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Votives
Andrew Raymond

Event Horizon

Now 2

Friday, Aug 26: Votives • instrumental, ambient, post rock • Cryogenic Styles • Five Mile Float • indie • Spice Boys • punk rock • Cee Mo

See the second of a series of events hosted by Weekly Alibi featuring the best local bands.

News

The Daily Word in Groceries, Triple-A Beisbol, Kirko Bangz and Gigantic Bluegill

The Daily Word

As of 6am this fine August morning, there is a grocery store in downtown Albuquerque and it is open.

The Albuquerque Isotopes went 12 innings against the El Paso Chihuahuas, but lost 4-2 after Chihuahuas' third baseman Carlos Asuage and shortstop Jóse Rondón came alive late in the game.

Members of the Kirtland Air Force Base 512th Rescue Squadron recently saved a couple of hikers who were lost in the mountains of Colorado. But they had to leave the llamas behind.

The Daily Lobo reports on violence at the Metropolitan Detention Center and the protests that have consequently ensued.

H-Town rapper Kirko Bangz caused some trouble in Hobbs.

New Mexico's Human Services Department will now be under the guidance of a special master.

At Shady Lakes, Northwest of town, "There are some gigantic bluegill hanging out at the trout gutting station."

Music

VJ Time

Wednesday night at the terminal


Here is one way to spend part of this evening.

Because of the power of the interwebz, it's possible to listen to and view parts the jam-packed history of rocanrol music made here in the Duke City.

This is what I found tonight.


King Richard and the Knights were a mid-sixties Burque band fronted by Dick Stewart. Stewart also started one of this town's first record labels, Lance Records. The original guitarist for the outfit was the father of local '90s guitar legend Lewi Longmire (Apricot Jam).


Then there's Cracks in the Sidewalk. After an art-damaged opening sequence featuring Dirt City new wave progenitor Rodger Venue, Cracks take over. Black Maria's Gordy Andersen, Judson Frondorf, Chris Partain, Jez Velazquez and Mike Rose rock the heck out on Channel 27.


Ah, The Drags. Keith Herrera becomes all drums now while Lorca Wood melts into the rhythm and guitarist/crooner C.J. Stritzel dishes on dark dreams.


Unit 7 Drain was a thing in the early aughts. Two of them are currently engaged with a new thing called Shoulder Voices, which is awesome. Note the creeping glam goodness of Little Bobby Tucker seeping through their sound, signaling the future.


Before I turn the terminal over to a very good friend, who, by the way, plans on rocking nothing but the Smiths, Clan of Xymox and DJ Shadow for the next six hours (she's on fleek), here's the highlight of tonight's outing.

Here is a totally awesome new video by Chicharra, a masterfully multi-layered insect glam ensemble from right here in beautiful Albuquerque, New Mexico.

Happy listening!

Big Head Todd and the Monsters

Event Horizon

Wild West

Saturday, Aug 20: Westside Summerfest

Enjoy live music from Big Head Todd & The Monsters, a microbrew garden, food, art and family-friendly fun.

News

The Daily Word In Another Land

The 10pm News

The Daily Word

Goodbye, Gawker.

Meanwhile in Malawi, a "heartless burglar" was will spend the next seven years in remand.

A rainy summer up north means more mosquitoes in Manitoba.

A Channel NewsAsia-Institute of Policy Studies survey found that racism is still an issue in Singapore.

The leader of Nepal's newly formed government will meet with the Indian Prime Minister to discuss economic aid for the struggling Himalayan nation.

Here's an update from Aleppo.

A young man residing in the Vale of South Glamorgan was busted for selling cannabis, but avoided jail.

Jigging for squid was recently banned at Nantucket's town pier.

In other fishing news, a Burqueña caught a seven pound Large Mouth Bass at Elephant Butte Lake by trolling a Bomber.

Ladies and Gentlemen, The Rolling Stones.

Rebekkah Drake

Event Horizon

Rollin' on Through

Rocksquawk

See the bands Silversun Pickups, A Silent Film and Kiev.
Rio Grande
/ Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 3.0 Unported

Creative Non-Fiction

About Water

Here are some stories about water.

I am fascinated by its absence; here in the high desert the dry earth is something I have both feared and revered. A dweller of mesas and arroyos, water remains elusive to me; it is a half-remembered dream.

My family moved to Albuquerque when I was twelve. Before that, we lived on the edge of the Navajo Nation. There was an arid beauty there, expansive and windblown. I remember being driven to small fishing lakes in Navajoland and not being able to believe that so much water could gather in one place.

Sometimes I would wander around the mesas and arroyos, almost drifting across them like a bird, finding waterholes and scratching up clay from the surrounding soil.

We went to Gallup often, shopped at place called Trademart and ate at various restaurants with names like "The Ranch Kitchen" or "Mucho Burger." On the weekends, the old man would drive us to Albuquerque, to visit friends and relatives.

Driving around the state with my father - who was oddly enough, a sailor - at the helm of a car he called a boat, my brother and I would hang our heads out the windows and scream in defiance of the water towers we passed.

They were monumental and mysterious and contained a force mostly unknown to us: the gathering together of powers we had only seen during the rare days of late summer thunderstorms, that we had only waded through, shin deep, in murky rivulets and ponds.

Here was that force, personified and unified, in mighty metal towers. The travels we took with the dude seemed to begin and end with those risen behemoths.

The towers loomed on this horizon and that. I suppose we imagined them to be a type of metallic creature, robots which might careen out of control at any time, drowning us with both malevolent size and watery contents.

The old man would glance in the rear view mirror and laugh and cuss when he saw one approaching; my mother would turn up the radio and prepare for the worst.

I grew older and stopped screaming. But water remained an elusory aspect of my world. By the time we finally moved to Burque, I remember standing at the edge of the Rio Grande, staring.

When I asked my father about this utterly strange phenomenon, a river that flowed, he said the world was a watery place, that my confusion was contrary to the way of nature. Water was a precious substance that made a difficult and dangerous magic, he warned.

And so, he also taught us to swim, mostly at pools around town. There was one at the Albuquerque Country Club. There was another at the Mountainside YMCA. Our favorite became a pool called the A-Pool. It was a public pool located near Pennsylvania and Menaul. It was shaped like a gigantic letter A.

To further pique our interest in the water, he would also make us watch the Val De La O show.

The Val De La O was a local teevee show that was broadcast live on Saturday mornings, from the KOB studios, in the 1970s and 1980s.

Besides providing entertaining Nuevo Mexicano music for my then young and beautiful parents to dance to, De La O featured a variety of fascinating celebrities as guests. One of his frequent visitors was Johnny Weissmuller.

Weissmuller was an Olympic swimmer who had risen to fame portraying Tarzan in the movies. By the time of my childhood, he had retired from his fictional vine-swinging, vicious lion and Nazi-fighting duties and often visited Albuquerque.

My father hoped that Tarzan's recollections of his watery exploits would encourage us to become safe and strong swimmers, despite the lack of water all around us.

He was mostly right.

Years later, long after De La O and his hilarious sidekick Mario Leyva (he was sort of like the Duke City version of Cantinflas, sabes?) had taken their leave of the studios on Coal Avenue, I nearly drowned in the Gila River.

My brother and I were camping with some other undergrads and decided to hike along the east fork of the river. The twin warned me that the spring rains spelled treachery, but I ignored his admonitions. I decided to cross the swollen river.

In transit, I slipped on a rock, fell and was pushed under the torrent. The current was swift. I could not lift myself against it, and became submerged in it. It was surprisingly quiet down there. I began to see pictures of my life being paraded around the backs of my eyelids.

When I had just about given up, I saw an image of a water tower rising above a dusty road. On that road, a super stock Pontiac roared along with kids screaming in the back seat and Jefferson Airplane blasting out of the open windows.

And like that tower, which held water, I decided to rise. Like that car which sought out water, I moved, somehow resurgent, somehow robotic. Lifting my head up out of the Gila River, I took a deep breath and did as I had been trained to do.

My brother was standing on the bank of the river, screaming.

This is what he shouted as I climbed up on a rock, loud enough to be heard over the din of the water, which was roaring like a beast: "Who in the hell do you think you are, Tarzan?"

That night, back in the student ghetto, I dreamt of clay, of arroyos and dust.

Daily Word

The Daily Word in Gary Johnson, drive through dope, naked accident victims and curly tail grubs

The Daily Word

The Albuquerque rally for third-party presidential candidate and former NM Governor Gary Johnson, originally scheduled for today, has been rescheduled to August 20.

A New Mexico Man charged with incest told authorities that he felt the relationship would spare his mother from further abuse and neglect.

Health department officials have rejected plans for a drive-through medical cannabis dispensary in Albuquerque.

In more local news, a naked man jumped into traffic and was hit by a car on I-40.

Second Judicial District Judge Alisa Hadfield set up a strict list of restrictions on news media covering the trial of former APD officers Keith Sandy and Dominique Perez. The two are charged with the death of homeless camper James Boyd in 2014. Their trial commences in September.

On Wednesday night, the Albuquerque Isotopes defeated the Las Vegas 51s by a score of 8-7, completing a four-game sweep of the Nevada team.

Although fishing on the Jemez River is slow this week, conditions are fair at Cochiti Lake for those using curly tail grubs. Meanwhile, hotdogs for bait still kill at Tingley Beach.

Short Fiction

Jones Goes to College, Part Two

Charlie Jones could be one helluva fire-breather. We'll never know for sure. When most folks looked at him straight on, all they saw was a glimpse of something vast and watery, momentarily compressed into the shape and size of clown made from his father's enchiladas and his mother's latkes.

If Jones liked you, he'd more than likely let you do most of the talking. He’d sit back listening and fiddling around with his pipe. Occasionally Charlie would check for burn holes on his shirt while you went on about any old thing. He'd end up by winking at the dogs setting next to him before smiling wanly and shaking your hand gently.

And if he didn't like you, he would interrupt constantly and make grand and obscure literary allusions designed to imply disdain for the supposed rottenness of the entire species of hairless apes of which he was a reluctant member. On such occasions, he was operating under the assumption that we were all charlatans, payasos and schmendriks rolled up into a garbage scow that was way to big to be floated down the Rio Grande without some significant damage being done to the surrounding natural environment.

That was Charlie's power with silence and with words. It was some gift.

So, it wasn't any sort of surprise when one of his associates discovered the dude had altered history by leaving some events dangling in a story he had recently posted.

The fellow who discovered the temporal anomaly just happened to be a luminescent, transdimensional plasma being. His name was unpronounceable. He reckoned that if Jones left things in his tale the way they were, the result would be a global nuclear conflagration in the year 2137.

The disaster would be caused by miscommunication about replacement refrigerator compressor trade between the Republic of Texas and the Confederation of Coastal Chicanos – which, by the way, would one day span the distance from the east bank of the Rio Grande clear on over to the Pacific Ocean.

Charlie got the news by telephone while he was listening to some chamber music by Johannes Brahms and reading the Surgeon General's warning on a pack of low tar cigarettes.

“Godammit,” he told his parallel universe-jumping pal, “I can't say what really went down because Burque is tiny, sabes? It might cause some discomfort. Even if I change the names around and all that jazz,” he gravely intoned—as the wind rattled around the wires and the connection so that there was a sort of electrical crackle coming through the headset—“people will know.”

“You don't want to cause a war,” hissed the entity on the other side of the trunk, so why don’t you just finish the story.”

Enticed and compelled in a manner that may one day be cinematically depicted by a medium shot of the planet Jupiter and its inner moons floating grandly in space, Jones transmitted the following addendum, known here, for archival purposes, as Jones Goes to College, Part Two:

One Saturday afternoon, a couple of weeks after Thanksgiving and when December had just begun to creep into New Mexico upon flat clouds, when the short days seemed to be pulled down low, Zelda showed up at Harvard House.

She was sitting in a rickety Ford pickup truck with a bent-up hood and smoky exhaust. The damned thing was being driven by a chap by the name of Leon. In between the two sat Ruth.

“Come on,” Zelda whispered to Jones, “come on up to the Jemez with us, we are going to Spence Hot Springs.” They drove north and Leon was drunk. The gals laughed a lot. Charlie wondered if there was anything better on the radio than the tape they were listening to, which was something by a band named after a faraway continent.

The four of them got to the mountains and stumbled around in the dark for about an hour. They only had one flashlight. Charlie finally located the springs by using a lensmatic compass with a radium dial and a map he had picked up at the gas station in San Ysidro.

It was cold and raining small ice crystals that night but they gingerly undressed anyway. Navigating to the edge of the pool, each entered it with great fragility and unconscious circumspection.

For thirty minutes none of the bathers spoke or looked up into the night sky or at each other—except for Leon. He was boracho. He kept taking liver-blistering hits from a bottle of Canadian Club and winking at the other three. Charlie knew it was time to go when Leon yacked all over his own pile of clothes while trying to retrieve a frajo from his jean jacket.

On the way back they heard Led Zeppelin III playing on 94 Rock. It was amazing what you could hear at four in the morning, Jones mused as the city of Albuquerque floated into view.

For a little while after that, Charlie hung out with Zelda. That mostly meant she'd come by Harvard House where they would make out frantically while Jones’ roommates painted abstract pictures or read National Lampoon in the living room.

But they never really bonded. Charlie realized that something was wrong after he took Zelda to see Dune at the Hiland Theater. Zelda refused to take her gloves off during the show and squirmed uncomfortably in her seat when the Guild Navigators were on screen.

On New Year's Eve, Zelda and Jones went to a party. She was late; he went through a sixer of Mickey's Big Mouth Malt Liquor in the meantime. Both of those humans were very far away from each other by the time they met up and so they mostly lost track of one another at the party. On the way home, Charlie yacked all over Zelda and passed out in the passenger seat of her new car.

That would have been that, but Charlie wanted the last word, just like the narrator told you at the beginning of all of this.

It was January and snowing like hell. Jones borrowed a car to drive up to the Heights where Zelda was staying. On the way he picked up a day-old bouquet of flowers at Allsups. As he was turning into her driveway, Charlie wrecked the car, a green Ford station wagon that had previously been used to haul around golf course equipment somewhere in Maryland. She came down to look at the wreck but acted like she didn't know Jones at all. She wondered aloud who he was and why he had chosen her house.

Charlie was sober. The auto had insurance. The cops let him go. Jones retreated silently, gracefully back to the student ghetto and waited for the spring semester to begin.

The next summer, Charlie heard that Leon had been crippled in a motorcycle accident, that Zelda was living two streets away with a serial womanizer and drunk, that Ruth had gone off to Sarah Lawrence to study anthropology. And all he'd done since was write and study, taking occasional breaks to stare at the sunlight coming through the front window in between times.

Some 152 years later, near the spot where Jones pondered the significance of meta-fiction in American literature, a great war was narrowly averted.

Event Horizon

The Stuffed Animal Band

Friday, Aug 12: Shoulder Voices Album Release Party

Local rock'n'roll heavyweights perform live.
 

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