My wife, dog Chester and I recently embarked on another one of our Sunday trips around the Las Cruces area to escape the monotony of COVID-19 seclusion. This time, we ventured to Picacho Peak on the northwest side of our city.

We weren’t ready to scale the 4,959 mountain that I always believed to be an extinct volcano. Instead, we chose to walk around the southwest and western perimeter, and some of our walk was in a canyon filled with colorful rocks resulting from the ancient lava flow — not actually a volcano. According to various sources, the lava flow occurred somewhere between nine and 35 million years ago — not exactly a precise time estimate.

What was most interesting to me was the amazingly blue rocks that were scattered in the canyon. Upon further investigation, I learned that they were rhyolite, a rock that forms when certain volcanic flows reach and cool at the surface.

Although the day we walked was overcast and somewhat dark, the blue rocks and strata were an unexpected burst of color. I can’t imagine how much more spectacular they would be after a summertime thundershower when they are wet and glossy and the sun breaks through the clouds to highlight their color. I have a couple more pictures of the blue rocks below, but these photos don’t show them to be as colorful as they were in person.

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I did a little more digging to find out about blue rhyolite rocks (not all are blue) and discovered that in some circles, blue ones are believed to be good for a positive mental outlook. As one website breathlessly proclaimed:

“It (blue rhyolite) is a magical stone for people who struggle with esteem, self worth issues, and depression, guiding them towards their joyous potential.“

Well. I’m not sure about that, but I have to say I felt better after seeing them as part of the spectacular desert landscape so near our home. Maybe next year, knowing that abundant seams of blue rhyolite are nearby, my wife, Chester and I will be filled with enough “self worth” to attempt to hike up to the top of Picacho Peak.

In a recent post, I quoted the late cartoonist Walt Kelly about never lacking sources for stories in his clever cartoon “Pogo.”

“I came to understand that if I were looking for comic material, I would never have to look long,” he said. “The news of the day would be enough.”

I’ve taken that a bit further in that I have found a lot of material for blogs in the want-ad or legals section of the daily newspaper.

Consider, for example, something I stumbled upon last week. It was in the legals section of the Albuquerque Journal want ads, announcing that the contents of various storage units would be auctioned off because the renter had abandoned the property or failed to pay rent.

In Unit #B100, these items were listed for auction:

“Boxes, clothes, stuffed animal, TOILET SEAT, personal pictures.”

It didn’t say the toilet seat was new or used, although I suspect the later. And why would that be enough of a treasure to stash away in hopes that someday it might become a family heirloom?

Well, maybe my next door neighbor and I should bid on it. You see, several years ago a toilet seat mysteriously appeared on top of the rock wall between our two homes and has become known as the “Table of Friendship.” (I can neither confirm nor deny my involvement in its appearance). It has been the gathering point for me and the world’s best next door neighbor to discuss various events of the day, share food we’ve grilled or smoked in our back yards and a holding place for lubricating drinks while we solve the world’s and our neighborhood’s issues.

As you can tell by these photos, exposure to the elements has not been kind to this once proud solid oak fixture, and it is clearly past time to replace it. Even my application of duct tape has not been able to save it from the embarrassment of aging.

So next time my neighbor appears at this sadly deteriorating display of tackiness, perhaps we’ll initiate a discussions about making a bid. I think a few more rounds of drinks might be in order, however. We have time. There’s no rain or snow in the forecast.

We are fortunate to live in a critter-diverse part of town. Even though the street in front of our house looks hopelessly suburban, walk just a few blocks any direction from here and you’ll find open fields, pecan orchards, onion and chile plots, alfalfa patches and horse pasture. Because of the open space nearby, we get lots of animals living in and passing though the area.

We have regular visits from foxes, coyotes, raccoons, skunks (lots of ’em), large pack rats, ground squirrels and we harbor a fine crop of lizards to keep bugs out of the garden. My neighbor and I even witnessed a pack of javelinas trotting down the center of our street early one morning a couple of years ago. Birders like this area of town for all its variety of visitors. Although we’re oblivious to most of what flutters around here, we have noted nesting hawk and owl families and a large colony of turkey vultures that congregate in some tall trees southwest of us each summer. And of course we have an oversupply of birds we know as “rats of the sky” — white winged doves.

When flying my balloon over this area of the Mesilla Valley, it was always interesting to note various wild animals that would scurry out of hiding when I would engage the blast valve on my burner.

One fall morning when I was cruising at a fairly low altitude, I spooked a fox out of its hiding place in a tangle of mulberry trees. The fox scampered into a nearby field of corn that had not yet been harvested. As I flew closer, I was able to spot the fox’s distinct reddish brown coloring in the patch of yellow gold stalks.

Seconds later, I spooked up another animal, this time a plump cottontail rabbit that urgently hopped — you guessed it — right into the middle of the field where the fox was waiting. I was expecting to see a twirl of dust above the corn patch and floating puffs of bunny fur as I flew overhead, but I needed to stay focused on flying the aircraft, so I kept my attention on the flight path ahead.

I’m sure the fox was quite irritated when I first scared him out of hiding. However, I’ll bet he thanked me after brunch that day.

On one of our daily walks through the neighborhood, we took a detour and wandered through the back streets and irrigation ditch paths in the Town of Mesilla. It’s a fascinating walk because there is so much history, tradition and “local color” on display.

One of the things we found was this piece of property for sale. It is located on the southwest side of the Mesilla Plaza adjacent to the main irrigation ditch that weaves through the old village.

The property, which has been zoned commercial, is for sale at $350,000. That’s dollars, not Pesos.

As far as it being commercial property, it’s in an odd location, off the beaten path for those who usually focus just on the plaza and the streets leading into the center of town. But, as the listing optimistically notes, it may offer much more potential.

Ponder this bit of breathless prose on the listing for the crumbling home and the long neglected and overgrown tract of land where it sits:

“The property includes an adobe structure that needs your dreams to come alive.”

I think the only thing that would come alive in the structure would be the stray cats, rats, squirrels, raccoons, coyotes, foxes (and maybe even an occasional javelina) which could easily enter the building through 12-inch wide cracks in the adobe walls and busted out windows.

It’s obviously an historic structure, and I’ll bet it has many tales to tell of things that happened within its walls during its 200-plus years. But I hardly think it could be turned into a home of “dreams” with just some paint, adobe mud, bailing wire and duct tape.

Still, I’ve been giving it some thought. I think an upscale fly fishing shop would be a good fit. You could try casting that $1,500 Sage rod that I just sold to you right into the irrigation ditch behind the house — and wait for an errant carp to suck down your cheese ball fly scented with notes of Power Bait.

Well, maybe not. But we can all dream.

My very good friend Victor in Albuquerque sent me this tantalizing tale from his “Nextdoor” neighborhood bulletin board earlier this week.

Found chicken. Anyone missing a chicken? Caught a chicken in the middle of the road on Tramway and Copper. It’s really sweet, definitely seems like someone’s pet.

So this raises all sort of questions, not the least of which is the “why did the chicken…”

First, why would someone in that particular urban neighborhood be raising chickens? And why would someone keep a chicken as a “pet?” And how do you determine if a chicken is “really sweet?”

My Nebraska farm girl wife grew up with chickens roaming around her family homestead and says she considers all such fowl as being “pretty mean.”

“They would just as soon peck you as anything,” she observed. “And anyone who has ever talked about how great ‘free range’ chickens are has never had to clean up after them.”

My only experience with chickens occurred at about age 10 when someone gave us a couple of cute fuzzy newborn chicks which quickly turned into ugly, scraggly birds. We named one of them “Chewedupon” because the neighbor’s dog chased it down and during the subsequent “chewing” process removed several feathers and other anatomical features. When Chewedupon and his companion passed away, I don’t remember any tears or fond farewell speeches. I also don’t remember any great chicken dinner either, since I doubt there was much left of either of them.

At a New Mexico Department of Health holiday gathering four years ago, many of the 200 people who attended the Santa Fe event contracted food poisoning from eating the tapas served to them at the festive event.

It turns out the event was catered by a woman who did not hold a license to cater events for more than 25 people, even though the department which scheduled her was responsible for licensing businesses which provide catered food services.

Selling burritos out of the back of her Honda Accord to workers at construction sites was probably okay (maybe a bit risky for those eating them), but serving at large gatherings was definitely taboo.

Angered at not being told she had to be licensed to serve at such events, she promptly sued the state for leading her into a life of crime. I don’t recall hearing about the final disposition of the lawsuit, but I’m certain the state agency has become much more circumspect about selecting caterers for such events. And hopefully, the woman hasn’t changed the name of her catering company to Tillie’s Ptomaine Tapas.

In the Sunday Albuquerque Journal want-ad section under “purebred dogs” was this confusing appeal:

WANTED WOMEN TO BUY

White German Shepherd or Black and Silver. We lost our pretty baby will be trained to be a service dog for an autistic boy.

(505) XXX-XXXX

Okay, I think I understand the desired outcome of this bunch of gibberish, but it still leaves a lot to ponder.

What type of crime has prompted authorities to classify these women as “wanted?” Possibly for receiving an F in English composition in school? Rampant improper capitalization? Failure to use proper punctuation? Why was the “pretty baby” lost?” Doesn’t that raise an alarm that a new dog might just as easily disappear? And why is the color of the dog so important?

As an aside, the proper name for this breed is German shepherd dog — the word “dog” as an important part of the breed’s nomenclature. Look it up. That’s always been confusing to me as I doubt someone would be able to mistake one of these magnificent animals as a cat or a lemur.

Here’s something else to ponder in these days of political correctness. The breed that was indeed first bred in Germany was renamed in Great Britain after World War I as the “Alsatian Wolf Dog.” In 1977 its name was changed back to German shepherd dog. If Australia had been an enemy of Great Britain, would the Australian sheep dog have been renamed the Aboriginal mutton manager?

At any rate, I hope some sympathetic reader can sort through the confusing message and provide a nice pooch for the autistic boy. And perhaps in the meantime, the author should attend a remedial English composition class.

Albuquerque has become a hotspot for local criminals to prey on travelers along Interstate 40 who stop in the city overnight on their way to or from some out-of-state destination. Many cars have been broken into at local motels and some vehicles have been stolen outright.

The materials swiped from the cars is usually pawned and the stolen vehicles taken to a chop shop to be dismantled for parts that can never be traced.

Well about three years ago, some thieves got way more than they bargained for when they confiscated a Ford F-150 and the U-Haul trailer attached to it from a motel along the Interstate.

The truck/trailer combo was apparently pulling the last remaining possession of Grandma back home where they would be sold by relatives in a yard sale at some date in the future. And, oh yes, Grandma’s embalmed corpse wrapped in a blanket was in the trailer as well, no doubt being transported back home to be placed in a family burial plot.

When the thieves who had swiped the truck opened the bonus U-Haul trailer to discover the booty inside, they were greeted by an unusual smell of embalming fluid. Upon discovering the source of the smell, they immediately decided to dump the truck and trailer.

In their haste to get rid of the truck at a discreet location, they managed to smash it up in a traffic accident. Although they tried to get away, police caught the suspects. When questioned about the body inside the trailer, they claimed to have no knowledge of how it got there.

Maybe to avoid this scenario in the future, motorists pulling trailers and stopping in Albuquerque should just paint “Dead Body Inside” on the side of their U-Haul.

About two weeks ago, I wrote about a mysterious pair of abandoned cowboy boots left in plain sight on our walk along one of the many irrigation ditches that meander through our rural/urban neighborhood. The boots were well worn, but could have been saved with a new sole.

I pondered all kinds of theories on how they got there, who owned them, and whether there was something more sinister in their appearance. I also wondered what might eventually become of them.

Well, as of a few days ago, they disappeared, just as mysteriously as they had appeared.

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There was little evidence of what might have happened to them. There were some racoon tracks nearby and a couple of dog prints — possibly left by our own curious pooch, Chester.

Now I’m going to offer several theories about their disappearance.

One is that someone read my blog and decided to go claim them with hopes of renewing the boots. I really don’t believe that, since the number of people who actually read my blog can be counted on one hand most days. And of course that number is inflated by my family who feel they must read this drivel just to humor me.

The other, that I truly want to believe, is that whoever left them there was trying to hide evidence from a crime scene. I never looked at the soles of the boots to see if they had traces of blood, but perhaps whoever owned them feared that might be the evidence that would do him or her in (assuming she had a large foot size.)

Or the most likely story is that an unsupervised dog needed a new chew toy and scampered away with both of the boots in its mouth for days of endless entertainment.

But then, there are the racoon tracks to consider. Perhaps the boots are now stashed under a nearby pile of pecan branches, serving as a cozy home for a litter of tiny baby racoons ready to terrorize the neighborhood.

As always, your theories are appreciated.

A story in this week’s Albuquerque Journal reports that a search is underway for two suspects who flubbed an armed robbery attempt at a bank on the city’s west side.

It seems one of the suspects, wearing the required COVID-19 face mask, entered the bank just before closing ostensibly to cash a check, but with more sinister motives in mind. For some reason, he was told to take his transaction outside to the drive-up window.

So he scuttled outside, walked up to the drive-up window and presented the teller with a note demanding money. The teller, safely protected by bullet-proof glass, steel and concrete, confidently told him no dice. Apparently flummoxed from his failure to think things through, he ran to a waiting car driven by another suspect and sped off.

I think these guys might also qualify for the Darwin Award. However, there are so many of these unbelievably dumb things that occur in New Mexico that I’m thinking of creating an award just for our state to recognize them. I’m thinking about who the award should be named for, so I would appreciate your thoughts on possible candidates.

In this morning’s newspaper, there is only one sporting event listed on TV, which makes sense since it’s the day before Christmas and most people have many more important things to do.

And what is that event? Well, it’s the New Mexico Bowl. Only it isn’t being played in New Mexico. It’s being played in Frisco, Texas, because of COVID-19 restrictions.

So instead of filler footage of beautiful New Mexico sunsets, mountains, deserts and architecture during the game, we’ll see an empty stadium somewhere in Texas.

The game between the Illinois Institute for the Severely Indecisive and the Wyoming School for the Humor Impaired will probably be a real yawner. (Okay, I made that up, the actual teams are Hawaii and Houston — Maybe they should have called it the “H and H” Bowl.)

I just think there was a better way this could have been handled. It makes New Mexico look like we don’t even know where we live.

So now, we’ll end up at the top of the list of “Dumbest Bowl Games Ever.” Right next to the “Buster’s Plumbing Toilet Bowl.”

Many of my friends can recall times when I broke into song with a familiar tune, but definitely unfamiliar and very silly words. Most of the time, this attempt at singing occurs after I’ve one too many glasses of wine or beer.

I usually sing it around Christmas time, but have been known to sing it just about any other time of the year, depending on how much lubrication my brain has received.

So I want you to enjoy it this holiday season. Now, if you’ll imagine the Christmas carol tune for “Deck the Halls” just sing these words in place of the normal ones:

Deck us all with Boston Charlie

Walla, Walla, Wash., and Kalamazoo

Nora’s freezing on the trolly

Swaller dollar, cauliflower, Alleygaroo

Don’t we know archaic  barrels?

Lulla bye, Lilly boy, Louisville Lou

Trolly Molly don’t love Harold

Boola Boola Pensacola, hullabaloo

I wish I could claim credit for this, but it is from the long-time comic strip “Pogo,” written by Walt Kelly. The comic strip, which ran from in the 1950s through early 1970s, featured a gang of engaging critters in the Okefenokee Swamp that straddles the Florida-George state line. The head of the group, Pogo, was a somewhat philosophical possum who managed to keep the other characters in line.

The strip mostly dealt with the shenanigans of the group of swamp dwellers, but occasionally delved into political satire, including pokes at former Sen. Joseph McCarthy through a character named Simple J. Malarkey. Creator Walt Kelly once noted that when seeking inspiration, he needed to look no further than politics. “I came to understand that if I were looking for comic material, I would never have to look long,” he said. “The news of the day would be enough.”

At one point, Pogo became a reluctant candidate for President, running in 1952 and again in 1956 on the slogan “I Go Pogo,” a parody of the “I Like Ike” slogan used by Dwight D. Eisenhower’s campaign.

Pogo was also famous for its memorable lines, like “We have met the enemy and he is us,” or “Food for thought is no substitute for the real thing.”

My children used to sing the “Deck us all” song along with me, often on forays to find the perfect Christmas tree in the Gila National Forest. At one point, we started making up a second verse. As I recall, it went something like this:

“See the grazing mule before us… Eat a pancake but don’t bore us.”

It turns out that someone did indeed write equally silly second and subsequent verses, which I stumbled across while writing this post. I won’t provide those lyrics, but you can find them easily on line.

I do need to make sure that I give proper credit for the lyrics I used in this post to the organization that in 1988 appears to have acquired copyright to Kelly’s materials. It is Okefenokee Glee & Perloo, Inc., but attempts to contact them were unsuccessful. The Library of Congress entry about Kelly’s works says “fair use” of the materials is permitted, so I’m hoping that gets me off the hook since words to a song aren’t specifically mentioned anywhere and I don’t make any money on my blog.

If you want to know more about Pogo and Walt Kelly, a former cartoonist for Walt Disney Studios before he began his comic strip, check the link below:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pogo_(comic_strip)

Anyway, grab a glass of egg nog or whatever warms you up during the holidays and belt out the song. Your friends will be both amused and confused.

Last week, police in Las Cruces responded to a break-in call at the local Baskin-Robbins store. An alarm had been triggered when someone smashed a window at the ice cream parlor and when the cops arrived, they found a somewhat disoriented man wandering around the premises.

He first claimed he had no knowledge about the break-in but a quick review of the surveillance video showed that he, in fact, was the guy who had busted through the window.

Upon further examination of the suspect, officers found he was hiding a stash of powdery crystalized material believed to be crystal meth or some similar illegal product.

It’s not known if the “sprinkles” he was hiding were as good as something Walter White from “Breaking Bad” might have cooked, but at last check, Baskin-Robbins has not been offering this as a new topping.

You may remember my recent blog about the fact that “buttload” is an accepted term for a measurement.

Here is is, if you need to refresh your memory: https://aero-cordero.com/2020/11/25/a-brief-diversion-into-almost-bathroom-humor/

Well, someone in Albuquerque took this term to a new level about two years ago.

A man riding a motorcycle was pulled over by a Bernalillo County Sheriff’s Deputy because the vehicle did not display a license plate. The suspect was handcuffed in preparation for a trip to the county jail. Then, in an extremely contorted maneuver, he managed to pluck a plastic bag of 44 loose diamonds he had stuffed into his posterior region, while still wearing the handcuffs. The suspect was apparently hoping to toss the diamonds away before the sheriff could see what he was doing. But something didn’t “smell right” to the astonished deputy when he witnessed the awkward attempt as the items were removed from the “intergluteal cleft.” (Yes, that’s the proper anatomical term.)

Frequently, criminals hide drugs in this particular location of their body to avoid their detection by authorities. The deputy concluded that the diamonds must have been contraband and promptly tacked another charge onto the motorcyclist’s arrest sheet.

Think about it — the suspect could have covered his butt if he had just put a license plate on his ride. And I’m sure the deputy was glad he didn’t have to do a body cavity search. He might have found crack, however. (Okay, I can hear your groans from here — sorry.)