I spotted this advertisement in an edition from the Albuquerque Journal last year. It’s seeking candidates for the Bernalillo County Sheriff’s Posse queen. But if you’ll notice, it was published in the “LIVESTOCK, MISC” section of classified ads. Now I get that a cowgirl/4H/FFA kind of candidate (or her parents) might be inclined to look at that section of the classified ads on a regular basis. But I think if I were a fetching young lass, I’d be offended by the suggestion that I was just livestock on the auction block, especially of the “miscellaneous” kind. And I hope the contest winner’s name wasn’t “Patty.”

As a marketing director for most of my working life, I was always amused when someone introduced me as a “marketing guru.” It was a buzz phrase that sprung up somewhere as a compliment to someone who had true genius in the area of marketing, but undeservedly became applied to almost anyone who worked in that field. Given some marketing blunders I pulled, I certainly wasn’t deserving of the title.

In one promotion I created, I saw a chance to boost sales of a particular product by tying it into the “green” movement. The idea was that if a customer bought that particular product, they’d get a small pine tree to plant in their yard. Good for the environment, good for the customer, good for the company — right? I even went to a local greenhouse to buy an eight-inch pine tree in a planted in a six-inch diameter pot to demonstrate the promotion to the store managers, who praised me that it was evidence of a “marketing guru” at his best.

I found a supplier of small “eight-inch” pine trees and ordered several hundred of them to be distributed to stores to hand out to happy customers when they bought the targeted product. But when the trees arrived, they were clearly not what I had expected. Yes, they were eight inches, but instead of eight inches above the top of a six-inch diameter pot, they were eight inches of long-skinny weed-like trees — including long bare roots — packaged in indivudal clear plastic bags. Store managers, some of whom had borrowed large pickup trucks to haul the trees back to their stores, looked on in stunned silence when they saw what they thought were just weeds in a bag.

Needless to say, I hadn’t thoroughly investigated what I had ordered, and the thing turned out to be a big bust, with most of the trees ending up in the trash can.

On another occasion, a group of marketers for a larger region came up with what all of us “gurus” thought was a splendid idea. We concluded that we could help increase sales by sending a “Fiesta in a Box” to help already overburdened employees get excited about an otherwise uninspiring promotion.

The “Fiesta in a Box” that would be sent to each store included snacks and other inexpensive promotional items and props to carry through the theme. One of the snacks was a jar of salsa, to go along with some tortilla chips included in the box. One of the props was a tiny box of Mexican jumping beans that you find at those cheesy curio stores throughout the Southwest.

The first problem occurred when the “Fiesta in a Box” items were being flown in an un-pressurized courier plane to some store locations in far West Texas. Somewhere over the vast emptiness of that region, the salsa jars began exploding because they had been sealed at a factory at sea level, then subjected to thin air at 12,000 feet. Some of the bags of chips may have loudly popped open as well. The pilot of the aircraft, made an emergency landing for fear his aircraft was disintegrating or that he had picked up a cargo of terrorist bombs. Needless to say, we quickly cancelled delivery of the remaining boxes and were left with an endless supply of salsa and chips for our future team meetings.

Now imagine if you are the manager of the U.S. Post Office in Post, Texas, (yes, there is such a place and it was named after the guy who started the Post cereal brand https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Post,_Texas) and you suddenly hear something ticking inside of a box scheduled for delivery to a local business. Yes, the Mexican jumping beans had awakened, and were twitching like crazy in their tiny plastic boxes. Convinced that the ticking was the timer on a bomb, the postmaster called the Fire Department, Police and nearest bomb squad while the building was evacuated. After the careful extraction of the suspect package from the post office, it was gingerly opened, only to find the jumping beans happily leaping around their plastic box and oblivious to their perceived role as agents of destruction.

I had a colleague who did something similar, which also resulted in a post-office shut down. He had dreamed up a beach theme for a promotion and sent small packages of white beach sand in the promotional box. This was at the same time that a number of national political figures and news anchors had received envelopes with anthrax-laden powder in them. So when white sand began leaking out of the promotional boxes, postal officials feared it was part of the anthrax conspiracy, shut down the post office and contacted those responsible.

Gurus indeed.

Located just east of Alma on the edge of the Gila Wilderness is this half-mile row of classic farm tractors of just about every American make, many no longer manufactured. It looks like the tractors just grew out of a big garden. I also noticed, like a weed poking up between your rows of vegetables, there’s an old Jeep.

The New Mexico state flag, officially adopted in 1920 from a design submitted by Santa Fe archaeologist Harry Mera, has won many accolades over the years for its elegantly simple design. In 2001, the North American Vexillological Association (no, I didn’t know there was such an organization either: https://nava.org/ ) rated its design as the top state or territorial flag in all of the United States and Canada. It’s also the only state flag in the United States which does not have blue or white as one of its colors. You can look up more information on the New Mexico flag on wikipedia or other websites but here is the most important thing you should know about our flag:

It’s dummy proof — you can’t rally hang it upside down or backwards. It always looks the same.

Earlier this year, a female undercover police officer in Albuquerque, posing as a prostitute, was approached by a man seeking her “services.” The man explained that he wouldn’t get his paycheck until Friday and wondered if he could make a deal. Observing that the man had just purchased a hamburger, the officer suggested a trade — a Big Mac for time in the sack? Or maybe his “Whopper” would do the “trick?” Or if the burger was a “Double” or a “Triple” from Wendy’s, he might knock in some extra runs. At any rate, before the deal was finalized, she revealed her true identity and promptly arrested him for soliciting. It’s not known if his tater tots were part of the deal, in which case he could have traded a “Tit for a Tat(-er tot).” (Okay, I admit that was pretty lame).

But typical of surprises in New Mexico…

So what I thought was an albino praying mantis showed up on my new hand-cranked chile roaster after I had completed roasting half a burlap sack of Big Jim chile and a smaller batch of Sandia chile.

After searching the internet, I determined that it’s really not an albino at all, but a fairly common phenomenon as a phase of the critter’s molting sequence. Still weird and creepy looking, however.

The internet also tells me that seeing a praying mantis is a good omen in many cultures. Yay for that.

HOWEVER, what is the significance of a weird looking white bug being on your chile roaster? A sign that the chile is going to be white hot this year? A sign that we will have an apocalyptic disease on chile that will turn it all white? (And a deeper issue, what will become of the official State Question: “Red or Green… or White?”) Maybe the much dreaded chile weevil is about to make a new appearance on New Mexico’s chile crop. Or maybe it’s just a sign that I have gone COVID-19 goofy looking for meaning in a benign appearance of a strange bug.

I invite your interpretations as a “comment” on my website. Your ideas will be posted, unless you object.

p.s. For you ASPCA and Animal Humane Association readers (is an insect considered an animal?), I made sure it scuttled away to safety. I have not seen him or her since. My chile is still green. Oh wait — maybe it’s turning white!!!! No, that’s just the frost on the bag in my freezer.

Since I had my open heart heart surgery. Thanks to everyone who helped me through the process. Read more about it on my blog posted yesterday.

(Or, heart surgery, as I imagined it might have been done, New Mexico style…)

A year ago tomorrow, Aug. 8, 2019, I underwent open heart surgery to replace a bad aortic valve that manifested itself as a heart murmur and nagged at me all through life. I’m fully recovered, at least from what doctors tell me and how I feel, but I still think about it every day when I see the four scars on my chest.

And although my memory is still foggy about many of the details, I do remember the support and care I got from my wife, children, neighbors, friends, church members and of course, the very professional doctors, nurses and staff at Mountain View Medical Center in Las Cruces. I couldn’t list them all for fear of leaving someone out.

Doctors discovered the heart murmur in the early 1960s when I was 15 and took my physical to play football at Ruidoso High School. They pronounced it as “no big deal,” but suggested I check on it every few years. I did have it checked periodically but it did not seem to be getting any worse — it was just “there.” I did not feel any ill effects until about two years ago when I started experiencing shortness of breath on walks or while mowing the lawn. Up to that point, I had been very active — skiing, hiking, running regularly, playing rugby, fly fishing on remote mountain streams, working into contorted positions on my garage floor to work on cars, chasing grandkids around the back yard, etc.

Following various tests and consultations, doctors concluded I would need the valve replaced. As I learned, it’s a procedure that many people have undergone and it has worked out fine for the vast majority of them. Conversations with friends about my upcoming procedure often ended up with comments like: “Oh yeah, my brother in law had that done a few years ago and he’s fine.” The rector at our church at the time even told me she had the procedure done, with no ill effects. She refers to her heart as her “Miss Piggy heart.”

After more consultations, it was decided that the recalcitrant aortic value would be replaced with one from either a pig or a horse — most likely a pig.

On the day of my surgery, with my wife faithfully at my side, I was wheeled into the operating room after being injected with brain fogging drugs. Obviously, I don’t remember anything that happened in the operating room. When I woke up, I found myself attached to a tangled web of sensors, probes and tubes. There were various masked people hovering over me, who I was absolutely convinced were aliens conducting exotic experiments on my body. (I really did believe that for the first day of my recovery in ICU. No wonder they’re called mind-altering drugs.)

Having no memory of the procedure, and being attuned to New Mexico culture, here is how I think the procedure went.

I think the first person who worked on me was a 90-year-old gray haired curandera, who sprinkled potions of ground pinon nuts, chamisa flowers, Thunderbird wine and adobe mud on me. Then the doctors, probably rejects from an on-line medical school in the bananna republic of El Guacador, had their turn.

I’m sure they cut me open with a rusty Craftsman Sawzall, pausing occasionally to lube it up with WD-40. Once inside, they pulled out my heart and kept my blood moving by bypassing it through a used and calcified 1/4 horsepower swamp cooler water pump. I suspect a wheezing hair dryer from Rita’s Hair Salon (on the cool setting, I hope) was used to keep my lungs inflated. Then they hacked out my faulty valve with a Stanley utility knife that had been used the previous day to cut roofing paper. I’m sure rolls of duct tape, rusty bailing wire and Elmer’s glue were used to attach my new pig valve. My heart was then reinserted, probably by using a crowbar to leverage it into place. Then my chest was was sewn up, again, using leftover bailing wire (maybe barbed wire from the way it feels on certain days) and the usual strips of duct tape. Doctors even might have used a mix of adobe mud and straw to make a useful bonding agent, New Mexico style.

It seems to work. But what about the pig?

I think it was committed to participate in a pig roast that same afternoon in Dona Ana. I can see what was left of it, turning on a spit in a pecan orchard, where the smells of the first green chile of the season being roasted floated through the air while happy families gathered and large quantities of Corona beer were consumed. I hope there was mariachi music being played. I’m sure there were some chicarrones being served.

Someone, apparently looking for a deal, must have liberated the heart valve prior to the pig roast and traded it to the curandera for a potion to cure hangovers.

Which brings me to this: was it a male or female pig whose valve is now pulsing regularly in my chest? I think I’ve become more sensitive and a more focused listener lately, and I definitely feel a more urgent need to ask for directions. I think I have my answer.

Earlier this year, police in Las Cruces began following a car driving erratically through a residential neighborhood. As the car continued to weave and bob through the streets, police decided it was time to stop it.

The driver, however, ignored the flashing lights and siren and continued to terrorize the neighborhood until it rolled into a driveway and parked. Upon approaching the vehicle, police saw a young woman get out. When asked for her identification, she responded:
“I’m Beyonce.”

When pressed by police about why she did not stop, she responded a in celebrity-like attitude that she “didn’t feel like it.”

Her imagined celebrity status, however, did not preclude an arrest and a trip to the police station for charges that likely included resisting arrest, careless driving and maybe even impersonating a celebrity (if there such a crime.)

My wife and I and our dog walk daily, usually a two-mile loop around neighboring pecan orchards, irrigation ditch roads and through our inviting neighborhood. We do it to get exercise following my heart operation a year ago and to keep our still rambunctious golden doodle, Chester, somewhat tired so he doesn’t get into as much mischief.

This morning, we deviated from our regular route and drove to New Mexico State University and walked a two-mile loop through the heart of the campus. For those of you thinking about where else you can walk to break the monotony of your routine, I highly recommend a slow stroll around your nearest college campus.

Like many of you, I’ve spent a lot of time on campus, going to meetings, taking an occasional class, attending an arts or entertainment event and watching sporting contests. But I usually just found a parking spot closest to where I was going, hurried in, did my business, then headed back to the car and left.

Besides the usual lush and inviting landscaping of a college campus, there’s lots to be discovered. There are hidden courtyards, murals, statues, memorials (some very tacky) to graduating classes or fraternal organizations and lots of plaques commemorating construction dates of buildings and donors who helped pay for them. Lots to learn and enjoy. Chester enjoyed the walk too, finding new and interesting scents everywhere.

Also surprising were the large number of abandoned bicycles chained to racks outside campus buildings, probably sadly hoping their owners would one day return to rescue them. Most of these had flat ties and many were missing wheels, seats, handlebars and other attachments. Rusting chains stained the sidewalks beneath the bikes, indicating than many had been there for a long time.

Whether it’s NMSU, the University of New Mexico, Western New Mexico, Eastern New Mexico, Highlands, New Mexico Tech or some other school with a large footprint, take a day away from your routine walk and explore these campuses.

There’s much talk about how these schools will operate going forward in the aftermath of COVID-19, when distance learning seems to be a go-to plan. After this morning’s walk, I hope that doesn’t diminish the value of on-campus learning experiences.

Several years ago, when I was flying balloons regularly over the Mesilla Valley, I was conducting a routine flight on a beautiful late fall Sunday morning. It was a time of year when the last of the Monsoon wind currents predictably moved me slowly north over the valley, temperatures were crisp but invigorating and my passengers and I were provided with spectacular sights of vast pecan orchards turning their leaves into a sea of fall gold.

As I drifted north, I spotted a somewhat familiar fixture on west Amador Avenue — the EROS adult video store. Much to my surprise and to that of my passengers, we spotted a line of people waiting to get into the store when it opened at 8 a.m. — on a Sunday morning, for Pete’s sake.

After my initial surprise, I conjured up a devious plan. Since I had not had to use my very loud balloon blast valve regularly because of the cool weather, I thought I could just silently swoop over the waiting customers and then pronounce from high above, after a blast of my terrifying burner: “This is GOD, why are you here on a Sunday morning?”

As I was about to execute my plan, I was suddenly overcome with a chilling thought. What if I suddenly heard this from a powerful and clear voice above me?

“This is GOD. Why aren’t YOU, Patrick Lamb, in church this morning?”

With that, I chose to simply float silently over them as I drifted northward, sans any startling blast valve shock, judgmental pronouncements or questions. My passengers and I simply waved to the people standing in line and they waved back. Hopefully, all of those on the ground and in the air were given an opportunity for some introspective thinking.

Let me start this by saying that all the incidents that I collectively label as “Why I Love New Mexico” and post on my blog are true. They are gleaned from newspaper or other media reports, incidents I have personally witnessed or participated in, photos I have taken or stories from others who I believe are credible sources. (And if you have a good one, please share it with me, by all means).

However, since my primary role with this blog is your entertainment (well, mine too since I love to write), I often fill in with “colorful” details, provide fuzzy imagined logic, inject local nuance or conjure up imagined conversations to make a story, well, more entertaining. But my goal is never to deviate too far from the essential truth. My intention is never to offend anyone, although given the current climate of political correctness, I probably will do that on occasion. And for that, I apologize in advance, my only defense being that I am not (as my wife routinely points out) as sensitive to others’ feelings, thoughts or meanings as I should be. I am completely prepared to apologize, as need be.

Now, focusing on the title above attributed to Mark Twain, the quote is actually a parody of itself. No one is actually certain that Twain said that, or for that matter, many of the other sayings for which he is credited. As one writer said, “there’s something emotionally satisfying about quoting Mark Twain.” There’s even a whole website called “Unquotable: Mark Twain.” https://uncyclopedia.ca/wiki/Unquotable:Mark_Twain

As the website notes, “The actual creation of false Mark Twain quotes involves two things: words, and a voice similar to that of old-timey movie sidekick Walter Brennan.” I can hear Twain now, can’t you?

I recall another quote attributed to Twain with particular resonance in this period of national political chaos: “There are lies, damned lies and statistics.” It was once attributed to former British Prime Minister Benjamin Disraeli, even by Twain himself, but the quote reportedly cannot be found in any of his writings or other works. Twain still get the credit on this one.

As I drift further from the original point of my blog and into the slippery slope of what people embrace as “truth,” the Twain (Disraeli?) quote serves both sides of the political spectrum, by relying on selected statistics to prove their point of view. It reminds me of a quote from a favorite author of mine, John Gierach, who instead of wasting time writing about the grimy nature of politics, produces inspiring, philosophical and thought provoking (at least to me) stories about fly fishing. I’ve modified his quote slightly, but I think it gets to the point:

“Isn’t it interesting that the logic (statistics) you apply to the opposition is (are) abrupt and unforgiving, while the reasoning for (your “better” statistics) for your own position is (are) fluid, creative and finds (find) room for infinite subtleties.”

So in my rather convoluted literary journey, I am now coming to my point, reflected in the “alleged” Mark Twain quote about truth and stories

I’m writing this because, as expected, I knew someone would sooner or later find some detail in a blog that was not quite accurate. The error was contained in a post I wrote about a bear licking a scout’s head in his tent at Philmont Scout Ranch many years ago. It was a pretty funny story. (The kid was okay, by the way, if you didn’t read my earlier blog post). In the article, I mentioned that the ranch had been closed this summer for the first time in its history, due to a state directive surrounding the current COVID-19 pandemic. In fact, a good friend pointed out that it had actually been closed for a period of time several years ago because of dangers from a forest fire in the vicinity. It wasn’t a major error, but it made clear to me that some people may actually read my writing.

Thanks to those who read it and please be willing to send me a note to keep me honest if I get something really wrong.

Please bear with me (pun intended).

We spotted this on our recent foray into Catron County on the western side of the Gila Country. It’s an old school bus, converted into a “condo” with the obligatory wood burning stove and… a solar panel. The bus, which appears to be solidly anchored in old flood debris and concrete barriers, is located in the “ghost town” of Mogollon, where a few hardy folks still live, hoping to avoid intruders like us.

On a trip to the Gila Country earlier this week, my wife and I ran across this run-down, apparently abandoned home just outside of the ghost town of Mogollon. From what we could see, it didn’t look like the place had been inhabited for a long time, judging by the overgrown weeds and trees, a non-functional front staircase and a mid-90s vintage Buick parked in front and sunk up to its axles in sand and debris from a flood a few years ago. But at the front entrance to the yard, there was a plastic bag hanging on a gate indicating its contents had forms for the “Census 2020.” No telling how long it has been there. Not anyone, apparently including the local ghosts, seems to have attempted to fill out the form.