleases me more than I would have once thought. I spend too much time in this room with my back literally turned to everything and everyone else, and I need seriously to break the habit. This honkin’ yuge desk is going away too, and it’s about time. I’ve broken this thing down to relocate it so often it’s a wonder it doesn’t fly apart as I type on the keyboard. Time to go find a new and smaller (and cheaper) one. Another purchase in the offing: a king-size mattress set. We ditched our old one a couple years ago in favor of a friend’s plushy queen that she had replaced. Nice, comfy mattress, but we’ve subsequently found that both of us reading in bed leads to elbow wars, plus the cats are missing the no-man’s-land, plus the woman stored it on it’s side and leaning against a wall so that it’s all warped (what IS it with people?). We shopped a couple of mattress shops and have decided to put a king set on lay-away so that when 2020 rolls around we’ll have a brand-new bed that I hope will float because I expect we’ll all be under water by then unless some kindly aliens drop by to save us from ourselves. Klaatu barada nikto.

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I’m pleased to relate that so far I’ve had nary a curse nor beer bottle cast in my direction since I’ve taken to Albuquerque’s streets on the bicycle. I was “honked at” (more of a “please don’t” than a “HOW DARE YOU, WORTHLESS TWO-WHEELED HUMMER-LESS PINKO!” kind of honk, really) once last week when I was looking to segue to the left lane on Ellison with the intent to turn onto Jefferson (I didn’t make it; this was at roughly 9:15 a.m. on a weekday morning and there was just enough overtaking traffic to warrant a safer transit at the crosswalk. So far I feel just as safe as I did in Portland, and my route to work is actually a LOT more fun.

I’ve had two flats so far (one rear, one front), and neither of them were attributable to the dreaded and despised goat-head or any other roadway hazard. In both cases the tube simply gave way around the valve. I was told this might be due to the drier air and friction (I now use talc when replacing tubes). The missus went to a bike shop while I was at work to purchase a couple of spares for me (I always carry two) and came home with a pair of thorn-resistant tubes, the cartons of which stated they were sized 35c to 43c. Oops. I use 32c hard-case tires, so I’d asked her to request 28c-32c; every tube I’ve ever purchased indicated this sizing. She was repeatedly assured that they would fit when she voiced concern. Guess what? It was like trying to stuff an anaconda into a garden hose. WTF? I am not a dab hand at changing tubes, I’ll admit, but I actually ruined one tube trying to get it seated properly. We took them back and we received full refund for them, but the fellow stated again that this was the size recommended, and they had no other size range. Weird. I’ll try another shop later this week.

I’m outtie. Enjoy the week.

It’s Sunday. I have been without benefit of spouse for most of three days now. Can’t say I care for it.

The missus is visiting relatives from South Carolina (or is it North Carolina? It’s one of those drawl-y, humid states), and a new job and pet care considerations have dictated that I stay home. That sounds great, doesn’t it? Love her as I do, she and I shouldn’t have to be in each others’ pockets all the time, have to have some free-and-clear private and personal time, correct? So relax, dude. Watch bad tv, eat what you want, drink more than is good for you, hey?

Y’know? That’s good for, like, four hours. I was pretty much done with waving my freak flag by noon yesterday. I’d even entertained the notion of treating myself to dinner out at Los Cuates (preternaturally great New Mexican food!) but talked myself out of it because it felt like I’d be cheating on my wife in a way. You just DON’T go to a restaurant alone that you’ve always previously visited with your mate. It just. isn’t. done.

I’ve watched a lot of CNN and MSNBC, which, if you watch for two hours, is basically the same as watching the same half-hour program four times in a row. It’s true, apparently this big ol’ wide world doesn’t provide quite enough news of the easily-digestible sort that we Americans demand (two minutes of shaky video showing unrest in Iran followed by the awwww-inspiring story of the rescue of a flushed kitten to wash that tart taste of social concern out of your mouth). I should have tuned to BBC America for news; at the very least, news reported in that plummy accent at least SOUNDS more interesting and important. They don’t have Nancy Grace, either. I wish they did. No I don’t. That’s just mean. To the British.

(I’m happy to report that the local news is by-and-large pretty inoffensive, at least as evidenced by channel 7. There IS this one guy who has a hairstyle that makes him look like Eddie Munster: The Anchorman Years, but that’s not offensive at all. Maybe I’M offensive for pointing it out.)

I watched a Lifetime movie. Yes, a Lifetime movie. Angie Harmon and her family find out their neighbor placed video recording equipment in the attic of their house and taped them without their knowledge. Creepy. I can’t say that it was a “good” production (other than blurry, back-and-white Angie nudity) in that I felt no compulsion to ring people up and say “You HAVE to see this!”, but it was effective. Boy, was I mad at that creepy neighbor guy.

Then I watched a documentary about UFO mania, hosted by Peter Jennings. Since Peter Jennings himself beamed up four years ago, it’s obvious this program wasn’t terribly fresh, but I’ll say it was the best examination of the subject I’ve seen so far. That’s actually not saying very much, as most television fare on the topic tends to owe a debt to the Erich von Däniken School O’ Mystic Science-y Stuff.

I could just give you a quick run-down of our weekly viewing schedule too, if you like. No? FINE.

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I love this town for bicycling. Portland, Oregon has one very good MUP (Multi-Use Path, and it is VERY good one) called the Springwater Corridor, and a superior network of bike lanes and routes (ah, but for how much longer?). Albuquerque’s infrastructure seems more organic, though. Perhaps it’s because most paths seem to stretch from greenspace to park to neighborhood along arroyos and natural contours in the landscape. Maybe it’s because of the wide-open views. Maybe I’m just still dazzled by the scenery. I can’t say anything definitive other than I’m diggin’ it. Today I’m going to drop off some books at Cherry Hills Library and then pedal onward to explore a possible route to work. If our observations are correct, using paths through Heritage Hills Park and along the North Pino Arroyo will take me most of the way, to within a mile and a half or so of my workplace on Office Blvd. There’s a segue point at Ellison and I-25 that looks a leetle sketchy, but it won’t scar my psyche all that much to use a crosswalk for safety’s sake, I imagine. Anything to keep the missus from having to walk to the hospital from the airport Tuesday night.

Gotta get to it. L8rs.

Tomorrow I hope to hear that I’m even more gainfully and happily employed. I submitted to a drug screen last Wednesday as the final step in the acceptance process. Barring the inadvertent ingestion of poppy seeds, I should have no problem there. I’d hoped to hear from them Friday, but it looks like Monday now.

That whole idea, of a drug test gone horribly wrong because I ate something that tripped a positive result, makes me wish I’d showed up at the clinic with a small bag of hair and nail clippings too, maybe a cheek swab, my bath towel, anything to demonstrate good faith, y’know? Certainly they’d look at me askance, but there’d be no doubting my sincerity, right?

I have a letter of resignation ready to go for the contract job I hold now. I dread delivering it. I don’t take rejection very well myself, so I always cringe at the thought of conveying dissatisfaction to other people. This is why I no longer go to the ASPCA; my wife has to bring home all the replacement pets because when I look into the cages at all the animals I want to take ALL of them home and so when we choose only one it feels as if I’ve leveled a finger at all the others and thundered “I FIND YOU WANTING!”. Kills me. Can’t do it.

I’ve been very fortunate in mining the job market here, since I’ve actually only interviewed for two jobs (I don’t count the two or three on-line applications I submitted) since moving to town and got both of them. I’m particularly pleased with this second opportunity because I’ll be working for a non-profit company in aid of a public welfare cause. That’ll be a new experience for me. The missus has expressed an interest in volunteering her time and effort for the organization as well (the company relies quite heavily upon volunteers), so it’s entirely possible that we’ll be in essence working together two or three days per week. Can’t beat that.

So now I must find a route that I can ride to work. I’m feeling a lot more confident on the bike now, thanks to a couple of cruises I’ve pedaled on Tramway and the Riverside Trail (VERY nice riding, by the way). The goal now is to find the route offering the best odds for survival to and from work. Where we live now it’ll be a six-and-something-mile ride one way. That may change within a year because we’re going to move from the apartment community in which we live to somewhere a bit more economical (and roomy, and without a fireplace taking up one whole wall in an already undersized living room, thus forcing us to Picasso our furniture in somewhat awkward juxtapositions, culminating in a need for physical therapy to alleviate muscular distress from simply watching our damned television. Godz save us all from architects who insist upon rooms that have more than four corners. Gimme a box. I can create my own “visual interest”, ‘kay?).

I digress.

We already have another apartment community in mind, should it be necessary in ten months’ time to move to yet another apartment, but we hope to find a decent house to rent or a manufactured home to purchase in a good park. Yes, I said manufactured home. Or call it a mobile home, or a trailer, I don’t care. At our age, “investing in a home” is just another way to pay for something that, in the end, stays above the ground while you get to lie in a box under it. Our tastes (other than for broadband access and cable television) are modest. I’d like a porch or balcony from which I may watch the sun set as I enjoy a beverage with my wife after a day’s work. We aren’t that choosy as to what said porch is attached as long as we aren’t treated to daily viewings of Domestic 911 or meth fumes. We like the Northeast Heights area just fine, the fauxdobe generic style notwithstanding, but when I read the words “located in the prestigious Northeast Heights” in real estate brochures my Inner Trotsky starts hurking his hairballs of indignation. No offense. I’m just saying that these vague declarations of class distinctions make me uncomfy, and I’m not all that neurotic about where and in what I abide as long as it doesn’t necessitate the wearing of Kevlar to fetch my newspaper.

Today I have to change a flat tire on the bike. Why it’s flat I have not a clue. The tire itself looks no more molested than before I rode the Bosque Trail, but the tube won’t accept air. I even tried a Schrader adapter on the off-chance the Presta port on my pump was malfunctioning; nope. (Non-cyclist peeps may Google these terms if they desire to know what the Hell I’m talking about, but yeah, I wouldn’t either probably.) These are Bontrager Race Lite HardCase tires I bought specifically to combat the perils of Portland’s rubble/glass/syringe-strewn streets, and so goat-heads aside I have trouble believing a few cracked sections of pavement here would breach them. I suspect the tube simply unsealed, perhaps at the valve seam. (Non-bikers: Zzzzzzzzzzzzz) I’ll find out. OF COURSE it’s the rear tire, and I suck at changing flats anyway. Grr.

After that, a walk along the North Pino Arroyo Trail through Heritage Hills Park. We discovered it yesterday from the Cherry Hills Library lot. It’s awesome.

But first, the household chores.

Get out and enjoy the day!

Adios.

It’s time to get busy, judging from last week’s tragi-comic bicycle adventure (or Miss Adventure, as it’s obvious our relationship is not on a first-name basis).

Call it an acclimation proclamation, a call to harms. In short, I’m going to have to go out on the bike and hurt myself over and over again. It just needs doing, else I’ll remain standing beside the road sniveling “Mommy! The stupid old air HURT me!”

The facts are these: Last week I kitted up (that is, I donned some tatty bike shorts, a pair of cut-off sweats for modesty, a jersey, a flapping LOUD aloha shirt, and a helmet with blinking bike light affixed; it’s the sort of oufit that had even Portlanders snorting into their lattés, which is fine because if you’re laughing at me it means you SEE me), slathered on a layer of 30 SPF, and carried my trusty steed (a 2004 model Trek 7500FX) down the stairs. My wife agreed to drive SAG for me in the event my effort flagged OR the bright red of our Toyota Yaris was needed to distract a Hummer whose rutting ground I might inadvertently invade.  Turning out of the parking lot, I pedaled my way to Academy Blvd. and turned east toward the Sandias. The goal was to reach Tramway Blvd, where I would turn north and ride as far as time allowed.

I made it two miles on Academy. At the most.

As I stood on the sidewalk waiting for the missus to circle around to collect me, as the blackness slowly receded from the edges of my vision, as the slight pink mist of exhaled lung tissue emanating from my gaping mouth abated little by little with each gusting breath, I had some time for reflection, a few minutes of interior dialogue. Much of it was profane, and I’m really trying to cut down on the coarse language. Basically the conversation ran thusly:

You have GOT to be [farmin'] kidding me. You used to commute ten miles a day to and from work with energy to spare, you take a couple of months off, and you only manage TWO MILES, if that? [Melon farmer]!

Hey! These aren’t the plump, juicy air molecules they grow at sea level, a’ight? These here are, like, tiny spiky samurai dudes. Who hate you. And look, who was it decided that because he wasn’t working he didn’t see a reason to go out and ride? What kind of [stuff] is that? You could’ve kept it up at least for fitness’ sake or better yet, FUN, but oh NO, hand me another [farmin'] doughnut! This is YOUR [gosh-danged] fault, Humongulus!

I was still castigating myself for my slothful ways when the missus reappeared and pulled over at the curb. This was humiliating! Depressing! Logic, ever timid and too polite, tapped lightly upon my cognitive processes and suggested that of course not all of this regretful situation was due to laziness, that I simply wasn’t prepared for the toll the elevation and the rarer air would take, but it really didn’t make me feel better. I was, and still am, very annoyed with myself.

Over the next week my lungs rattled like a plague victim’s, my back and chest hurt like Hell, my calves threatened to cramp just walking across the room. Although I recently — well, five or six months ago — had a physical exam and was declared reasonably fit (for a fat-air sucker, at least), it feels as if I’ve been betrayed by my aging shell of flesh. Well NUTS TO THAT. Acclimate I will. Today I’m going out again, and I’ll keep going out until I either conquer the atmosphere, or my colorfully-attired corpse decorates a curb (Ooh pretty! Is it a shrub? No, it was moving a little and then it stopped. Did you hear that noise it made? Like a cartoon steam shovel!)

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If you’re vegetably-inclined (I used to eschew — as in “not chew” — anything that grew from the ground, but I’ve learned better habits these last few years), I can recommend the farmer’s market on Eubank Blvd NE. We discovered it this last week and Holy Cr@p does it smell good in there! The markets we visited in Oregon were all open-air affairs, so this indoor market really concentrates the aromas, chief of which were from fresh green chiles. We took some home and the missus made her very first batch of green chile chicken enchiladas. I about made myself sick. There’s still some left in the fridge, so breakfast this morning will be atypical I think. Anyway, aside from the chiles there were strawberries that were among the largest and tastiest I’ve yet eaten. This kind of place could turn you vegetarian.

Today we’ll be touring the city again, seeing what’s to see and familiarizing ourselves with our adopted city. Maybe get further west of I-25, park the car and stroll Old Town. This is IF I haven’t been collected from the roadway and medivac’d to the nearest hospital before then. I’m off to read the morning paper and have a bite with the spousal unit. Enjoy your day.

It’s seven in the morning (as I write this; I tend to dither over structure, get distracted by Boris wanting in my lap, and rise from this chair several times to fetch more coffee, so I might take ten minutes to finish one sentence. Discipline is not my strong suit) and I’ve got the ‘phones on listening to pandora.com and having my morning espresso roast. Playing now is Weezer, “Island in the Sun”. This is the opening paragraph, the “Good GODZ just get something on the screen!” paragraph. I have to approach this thing like Chris O’Donnel in Vertical Limit, leaping at a sprint across a chasm, fists full of climbing hammers.

(Two observations here: (1), I regret using a really horrible movie for analogy, and (B), the Internet Movie Database — www.imdb.com — thinks that, because I looked up Vertical Limit, I would probably like Gone with the Wind and Speed Racer as well. Why? Is it because there’s wind on mountains too? Because the characters make a speedy ascent as they race to rescue the stranded climbers? Actually, I might pay to see Rhett and Scarlet peel out of a burning Atlanta in the Mach 5, just leave stupid people uttering witless dialogue on mountains out of it.)

We’ve been in Albuquerque 26 days now, and the requisite period of “Oh F**K, what did we DO??” passed after the first, say, twelve hours. I actually expected to feel out of sorts for quite a while, but even though it had been eighteen years since we made such a long-distance move (from Dallas, Texas to Portland) I guess our migratory muscles had kept their tone all this time. Once the furniture was huffed and puffed up the stairs and our stuff started coming out of boxes, it was already feeling good and right that we are here. I think it’s an absence of culture shock, really. Becoming acquainted with The Portland Way was a steeper learning curve, whereas in Albuquerque there is more of that “southern state of mind” that we remember from our time in Texas.

Let me state now that I don’t intend to play the “better than” game here. I love Portland down to it’s grumpy, gothy, dour little soul, and the friends I’ve made there. I am not glad to be away from Portland. I AM very glad to be in Albuquerque nonetheless. When I make comparisons here, it’s in the spirit of embracing the diversity of, and between, both places. So don’t hate, ‘kay?

Striking Difference #1: Holy crap, I can see two states from here! It’s a kick to be driving west and see seemingly half the planet sprawling before us, with volcanic cones rising in the distance. To the northeast of course is the Sandia range, not quite the honkin’ YUGE rumpled-blanket green mountains on offer in the Cascade and Coast ranges of the Northwest, but somehow the Sandias are more immediate, more there. See past entries about how I feel about desert environs. I’m diggin’ it.

Striking Difference #2: I pump my own gas and it feels great! I almost broke the locking gas cap the first time because hey, I never had to open the damned thing before. (This was actually in Idaho).

Striking Difference #3: I’ve seen the sun every day so far. That’s twenty-six days in a row. Okay, THIS is one aspect I’ll unequivocally state is an improvement over Portland Oregon. Portland hasn’t seen that many consecutive days of sunshine since Mt. Hood was a speed-bump. My vampire friends of the Northwest will just have to forgive me here.

Striking Difference #4: The Mexican/New Mexican food here is awesome, and I haven’t found pot-roast in my enchiladas yet. Red or Green? Make it Christmas, please.

Yadayada #5: They stock stuff in the supermarkets (grocery stores, whatever) that I haven’t seen since I was a teenager. King Vitamin cereal! (Think “cereal for people who believe that Cap’n Crunch just won’t carry them to their first diabetic seizure quite fast enough”.) Wolf brand chili WITHOUT BEANS, as the godz intended!

Numero Six-O: Speed limits of 55 mph are posted on surface streets. I kid you not. We’ve thus far avoided being run down, or even honked at (unlike, you know, other places). Regardless of the race-track mentality, the motorists here have been quite courteous. We’ll see how they react to moi on a bicycle. The little woman has threatened to run over my bike herself rather than see me brave the roads, but the cyclists I’ve observed look pretty comfy and their shoulders appear lumber-free.

(A side subject: The medians here in the Northeast Heights area are scary; one has to traverse them either to turn left or do U-turns, and the sight-lines are often non-existent. I’m convinced I’m gonna head-on somebody coming around the other way or get side-swiped by someone trying to get by from behind. I’ll get over it, but I’ll admit it’s my least-favorite driving maneuver here.)

Se7en: The arid climate means that static electricity is my homie. I mean, my toothbrush throws sparks, yo. The cats have taken to flinching every time I come near them.

Ate: They could relax with the adobe motif in my ‘hood. Just a little. It looks like an SUV dealership on Tatooine up in here. That being said, the architecture here is unique to my experience. I liked walking Portland’s sidewalks and admiring the old houses. Much of Albuquerque’s building style appears more organic, as if the structures are grown straight from the soil. Portland is jutting, sharp angles. Albuquerque is rounded and wind-buffed. The two couldn’t be more different.

Nein!: For the first couple weeks we had a little trouble gathering air molecules. Sleep was actually a bit of a chore. It’s eased now, but I’m betting my first bike ride of any real distance is going to be a humbling experience.

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Today our plan is to go to Petroglyph National Monument for a hike. We’ll be doing as much sight-seeing and traveling of the state as funds allow; heck, just getting outside the city’s light-smog to see the stars at night will be awesome, the best show on Earth for free! For daylight activities I’m gonna have to get used to sunscreen, I suppose, seeing as I intend to be outdoors a LOT and the near-constant sunshine and elevation make for excellent opportunities to grow my melanoma potential. (I flirted with the idea of trying a spray-on tan to cover my pasty hide, but so far have shunned the concept as being simply too dorky even for me.)

A final note: When researching Albuquerque I came across post after post on various websites that warned of the venomous critters here. To date I have seen two moths and a few (admittedly king-size) ants. Not one scorpion. Not one tarantula. No black widows. Nary a snake. This may all change today, but at this point I’m almost disappointed. That’s really ridiculous considering that I’m ever-so-slightly entomophobic, huh?

Brunchtime!

Adios.

Dang. We did it.

After months of planning, and saving as best we could, and second-guessing ourselves, and being thrilled at the prospect while at the same time being nearly paralyzed by the amorphous spectre of “what if?”, we finally made good our threat to move to Albuquerque. Our apartment here is still in disarray (knick-knacks to place, pictures to hang), but it already feels like a home. I’m sitting here looking out of a window at sunshine and blue sky and listening to the sounds of what I assume are white-winged doves (I Googled). Pretty soon (after another cup or two of coffee and maybe a donut (Dunkin’ Donuts has survived! Except they do lattes now. Gah.), I’ll resume the task of putting things where they belong, or rather finding new places for them since we’re dealing with somewhat less square footage in this place and we’re having to be creative. Later I hope to get out and take more photos, perhaps partake of a New Mexican lunch. I’m already partial to the green chiles, but it’s all good.

Turns out the hardest part was loading the truck, and since I did damn little of that myself (thanks again, Rebecca and Davey), I’d say it rocks most excellently to be me.

Actually I have that wrong (not the rocking excellently part). The hardest part turned out to be getting on the damned road. We loaded Sunday afternoon with the intent to set out at five the next morning, but we kept discovering closets and drawers full of possessions that we had apparently overlooked. Maddening! The typical dialogue ensued: “Aaargh! I thought you said you cleaned this out!” “I did!” “Well, the feather must have fallen out of your effing wand then, because guess the eff what?”. As you may have noticed, I’m trying to watch my language here, so I may as well not relate the rest of that conversation. Suffice to say that the next couple of hours were not all that scrapbook-worthy.

When all was said and done, we had this:

That’s right, there was no room in the truck for my bike, and so it traveled the entire distance strapped to the trunk of the car. I kept telling myself that, since the ride was double-suspended back there, it was highly unlikely the bike would escape it’s bonds in pursuit of a second life as a grill ornament for a semi, but my anxiety drove me to repeatedly check the rear-view mirrors for signs of evasive action in our wake. In fact at every stop I was all over that trailer checking straps and chains and seeing to the welfare of the occupants of the car – the cats.

Cats and travel. I may be the first person in the world to actually put those two terms together separated only by an inclusive. This pairing is nearly never a comfortable one, and in fact during one motel room-to-car transfer, one laminated corrugated-board top-loading pet carrier was rendered useless when it’s occupant (Harley) surged through the side of the thing as if it had been made of wishful thinking. Fortunately we were still inside and were able to block his escape. Not all felines find the ride itself that harrowing however:

Boris seemed quite happy to observe the world hurtling by.

Once past The Dalles via I-84 our final glimpse of Oregon saw the hills and dales mantled with snow. Glorious.

A note about my photography. It sucks. I’m aware of it. I simply have no eye for composition, and putting a finer camera than I own in my hands would be akin to giving an ape a sharp rock and pointing at the Monolith. Given that we had little time to sight-see per se (as in, get out of the truck, stroll around, offend natives at our leisure), still I feel my efforts at what I call dashboard photography are fairly passable. Nothing I could do could really convey just how awesome (in the truest definition of the word) is the landscape through which we traveled. Having been valley-hugged in the Northwest for so long, I had forgotten how the vistas east of the Cascade Range illustrate the breath-taking vastness of the West and of the Earth as a whole.

The missus is fond of trees. I like them myself just fine. They’re pretty, they provide shade, and they help make oxygen which comes in handy most days. This sort of landscape, though, has always spoken louder to me. It’s the Earth with the gloves off.

I’m wishy-washy about my belief in divinity at times, but this is the sort of evidence that straightens the spine. The above photo was taken in Utah somewhat near Arches National Park. I wish we’d had time to visit the park, but soon, soon. We saw a LOT of trailers and vehicles bearing mountain bikes; slickrock is a big attraction in these parts. The little woman suggested that I try that style of biking, which isn’t surprising given that we’d been in a truck together for most of two days by then and we’d just recently increased my life insurance.

It was at this point of the journey that we received a phone call from the owner of the moving company that was due to help us unload at our destination. Folks, it’s never a good omen when your moving guy calls you on the phone and you can hear that he’s choking back tears. The missus had arranged the details with this fellow initially, and she had voiced some reservations about him; nothing definitive, just a “feeling”, not distrust, just a…thing. Well, turns out he was calling to inform us that he would be unable to fulfill the contract (we’d paid the rental company to arrange for the unloading service) because the state of New Mexico had shut his business down. Well. Marvy. The prospect of unloading and lugging every single stick we own up a flight of stairs after having spent three days on the road led to about an hour of frantic phone calls until we found a service that would fill the gap at almost literally the last minute (Manny and his crew with Two Guys and a Truck will forever have our gratitude and I recommend them to anyone!).

We stuck to interstates for the trip through Oregon, Idaho, and Utah, but upon crossing the Colorado border (we only nibbled at the southeast corner before turning due south into New Mexico) the most direct route demanded we segue to state routes. I prefer the smaller routes…except when it’s dark, raining, and we’re traversing mountain passes. This should be entered into the Olympics as an X-treme sport. My hands and forearms were cramping by the time we emerged from the last one. You can understand why there are no photos of that leg of the journey. All you would see is a wet windshield or the reflection of my distorted face, lips peeled back in trepidation. So much traffic met us as we wound through these passes (almost all huge trucks, of course!), and so poor the visibility, that I had the brights practically disco-strobing the entire time. I’ll hang-glide that route before I ever drive it after sundown again. (Neither will I ever again drive I-15 through Salt Lake City; it was like the Death Star trench scene in Star Wars except I didn’t have any blasters with which to defend us from the rampaging Mormons.)

We finally made it to our new place at about 10 p.m. Wednesday night, and we were so exhausted that we just yanked cats out of the car and left the truck and trailer parked at the curb. We slept on the floor of the apartment while the cats roamed what I’m sure to them was some sort of gulag.

The next morning we had movers and a cable installer in at the same time, and it all went without a single hitch.

We signed our lease contract that day as well; we actually had no legal business inhabiting the premises before then but the management here have been nothing but gracious and accommodating. I even managed to hook up the digital box, television, stereo, DVD player, and VCR so that all work together as they should, and I don’t believe one “eff” passed my lips, which is a nigh water-into-wine miracle (nor did I perspire much over it; yay for an arid climate!).

As I finish for now, the wife is busy returning phone calls to practically everyone we’ve ever known. Excuse us, we’ve been a might busy this last week. Speaking of which, I must now close this in order to continue clearing the floor of debris from this nesting process. More photos and blather are forthcoming.

Thanks to everyone who helped make this happen. We do appreciate you all, and miss you much.

L8trz.

I have a cold. This is great because, y’know, it’s an excellent excuse to take a break from my hectic schedule and kick it on the sofa with snacks and cartoons. My conscience and my work ethic isn’t taking a hit here at all. Oh no. I’ve earned a rest. I’m having fun. I’m on vacation!

I am SO freakin’ bored.

Found an apartment in Albuquerque, check. Arranged utilities, check. Reserved a rental truck, moving supplies, and loading/unloading help, check. Almost every aspect save the physical labor of the move itself is accomplished. Twenty days remain to repaint this apartment (thus to ensure return of the deposit), schedule cable and broadband for the new digs (Comcast wouldn’t schedule transfer of services more than two weeks before the activation date), and pack up all the pictures and knick-knacks. We’ll start all that next week, because why have cartons stacked around too soon? So instead…holding pattern. Waiting for Godot. Except I want to go find Godot and yank his metaphorical ass back here so we can get this circus on the road. I don’t want him offstage being all enigmatic, I want his sleeves rolled up and carting our junk down the stairs to an open and waiting truck. In fact, I want Godot to be my bitch.

I’m a bit shame-faced to admit that I…WE…already feel a sense of separation from this place. It’s taken only the loss of a job, stacked against the assets of friendships, a decent place to live, and an interesting city, to completely unravel our connection to a place we’ve called home for over sixteen years. What does it say about us? I may have flights of fancy at times but rarely do they manifest in reality to the degree that they warp the paradigm (Paradigm Warp! Band name!). Of the two of us, I’m the one usually given to analytical paralysis. It seemed unwise at the time to risk what stability we had when we moved up here in 1992, and now we’re doing it again? We’re mad as hatters. I hate moving! Things could go horribly, tragically wrong! We should be protected from ourselves!

We are SO psyched.

First thing after we get moved in and oriented, we’re going to join an astronomy club and eventually buy a good telescope. New Mexico boasts some of the deepest sky around, and we’re gonna go digging in it. We’re also going to get a pair of rock hammers and go look for geodes. As above, so below. Also: Learn Spanish. It’s stupid that we’ve spent most of our lives (other than in the Northwest) in the southern states and have only absorbed, like, ten words of Spanish, eight of them related to food.

Job? Yeah, need one of those. I’d like to say that it won’t be yet another warehouse gig. I want to do something else now. Bookseller? That sounds terrific until you consider that you’re not paid to read the books. Maybe something tech-related? I know how to surf the Internet fairly efficiently, and with two forefingers and one thumb I can rip along at, say, fifteen words per minute. I’ve just recently introduced myself to one Linux distribution (that being Ubuntu), so what is that worth? Hmph. Food service? I’ll join a carnival before I do that. Don’t prospective employers actually read blogs these days? Oops.

Before we can do ANYTHING, we have to wait. That’s the difficult bit. Meanwhile, I haven’t been on my bike in a month. That changes this week. Just not today, because my lungs are full of glue. Hell, I’m going to stop this and go lie down. Colds, they suck the suckness.

Seems like a year since I wrote anything, but that’s because my schedule is all fnarkt.  It’s a little difficult to maintain a routine when one main facet of it is gone.  I’ve been trying to pretend I’m on vacation, but one downside of adulthood is that it gets harder to buff the rust off one’s disbelief suspension.

Via the wonders of the Innerwebz and the majick that is Google Earth (have you used this?  It’s AWESOME), the missus and I have been hunting apartments in Albuquerque (and is “Albuquerque” the only word in existance that contains two “q”s and three “u”s?  It used to be “AlbuRquerque”, as in Francisco Fernández de la Cueva, 8th Duke of Alburquerque, the founder of the city of Albuquerque, but for some reason they dropped an “r”, and okay, no more parenthetical asides this long or containing this many commas), and have managed to decide upon one main candidate and a couple of alternates.  All are near the foothills of the Sandias and all have decent ameneties.  We have also decided to manage the move via one 16-foot rental truck and a car trailer, with the addition of two hired loaders on this end and a pair of UNloaders in ABQ (the little woman isn’t physically capable of helping me carry the heavy stuff down a flight of stairs OR up a flight of stairs to the new place; I suggested that, just this once, we could lease a ground-level unit, but she has security anxieties and my suggestion of simply scattering thumb tacks around the doors and windows at night was met with that slight shake of the head and roll of the eyes that has always served as our particular means of silent communication).  I hire labor for moving because I can never bring myself to ask friends; why ask people to do things you KNOW they’ll hate?  Doesn’t seem very friendly, nome sane?

I’m trying mightily to maintain a positive attitude about this adventure, but I get tunnel-vision something fierce when it comes to moving; I mean I have been known to draw diagrams, even.  With a little imagination I can see myself shoving little shipping cartons around a huge table-top diagram of each apartment like I’m Patton preparing to head off a bulge.  The packing itself is merely a tedious slog, and the loading I leave to alleged professionals, but in this case we’ll have to drive the truck and THAT fills me with dread.  Twenty-two hours of driving almost 1400 miles to an unfamiliar city, and towing a car yet.  What if I underestimate the length of the trailer when I change lanes, and scrub someone off the freeway?  What if I stop for fuel (that will cost nearly $500 for the trip, by the way), and get the box stuck because I didn’t have the necessary clearance?  Do we dare to afford ourselves a night in a motel and run the risk of our stuff getting stolen in the night?  Add to all this the thrilling prospect of transporting three cats (once we’ve cornered them and wrested the broken bottles from their paws).  Every worst-case scenario comes lurching and slavering up from the inky depths.  If I allow it, this stuff will drive me mad, which in turn will drive my wife mad, and her brand of madness is the-very-earth-split-asunder variety.  It is in my best interest to find a happy damned place with this whole process, or I may find myself on the side of the road in the desert watching the truck pull away in a cloud of disgusted dust.

Actually, that doesn’t really sound bad at all.  I like to walk.

I had an idea to try to earn some extra cash for the trip (and beyond) by writing a series about this whole relocation business and submitting it to Associated Content.  I wrote a first chapter and submitted it for review…and that was most of two weeks ago.  I’ve not seen or heard a thing.  This does not inspire confidence.  Ah well.  I’ll be researching other alternatives, and at the least I can chalk it up to gaining experience.  In the meantime we’ll fax off the leasing application to the first-choice apartment community in Albuquerque on Monday and start sifting CraigsList for packing materials.  We’ll keep you all posted on our progress.  If any.

endit

Because I enjoy trying once in a while to stick it to The (pasty white but stupifyingly wealthy) Man, I am right now attempting to burn a copy of a Linux OS called Freespire. I’ve wanted to try a Linux distribution for some time but have always talked myself out of it; my inner geek only willingly comes out for Battlestar Galactica and movies made from comic books these days. This particular distro is allegedly easy for Windows thralls to use, so I’m gonna give it a shot. I should tell you that I have turned a computer or two into smoking rubble in the past, so if I’m not heard from for awhile (I mean longer than this time), you’ll know why.

It’s snowing. Excellent.

The missus and I watched Tropic Thunder last night. It was offensive AND funny as Hell, and about thirty minutes too long. Robert Downey Jr. received an Oscar nomination for his role, and he won’t win because the Academy doesn’t give major category awards for movies like that, else John Belushi would have won at least one Oscar before he “sniffed the long long line”. Be that as it may, Robert Downey Jr. is actually very convincing as a black man, albeit a black man stuck in 1975, like he’d just gone AWOL from the set of Starsky and Hutch.

I had an appointment with my doctor this last Friday. My blood pressure was 104/70! That was the second time; I asked the nurse (or the blood pressure technician, or the not-the-doctor — I never know) to take it a second time, from the other arm, because I didn’t believe 104/68. I had to ask if this was acceptable because I’d never heard of that first number ever being lower than 120-something unless it was on one of those hospital shows on The Learning Channel where the patient’s blood pressure was low because most of his or her blood was on the floor or on the doctors. I was assured that it was fine, which made me happy because that means I keep taking the hydrochlorothiazide instead of upgrading to one of those medications you see advertized on television where the disclaimer runs longer than the list of benefits for the product itself, and that’s with the voice-over guy talking reallyreallyreallyreallyFAST. (Is it my imagination, or is every other ad on television now for either pharmaceuticals or automobiles?) Anyway, I assume my increased physical activity of late is partially responsible for the decrease in blood pressure, so now I have to ramp up the exercise. I have another follow-up scheduled for May, and I seriously want to be as fit as possible by then.

This is apropos of absolutely nothing, but the missus just informed me that over half of charitable donations in this country are given by households earning an income of less than $100,000. I hear this kind of thing and just get all Trotsky up in here. It sort of makes me want to fill the first donation barrel I come across, and then pitch it through the windshield of the nearest luxury car. That’s not terribly mature (and I’m actually a big believer in civic order), but I can’t help the way I feel. Maybe there’s hope yet, though. The next eight years (yeah, I said eight) may see this country started on the road toward the revolution it needs.

(By the way, the missus told me this when I went to the kitchen for more coffee. She’s sitting at the dining room table reading the newspaper. She didn’t enter the room like a Valkyrie in an opera proclaiming this bit of information. She’s not given to impromptu announcements of nonsequiter and unsolicited factoids, like “Sixty-one percent of Albanians enjoy Barry Manilow” or “Mites live on eyelashes!”*. That’s usually my thing.)

*This apparently is true, AND, as offered on this website, you can shop for mites at Target!

I’m visiting the gym later this afternoon, where I’ll have to squeeze in with the New Year’s Resolution crowd. You can spot the members of this group easily; they’re the glum-looking ones sitting listlessly on the equipment between sets. Like TEN MINUTES between sets. When I go to the gym I’m a pretty focused guy; I go from machine to machine in one circuit and then go around again. Saves time and keeps me on the move. So when I come across one of these fleshy speed bumps idling on the next machine in my circuit I have to resist the urge to snap them with my towel, particularly if the individual also happens to be talking on a cell phone. What is it about people and these got-damn devices? Are people that afraid to be out of touch for a few freakin’ minutes? If we ever do get nuked I suspect the electro-magnetic pulse with kill half of these idiots due to withdrawal, long before the blast wave reaches them. “Hi, it’s me, did you see the pretty bright light just now? Hello? HELLO!!?? Oh, GOD!! *uurgk!!*”.

Oh my. The missus is offering me pancakes. You may go. *flapping a hand dismissively*