On the Road

It only took six months, but as the photo below attests, I am finally fully street legal in New Mexico. Since I paid for two years’ worth of registration, we’ll have to assume that more has become the operative word in the subtitle of AYISF.

A lovely shade of turquoise.

I was dreading my trip to MVD to make me automotively kosher here in the L of E. A quick perusal online seemed to indicate that the process for registering an out-of-state car could be particularly onerous. But no. To my pleasant amazement, the lines were short, the clerk was perky and competent, and I had all the necessary paperwork. The whole thing took maybe 30 minutes.

Ms. Martinez of the MVD informed me that I had my choice of plate colors: yellow or turquoise. I went with the latter because it also commemorates the state’s centennial, taking place this year (along with the one for our increasingly whacky neighbor, Arizona. Check out some of the fine laws its yahoo Republican lawmakers are passing here and here—not to mention banning the use of certain books in Tuscon schools–ones relating to Hispanic culture. AZ is fast becoming the next candidate for my list of states where I choose not to spend my money  [most of the Deep South and our neighbor to the east]. Which is too bad, because I do want to check out Tuscon some time, and I like Flagstaff. If sanity ever returns there, maybe I will too). So, I went with turquoise, and it turned out to be an apt choice, as my first drive with that plate screwed to my backside (well, the car’s) was along the Turquoise Trail.

The trail runs south out of Santa Fe and winds through what were once mining towns, in which—not surprisingly—turquoise was mined, along with other earthly valuables. The most famous spot along the trail is probably Madrid, a former ghost town that now brims with commercial activity, at least along one short stretch of Route 14. But earlier yesterday, I learned of another ghost town, still much ghostlier today, just a little off the road: Cerrillos. My photo Meetup group announced a trip there for May. The organizer promised shots of abandoned buildings and old cars and a certain dusty funkiness—all things I like to shoot. Not really wanting to hang out with a group of photographers while descending on the spot (and thus defeating the social aspect of joining a Meetup group, but oh well…) I decided to take a drive down there last night just before sunset and see what I could find.

To my mind, not much. There was the landmark Mary’s Bar, which looked closed, might have been open, but did not entice me enough to check out. A few more dilapidated buildings along First Street (unpaved, as the other roads were) seemed to house commercial activities, but things were quite dead on a Thursday evening. Didn’t see any particularly old trucks to add to the collection of pics I’m amassing for a friend back east. Some of the homes seemed cobbled together with any wooden detritus the owners could find, but it seemed more like Appalachian poverty than Southwestern funkiness. The streets were empty. I just was not impressed. The real activity, I soon learned, was skyward.

I found what was called a scenic pullover at one end of town and got out. Nothing special. But then I saw them, floating on the unseen currents in graceful swirls. There must have been at least a dozen of them, raptors of some kind I could tell. Beyond that, though, I was clueless, and it was only after posting a pic of one of them that I learned they were turkey vultures, and that this early evening glide was a common practice for the birds.

Thwarted by the inadequacy of my equipment, I urged them to come closer to me. Instead, the pack drifted farther from view. Then, as I went back into my car, they circled back right over my head. I fumbled with my camera and pressed the shutter. Nothing. This time the inadequacy was strictly human. I pressed again and again and got more nothing, while the vultures swooped closer still, then began to peel off. I finally realized that I had mistakenly pressed the button that activates the timer. I was bummed.

With the birds off in the distance, I started to head out of Cerrillos. Retracing my path down the dirt roads, I saw the birds again. I stopped and watched as one settled in a tree not far from me. This time my camera worked, leading to some decent pics but still nothing like the ones I could have had when they came so close before (probably checking to see if I might soon and provide a meal).

So, along with my first roadrunner and wild hog, my stay in Santa Fe so far has introduced me to the turkey vulture, not something I was expecting to see. But that’s the joy and beauty of going someplace new, isn’t it, learning what you never knew you would learn. On the drive back, the sun set, and I saw a scene of cattle grazing against that backdrop. I imagined that with the mountains between them and the sun, it would make a stunning shot—or at least something quintessentially Western. I just might have to take that little trip again.

Deep Talk Two-fer

Two talks in two nights by two intelligent (one of them really, really intelligent) women on subjects that could not be farther apart—maybe.

A well-received book.

The first was another heavy presentation by the Santa Fe Institute, who earlier this year sponsored a talk by Brian Christian, chronicled here. Christian impressed me with his diverse background: philosopher, poet, computer scientist. Well, Monday’s speaker, Rebecca Newberger Goldstein, is no slouch either. PhD in philosophy from Princeton, MacArthur “genius” fellow, member of the American Academy of Arts and Sciences. Her two “philosophical biographies” are on those lightweights Godel and Spinoza. Oh, and she’s also an acclaimed novelist; her most recent work was Thirty-Six Arguments for the Existence of God: A Work of Fiction.

I was ready to be intimidated. I was not disappointed.

Goldstein’s topic was “Intuitions: Why We Can’t Get Along Without Them.” And even before she spoke, I had an intuition, though one I could not prove: The guy at the urinal next to me, the one who couldn’t put his smart phone away even while taking a piss (to read emails mind you, not to finish a conversation) was probably a jerk. Only, Goldstein didn’t really seem to address those kinds of gut instincts or hunches we sometimes label intuitions; she had something loftier in mind.

(Though that’s not to say she didn’t have a sense of humor. Her opening graphic showed little lightbulbs with sperm tails swimming toward a brain waiting to be fertilized with an “Aha!”)

She talked a bit about the breakthrough ideas of mathematicians and scientists through history, whom she divided into rationalists and empiricists. Rationalists believed truth could come from a sudden insight. Empiricists said it came from studying the world through our senses. Taking something of a middle ground was Kant. I of course had to take her word on all this, but would a scholar with such credentials steer me wrong?

There was talk of Bertrand Russell and his paradox, and Leibniz and Spinoza and others whose names I know and theories I don’t.  Compounding my lack of understanding are my almost unreadable notes; maybe I could salvage something worthwhile from this if I could decipher them…

The talk got back a little more down to earth when she talked about ethical intuitions, which seemed to me another name for core beliefs or ideologies. We can’t prove the rightness of the moral stances we take, but something inside of us makes us accept them as true. A “clash of moral intuitions” takes place in political debates, like the one that will play out through the rest of this year. And there are intuitions about the nature of being itself and the big questions that revolve around it—what is the nature of time?; is there a “self”?; is there a purpose to suffering?; and the biggie: what’s up with death?

Goldstein’s intuitions, obviously, are not of the same ilk as having a hunch about today’s fifth race at Belmont or the character of the guy whizzing away next to me while his eyes are glued to his phone. But as esoteric as her talk seemed at times, she ended on a much more grounded note. As cello music played in the background, a group of actors read selected quotes from scholars and artists of many ages, reflecting their intuitions on the Big Questions I listed above. Some were profound, some were humorous. Together, they seemed to reveal the artist’s soul Goldstein carries along with her philosopher’s brain. (Unfortunately, there is no webpage I can find that lists the quotes and their authors; something she should definitely put up. I just emailed her asking about it and will share if she responds.)

The second half of our intellectual twin-bill was a presentation by Phyllis Bennis, sponsored by the Lannan Foundation (which also hosted John Sayles, among others, this year). Joining her onstage for part of the evening was David Barsamian, a progressive journalist and author. An expert on international affairs, Bennis spoke about a number of topics relating to the Middle East: the Arab Spring, Israeli-Palestinian relations, Iran’s nuclear program and the risks it poses for war. Underlying most of this was how events in the Middle East affect the United States.

Before taking us to that unsettled part of the world, Bennis talked a bit about U.S. foreign policy of the last 10 years, our wars and their consequences. She noted that we have been “immersed in violence” and that atrocities committed by U.S. troops are not an aberration. These guys are trained to kill, and they come from a culture that has often accepted—and even championed—violence against weaker forces (a subject I explored about 7 years ago in my play Truth, Justice, And…, available here if you’re interested). And while we attribute some “snapping” on the battlefield (and lingering problems afterward) to PTSD, we neglect to acknowledge the stress and trauma that afflicts the citizens of the lands we invade. Afghans have been facing almost non-stop warfare since 1979; might not a few of them face PTSD too? Bennis said all of Afghanistan has about 42 mental-health practitioners to deal with the country’s psychological problems.

I came really wanting to hear her thoughts about Iran. There wasn’t as much as I might have liked, but she did say this: There are some parallels between the run-up to war with Iraq and the recent calls for military action by some Americans. But there are differences too; this time, Israel is taking a much more active role in the bellicosity, and the American neo-cons are out of power (for now). But even in Israel, the call to unleash the dogs of war is not universal. The politicians want it, while the military and intelligence agencies largely agree with US intell assessments: There are no Iranian nukes on the horizon. Some say there may never be. But Israel’s civilian leaders, Bennis says, are not willing to risk losing their nuclear monopoly in the Middle East.

Bennis also pointed out some American concerns about Iran, big bomb or no. The U.S. did not achieve its goals (or what she saw as its goals) going into Iraq: greater influence over the oil resources there and permanent military bases in Iraq to help secure hegemony in the region. Iran is undoubtedly the major threat to US strategic goals there. And uncertainy still reigns there because of the Arab Spring. (She called Libya a “disaster” and said it could end up splitting in two.)

I walked away from this talk with one feeling affirmed (and this will not elicit any “Ohs” of surprise): The region is a mess, and we can’t get out because of our ties to Israel and our thirst for oil. Bennis recounted that she is often called a self-hating Jew for her attacks on the influence of the Jewish lobby in American politics and the immoral policies of the Israeli government vis a vis the Palestinians. I feel pretty much the same way but don’t voice it too often, lest I be charged with anti-Semitism, and I just don’t want to trot out my progressive/pro-Jewish bona fides (“Some of my best ex-wives are Jewish…”) to try to defend myself. But there are Israelis who oppose the settlement policies and apartheid-like conditions; there are American Jews who don’t want US politicians to decide the country’s Middle Eastern policies based on how much money they get from certain lobbies (or how much they fear the wrath of what they assume is a monolithic Jewish vote in their districts/states).

I suppose the differing views on Israel, what to do with Palestinians and Iran, and the overall direction of our foreign policies comes down to differing intuitions. Goldstein was right again. I know where my moral and political intuitions lead me. And I know they are not shared by most Americans. Sigh.

Egads! More Randomness…

Maybe Santa Fe is more like Connecticut than I thought.

Yesterday I went out for a bike ride on a gloriously warm and sunny Sunday. Today, I emerge from the cave that it is my office and head to the post office, and it’s snowing. Maybe Mark Twain was actually thinking of the Southwest when he made his famous meteorological remark about New England.

Today’s snow was not totally unexpected; only the timing. The forecast was for rain today then possibly some snow tonight. I have yet to see a forecast about the timing/variety/quantity of precipitation here be right, so why should this one have been any different?

Ah, springtime in Santa Fe...

The sensory onslaught brought on by the early snow caught me off guard. A true winter snow, just before it comes or sometimes even once it starts, has a distinct smell. I can’t describe it, but if you’ve lived in a snowy clime, you know what I mean. But today’s air carried the scent of summer rain. And close to the street, a thin fog was rising. All of this, I’m sure, the product of the snow coming after yesterday’s 70-plus temperature, followed by today’s plunge to the mid 30s. Nothing is sticking, of course; even the budding trees are escaping a white enshrouding—so far. But once again, the mountains might see about another foot, and the local meteorologist at the National Weather Service–giddy with today’s wintry blast–would not rule out another spring storm before the month is out.

As much as I love snow, I’m ready for more days like yesterday. It was the first when, while riding, I felt like I could have been comfortable in shorts and a t-shirt. It was an urban jaunt, as most of mine are; maybe later I’ll head farther out of town, or even strap the bike onto the car and really go for a two-wheeled excursion. The bike paths around here make it pretty easy to get to some good locations without venturing onto the multi-lane commercial death traps.

Yesterday I ventured onto some new paths, with no destination in mind; I just wanted to see where they would take me. Mostly, unfortunately, they took me through some areas that were not very pretty. Santa Fe has its beautiful mountain setting, and some of the old parts of town are picturesque. But in places where the city has sprawled beyond its Spanish starting point and highways and railways have been built, some buildings have been abandoned or torn down, and some neighborhood homes don’t look much better. You don’t have to drive through the wasted areas of Detroit for the phrase “urban blight” to pop into your head.

Yet, in the midst of that, signs of the appreciation for the arts, which is so keen here, shine through: a sky-blue mural painted on a cinderblock wall, a fence covered with a mosaic. If nothing else, riding along the paths unexplored before and the streets they linked to gave me more of a feel for my new home. And there’s a freedom and excitement when turning down unknown streets, examining the details of a neighborhood, that I never even try to find in my car. I hate to waste the gas, and I can never duplicate that sense of connection to the landscape that I get on my bike.

Connection. That word. It pops up so often in my plays, my posts, my conversations. Making connections, losing them, searching for new ones, wondering if we can ever over/underestimate their importance. Today’s last little item springs from something I read yesterday in last Sunday’s Times (yes, now more than ever, woefully a step behind in many things). Maureen Dowd was writing about the new production of Death of a Salesman (which seems to be getting great reviews and reminds me again that it will be a long time before I see another Broadway play, and no, road shows do not count).

Phil as dad Willy.

Dowd quotes the revival’s director, Mike Nichols, on the nature of father-and-son relationships, apropos of Salesman:  “The following or not following in the footsteps of the father is a tricky and anxiety-producing discussion between fathers and sons.” Nichols said the tension can be especially acute when the father resents spending his hard-earned cash to help the son pursue what is seen as a foolhardy dream—“‘I’m going to have to spend the money I’ve saved up for you to learn how to be a writer or scenic designer or whatever the hell you want to do?’”

This all struck me as odd. I never felt the universality of this—or maybe I wasn’t looking hard enough. I was blessed with—as I’ve written before—a father who barely made it out high school, yet welcomed my pursuing my dream of becoming a writer. And while I’m sure he would have liked it if I had also completely taken over his office-cleaning business (even though it never came close to providing a full-time wage), he reveled in the time we did spend together bringing order to the janitorial chaos.

Does that mean there was never friction? Of course not. I disappointed at times. But there were no anxiety-producing discussions about who I was and what my life should hold. Maybe the difficulty of his own early family life and his basic goodness and simplicity spared me from the relationships Nichols’ observed: “I know so many people — actors, directors, writers — who can’t get their father to even acknowledge their accomplishments.”

On reflection, I think some of my friends in the bedroom community where I was raised might have had it tougher. Many were the sons of engineers who worked at the local aircraft engine plant, precise men who spent their days surrounded by equations, their nights surrounded by books or “projects” or perhaps too much alcohol. That is not a judgment, as my father had his escape, too, from whatever he might not have wanted to confront. He worked too damn much. But he did it for us, as well as himself.

I do not have my father’s “sin” of workaholism, though I have plenty of demons of mine own. As I recently expressed, maybe I thought this move west was a way to escape them, or placate them, or fool them somehow. The Trickster is such a part of the native mythology, hmm? But I’m not clever enough to trick anyone, I don’t think, least of all very savvy demons. So I just try each day to do the best I can, riding down those new paths, searching for the hidden art, watching the snow quickly melt on the budding flowers. May that water nourish rather than chill the life that hopes to spring from those buds.

Stuff I Learned Last Week

That headline is supposed to lure you into thinking that you will receive useful knowledge from this post.

Nah.

It’s just my cheap, lazy, catch-all way of combining disparate topics that probably deserve separate entries. But aren’t getting them. And I apologize in advance if some—all?—are a little lame. Things have been quiet here in the City Different, though I’m hoping the arrival of spring will change that. The last of the snow is melting in the Sangre de Cristo mountains—at least on the peaks I can see—the temp has been consistently around 70, and I’m sure the social calendar will fill up. Anyway, here is some of the stuff I learned last week.

1. Groupon Has Some Shady Clients

I basically like Groupon (except for the painful marketing copy, which I consider some of the most stupid, contrived writing I’ve ever read). I’m a member of it and a few other online sale sites. I’ve gotten good bargains on many meals, and on services ranging from oil changes to massages (uh, not at the same establishments, I’m glad to report). And back in CT, I even got a great buy on yoga classes. At a ridiculously low price for ten classes, even if you only go to two or three, it’s worth it.

So, when I saw a Groupon offer for a yoga studio here, I was intrigued. It was for Dahn Yoga, and I had often seen its storefront location at the nearby Trader Joe’s shopping center—an easy walk from home, which was an added bonus. I did a quick Google of the place and saw that it was part of some national outfit that was not the typical yoga studio.  Founded by a Korean, it seemed to stress breathing exercises rather than the usual asanas. But what the hell—close and cheap are usually good inducements to get me to spend some cash. So for 35 bucks, I would get ten classes—a $160 value.

I should have dug a little deeper on the Google search.

They look blissful now, but just wait till the mind control kicks in...

A second search on Saturday for the local studio, to find its class schedule, led me to a number of sites that raised a rather disturbing issue: Many people consider Dahn Yoga a cult. Stories by Rolling Stone and CNN, among others, described how students who attended the cheap introductory classes got the hard-sell for expensive ones, and some students who became teachers got sucked into real cult-like experiences—the emotional and physical abuse that breaks one’s will and entraps unsuspecting souls. I decided to eat the money and skip the classes. I wonder how many people were like me, strolling into TJ’s and thinking the store across the way really taught downward dog and the tree pose.

Lesson: Do Your Homework!

2. Avant Garde Can Be Fun

A past Meow Wolf thingy

When it comes to my playwriting I am, sadly, not very hip. I do mostly naturalistic, kitchen-sink stuff. I am anti-edgy. And I’m sometimes wary of troupes that try to blend different art forms in “edgy” ways. Such was the case with Meow Wolf, the current darlings of the Santa Fe arts scene. Without having seen one of their performances (or “happenings,” or whatever the hell they call them), I was predisposed to not like them. Bunch of 20- and 30-something art school grads running around, throwing visual arts, dance, theater, and music together against the wall and seeing what sticks? Who needs it. Yes, basically I was just insanely jealous. But I was still curious enough go to the “mélange” fundraiser they hosted at the Lensic last weekend.

And you know what? I’m glad I did.

The show was curated by two MW members, who also briefly appeared on stage. But mostly it was a cross-section of the performing arts in Santa Fe, from a bluegrass band and singer-songwriters to aerialists, dancers, actors, and filmmakers. Like any variety show, there were highs (literally with the aerialists, and figuratively with one dance number that reminded me of the choreography I’d recently seen in the movie Pina) and lows (the one straight-on play, which, despite some moments of lyrical dialogue, mostly had me thinking, “Please, god, let this end soon”). Some of the acts were avant garde, however you want to define it. And as much as I am not that in my own creations, I’m grateful that there are others out there doing it, even if the finished product leaves me scratching my head.

Now I’m intrigued to see one of Meow Wolf’s own creations, and I’m sure I’ll have plenty of chances. They just received some huge—relatively speaking in the world of the arts—grant, and they will be providing the opening-night entertainment at the Santa Fe Independent Film Festival this fall, for which I am once again volunteerting.

Lesson: Lose Your Preconceptions.

3. Therapy Does Not Solve Everything

In my past blog, I sometimes recounted my times with my therapist, Dr. Chomsky, and his efforts to get me through the worst of the RMD. And, I’m glad to say, they worked. He helped turn the blubbering ball of self-pitying flesh I was in May 2010 into a smiling mound of only occasionally self-pitying flesh. Adding to my recovery was meeting the SFS and coming to Santa Fe. I didn’t think the move would cure any lingering problems; OK, that’s partly a lie. I certainly hoped it would, along with offering some new opportunities for growth.

Some opportunities have come. Some problems remain.

You can take the boy out of Connecticut, but you can’t take the deep-rooted anxieties and foibles out of the boy. I still worry about work—having enough of it to pay the bills. I still obsess about achieving success with my playwriting. I still, still, worry about health issues.  I still think I have not reached my full potential in so many realms and wonder if I have the discipline to ever do so. I try to reframe my thoughts into positive vibrations. My frames are often askew.

The Master says...

The change-of-scenery-not-being-panacea thing got me thinking about a quote I cut out long (ten years this month) ago. It’s from the Zen Buddhist master Dogen: “Do not travel to other dusty lands, forsaking your own sitting place; if you cannot find the truth where you are now, you will never find it.”

Well, I’m in a dusty land now. Maybe this will be my ultimate sitting place, where I find truth. Maybe I will never find it. But I know I have to keep trying.

Lesson:  Listen to the old Buddhist dudes.

That’s it, my lessons. I’m sure there were others, smaller perhaps, but no less important in the moment, Setting these down, I think I see another lesson: We can find knowledge in many things, if we open ourselves to seeing its endless sources. Or something like that.

Here a Home, There a Home…

We’re rapidly approaching six months since that day I loaded my car with as much as it could carry, picked up a good friend to go along for the ride, and began that long drive from Connecticut to Santa Fe. Yes, a great distance in miles, and in many ways in culture as well, despite our sharing the same president, the same detailed coverage of the inanities and insults that are the Republican primary season, and—oddly—the same unusually warm March weather.

Another six-month milestone passed recently too: the anniversary of my meeting, in the flesh, my SFS. She reminded me of the occasion; I let it slip by, probably because I was agonizing over the impending birthday that came just a few days later.

The relationship goes well. At times, though, I worry that I am still too tied to her orbit. As in the lowest of the low days back during the RMD, I spend too much time alone. Feel loneliness. And if Sharon is not around, my options for having human interaction usually come down to heading to the coffee shop or walking to Trader Joe’s.

I said human interaction, not meaningful human interaction.

Oops, wrong assignment...

This one might work...

There has been the photo Meetup to get me out of the house and conversing a bit with others. The last few sessions have been good, and the assignments do force me to go out to shoot (even if I did screw up the last assignment and shot the topic wrong…). And I’m still hoping for some theatrical endeavors to lead to some social connections. I’ll be taking a sketch-writing class at some point, when it’s offered again. The improv company that runs it had a full house this session. I’m also tossing around an idea for hosting an informal playreading/social event here at Casita Miguel, but I just haven’t pulled the trigger. Fear of rejection I suppose. After all, the fellow playwrights barely know me, and who’s to say they like what they know.

Do you detect an undercurrent of melancholia here? Or if not that, then self-pity? All right, I admit it. Despite loving Santa Fe, loving Sharon, I do feel isolated at times. I miss having regular, meaningful contact with most of my CT friends (with a few notable exceptions; you know who you are, and thank you). I was disappointed by the lack of birthday greetings last week, even as the inevitability of aging stares me in the face and often depresses me (though it was nice to hear my massage therapist say that I have good skin tissue—resilient, was that the word?).

A recent NYT article got me thinking about being away from “home,” even as I tell myself home is wherever I’m living and feel connected. (And I do feel connected to many things here.) The gist was that even as modern society sees immigration and migration as normal, even commendable, we still get homesick. “Many people who leave home in search of better prospects end up feeling displaced and depressed.” Now, I did not leave for “better prospects” in the material sense. This move felt much more about deepening spiritual and emotional ones. And yes, to a degree, putting greater psychological space between myself and the RMD. But history is history no matter where you are. You don’t forget it. Or I don’t. Can’t. The good and the bad history.

Some of the loved ones back home, in the homestead.

As bizarre as it was for me, as a 50-something divorced man, to move back into my childhood home with my mother for two months, it also stirred up good history. Sitting at the desk where my father once pounded out news tidbits for his Elks newsletter, how could I not think of the hours I spent with him in the barn as he sanded and varnished what had been an abandoned piece of worn furniture? Or going through the gold and silver coins he left my mother, wasn’t it inevitable that I’d think about the first pennies he gave me to start my own coin collection? I spent a good bit of those two months in the basement, just as he had done. I saw in my head the hours he worked putting up the paneling and putting down the floor tiles. I replayed the moment when, sitting at the desk where I made models, I hacked at a piece of thick plastic with my X-acto knife. The blade slipped and gashed my thumb. My father took me to the hospital. Touching the scar brings back the memory of my first emergency-room visit.

I uncovered memories of other relatives, too, during those two months. How could I look at the small farmhouse next door and not think about my grandparents, who once lived there, and all the ravioli I ate there on holidays, and how our two yards formed what seemed like an endless playground. And the stay also stirred memories of the larger place around that playground—the rolling hills, the orchards, the sense that you were entering a special part of the world every time you made that turn up Matson Hill, just below Rose’s farm.

Homesick? No, not sick. But being away from that place, then immersing myself in it, and then leaving again, farther than I have ever gone before, has been strange. Modern technology does not shrink the distance, even as it can make it easier to stay in touch (with the people who choose to use it). I know over time I will forge more connections here. And maybe some of the CT people will even come for a visit. At least I have the history, the memories, though at times, the vividness of them and the emotions they stir are a double-edged sword. The images are usually tied to people—people I can’t touch or see in the flesh.

 

Politics, New Mexico Style

As the political season heats up, I promise to keep my rants about the national scene to a minimum, though if Sick Rick gets the Republican nod, all bets are off. No, I want to focus on events in my adopted home, though one player here has been whispered about as a potential national candidate; some day, if not in 2012. More on that later.

You might have heard about a few local races this winter that made national news. There were the shenanigans down in Sunland Park, a corrupt little spot near the Mexican border. One candidate was videotaped receiving a topless lap dance as part of a blackmail scheme by his opponent, who won the election. Ah, a little touch of the Wild West remains, I see. Then there was the mayoral victor in Clovis, which sits near Texas. He once called Barack Obama the “carnal manifestation of evil” (carnal? I guess not in the sexual sense of the word…) and said his election was part of a CIA plot. Well, everyone knows that.

The Round House, so called because the minority party has to buy the rounds.

On the state level, New Mexico’s political theatrics had its kick off in late January, which was most notable for making it hard for the teeming crowds to come see my play at the Santa Fe Playhouse in February. OK, so the teeming crowds weren’t coming out to see my work. But they did have to contend with more difficult parking than usual, as the legislature was in session for 30 days, and parking at the Round House (our capitol building), which is usually free and plentiful to the theater patrons, was off limits for almost the entire run.

Our gov

So what did the fine representatives and senators accomplish during their parking-complicating, abbreviated session (30 days, for the whole year. And in odd years it goes up to a whopping 60. I know, I know, these folks have real jobs, but their daily stipends work out to $4500 for the month. I’d take it…or maybe not. I guess being a legislator is slightly harder than being a freelancer)? By law, they’re only supposed to address bills relating to finance, but the governor has the prerogative to introduce other topics in a “special message.” Governor Susana Martinez, a former DA, won the job in 2010, after most voters were fed up with the showboating (and some say corrupt) ways of Bill Richardson. His lieutenant governor, Diane Denish, was Martinez’s opponent, and she couldn’t overcome the Richardson taint or the power of the Tea Party Express, which propelled so many Republicans into office (we can only hope that the ones up for reelection in the U.S. House will be as quickly propelled out).

The rap on Martinez, from what I’ve seen and heard: She’s never met a big oil company she didn’t like, and their political influence is key in a state rich in natural resources—and environmentalists trying to curb their power. This session, Martinez showed that she likes other large, out-of-state firms too. She vetoed a bill that would have required national big-box stores to pay their fair share of state tax on income earned in New Mexico—something they currently avoid. At the same time, the bill—which had been introduced and shot down several times in the past—would have lowered income taxes for small, in-state firms. Martinez seems to think the Targets and Wal-Marts of the world would flee the state if the bill passed, a notion her opponents rejected.

Oh, Susana, not everyone's crazy about thee...

While Martinez had the power of the veto pen on her side with that bill, she fared less well in getting some of her pet issues through the legislature. The biggest: repealing the law that allows undocumented immigrants to get a driver’s license. I won’t go into the nuances of the pros and cons of this, but one basic argument for granting the licenses is that illegal immigrants are a fact of life here, and better to have them prove they can drive (it’s not like it’s easy to navigate NM’s 121,000 square miles with public transportation). And in a few legal cases, police were able to track down suspects because they were in the state’s data system. Martinez and her supporters see the licenses as ID that potential bad guys could abuse, and a newspaper report did show instances–limited–of fraud in obtaining licenses, though there was no proof (at least that I saw) that any illegal alien with one committed a crime.

Another Martinez biggie was photo ID for voters, showing that Republicans here are just as eager to limit the participation of minorities, college students, and the elderly as they are in other states. The issue of voter fraud pretty much exists in the minds of Republicans not keen on losing elections to Democrats, and another news report showed only several dozen alleged violations—hardly proof of some orchestrated conspiracy.

And in an issue near and dear to my heart, Republican efforts to call for a referendum on reinstating the death penalty failed. Yea! Nationally, there has been progress in abolishing this totally uncalled for punishment, and I would have hated to see NM take a step backward after ending capital punishment here in 2009.

Martinez, like most governors, has a line-item veto on some expenditures, and after the session she made some cuts. Now, compared to other states, the Land of Enchantment is sitting pretty, with a budget surplus expected this year. Democrats wanted, after three years of budget reductions, to spend more of the surplus than Martinez did, while she wanted to cut taxes more than the Democrats did. Quelle surprise. With her line-item veto, Martinez hacked away at about $23 million in public work projects—20 of them in Santa Fe. You might not be surprised to hear that the City Different is heavily Democratic, so perhaps it’s not Susana’s favorite spot in the state.

With the cuts, her tough stance on immigration, and her pledge of no new taxes, Martinez shores up her good-Republican bona fides—actions perhaps done with an eye toward bigger and better things. There has been talk of her as a veep candidate. The tough-talking Latina would be a Republican demographer’s wet dream. She says she’s not interested—at least not now. Maybe she wants a few more years to pass so the bad memories of a certain tough-talking female governor’s exploits while running as the Republican vice presidential nominee fade away (if that’s possible, given how said ex-governor loves the limelight…).

So for now, Susana is ours. I suppose there are worse governors. But it would be nice to have a Dem back in control in 2014. I don’t know who the potential candidates will be, but I’ll lay odds our friend in Clovis won’t be the Republican candidate. I hope. Then again…

Shhh!

So I spent Friday morning doing something I’m not supposed to talk about (no, nothing kinky, you pervs). But I think I can say it involved me doing my civic DUTY, though the JURY is still out about what my actual role could be. And suffice to say the lengthy questionnaire I had to fill out felt like a PENALTY of some kind, though I suppose it was better than DEATH. I’ll have more details once the county bureaucracy gets in gear.