Raw posts and updates from our writers with info too timely or uncategorizable for print. What, we said something stupid? Chime in, buddy.
Winter's Solemn Song
Saturday, Nov 28: Annual Winter Solstice Concert
By August March [ Thu Nov 26 2015 10:00 AM ]
Bach Violin Concerto in A minor, Cantata BWV 151, a selection of beautiful Renaissance motets of the season and recent music from Irsee Monastery in Bavaria.
Wikimedia commons, photographer unknown
Baroque? You Can Afford This!
Chatter Sunday: Baroque Gems + Contemporary Works
By August March [ Fri Nov 20 2015 12:00 PM ]
Hear works from Biber, Messiaen and Burhans as well as poetry by Liza Wolff-Francis. Arrive early for espresso and goodies.
George Cables Trio • jazz
By August March [ Thu Nov 19 2015 12:30 PM ]
One of the great living jazz pianists.
Three Burque Bands
Three vibrant videos
By August March [ Wed Nov 18 2015 9:55 PM ]
Leeches of Lore, Youngsville and Red Light Cameras
Crowning of the Classical Kings
Sunday, Nov 15: Mozart's Coronation Mass
By August March [ Fri Nov 13 2015 7:00 AM ]
The New Mexico Philharmonic, under the baton of Matthew Greer, begins its Neighborhood Concert Series with Mozart's Coronation Mass.
courtesy of the artist
Hear the Electric Howl
Saturday, Nov 14: Wolf Tones Electric Music Festival • Martian Funk • Paul Marquardt • Mesa Ritual • Dwight Loop
By August March [ Thu Nov 12 2015 12:00 PM ]
The music will be... electrifying.
John Phelan / Wikimedia Commons
The House on Silver Avenue
By August March [ Wed Nov 11 2015 9:31 PM ]
I am going to need another tug off that bottle of Thunderbird if I am going to go down there and rescue one of those kittens said Charlie to the spare but shabby living room of the house on Silver Avenue.
Chauncy was in the room under the stairs which contained a sink, a shower and crapper. He did not hear Charlie talking nonsense about the cats because he was getting ready for his evening shift at the steakhouse. Chauncy was frantically trying to coax chicken fat stains out of his black trousers with a toothbrush and a bottle of Florida Water.
The others were in the first-floor bedroom, across from all of that. They couldn't hear Charlie either. Michael was smoking dirt weed out of a pipe he had carved from an apple, reclining like royalty on the bed while his stunned girlfriend Sherri sat in the corner picking glitter out of her hair and counting Jeffersons. They moved in last week and Charlie knew them about as well as any of the other punk rockers from across the street.
Charlie looked around and realized he was speaking to empty space, chatting with the void. He got up and dragged himself to the kitchen. Tim Lodgeson was in there cooking a chicken in the microwave. He had the whole thing in the oven for ten minutes while the two of them sat around jawing about school. Charlie couldn't make heads or tails of what Lodgeson told him. It was something about forests and capitalism.
When the meat came out it was gray. It had the appearance of plastic. Tim took the bird and skewered it with a big silver serving fork he had taken from the cafeteria last semester, around Thanksgiving. He started gnawing on the chicken as if he had not eaten for a week, like he had conquered a small but vicious dinosaur with teeth and technology.
Charlie excused himself politely, gagged and walked out onto the back porch. He could hear the kittens in the basement mewling for their mother. The hell with the Thunderbird, he thought, I sure would like a new pet cat. Further reasoning that such an outcome would be a pleasant surprise for his girlfriend, he sauntered down the stairs and into the darkness.
He felt his way around for a bit until he could reach out and pull on the chain that turned on the light bulb in the middle of basement. Sure enough, there was a litter of cats in the basement. Their mother was nowhere to be seen. Charlie crept over to snatch up a tiny calico.
An eruption of teeth and fur and hair and blood coincided with that action as the hidden mother pounced. The living fury would not come off him, though he clawed and clawed at it. He retreated and was filled up with a queasy combination of shame and horror. The damn thing finally let up when he got to the door, lunging for the knob and hitting his head on the concrete as he fell toward the yard.
Back inside of the house on Silver Avenue, Michael and Sherri had crept out their room and were watching Hee Haw in the big front room. Chauncy was in the kitchen critiquing Tim's culinary procedures as he attempted to saw a leg off of what was left of the poultry experiment. Chauncy was dressed for work now. He looked like a million bucks and was being awfully careful not to get any schmaltz on his waiter's uniform as he danced around Tim's meaty methodologies.
As the two went on and on about the wonders of microwave cooking and with the mellow sounds of George Jones drifting through the whole place, Charlie entered from the porch. He asked for a wet towel and wondered aloud where his bottle of wine might have gotten to. Saturday night had just begun.
The Daily Word in the Feds, football and propulsion systems that defy physics
By August March [ Sun Nov 8 2015 11:59 AM ]
Federal investigators are interested in goings-on within Governor Susana Martinez' administration.
South by Southwest, Austin's yearly alternative music event, is the best way to see a year's worth of live music in a long weekend. Hint: it's not too late to find a Southwest flight to Austin and the hotels haven't sold out, yet.
The Lobo Football squad held off a fourth quarter field goal attempt to beat Utah State 14-13 at University Stadium on Saturday afternoon.
Wapo's teevee critic Hank Stuever laments the Donald's appearance on SNL.
The NM Environment Department will begin coordinating clean up efforts of a downtown Albuquerque toxic waste spill discovered in the 1990s.
NASA's Eagleworks Laboratories continues to test the controversial EmDrive.
courtesy of the artist
Troubadours of the 21st Century
Sunday, Nov 8: Gabrielle Louise & Justin Evan Thompson • singer-songwriters
By August March [ Fri Nov 6 2015 1:00 PM ]
Throughout American musical history, the appearance and ascendence of singer-songwriters is a cyclical thing imbued with mellifluous melody and intriguing lyricism.
By August March [ Wed Nov 4 2015 8:05 PM ]
Freeman had a good idea of what was going to go on later that night, but didn't let on until he was sure his father had passed out in the living room from a twelve pack of Lowenbrau Dark and the stress that comes from designing nuclear weapons for a living.
He crept out into the garage, yanked down the back gate of the old man's red and white FJ55 and dragged the inflatable raft out the storage bay. Duck feathers and dog hair went flying everywhere, but finally the raft was on the cement floor.
He went back in for a moment and made sure Harold was comfortable, threw a blanket over him for effect, while the old master snored and snored away. Then he got on the phone, dragging the handset—and the ten foot coiled plastic cord that followed it everywhere—into a pantry by the kitchen, for privacy.
On the other end of a connection made possible by manipulating a rotating plastic wheel with the index finger, Alexander listened intently while Freeman layed out his idea: They were going to climb up on top of the big water tank that was nestled in the foothills by the high school.
Using stealth, a pair of bolt cutters taken from shop class—while Mr. Duran was hamming it up on the table saw—and of course, Harold's prized hunting raft, they were going to float around and maybe even take a swim in the largest artificial body of water either Eagle Scout could ever imagine.
Alexander's folks were running some sort of high-
Alex locked Arcoiris the retriever in the back bedroom and grabbed the keys to his van. It was a forest green Dodge that comfortably sat eight. Alexander and his friends called it the Congo van, mostly because they imagined one day taking it on a road trip to Africa or somewhere thereabouts.
Before he got to Freeman's pad, he stopped at Sherri's place, which was only two doors down. It was a sprawling ranch-style with a weeping willow and heaps of lava rock in front. He convinced Sherri and her pal Barbara to join in on the action. The two gals climbed out a bedroom window.
Both of them lit up Salems as they took a seat in the very back of the Dodge. Put on KFMG Sherri said, they are playing a special on the new Pink Floyd album. Alexander grimaced and spit out the window. He already heard Animals; it sucked. So, he tuned the radio to KRST instead, and started headbanging to some song or other about a Green Manalishi. The group drove by Allsups and picked up a dozen burritos and a twelve pack of Jolt Cola for luck.
By this time, Freeman was waiting out in the drive way, had folded the inflatable raft into a lumpy bundle. He was anxious to get going and when Alexander arrived, ran up to the Congo van and started shouting about how they didn't have all night and for crissakes, why'd he bring Sherri and Barbara along?
Just in case the unexpected happens, said Alexander, plus which, both of them can drive a five speed and that ought to count for something.
It was no trouble climbing up to the top of the water tank, hell there was even a staircase. Sherri and Barbara stayed in the van with a walkie talkie, six of the Jolts, and all of the burritos. That was meant to be a reward to be bestowed when Alexander and Freeman returned, wetly triumphant.
As Freeman cut the chains that locked the door at the very top of the tank, Alexander dragged the raft into position. Once past the gate, they lugged the raft and a 50 foot rappelling rope over the top. At the center of the tank there was a simple but awfully large metal grate. They struggled to lift the grate. Finally it gave way and rolled off the tower, clanging and tolling like a church bell when it hit the asphalt below.
Alexander made a bowline knot around one of the stair-railings and threw the rope down into the dark hole. Freeman hit the inflate button and tossed the raft down there too. Both of the scouts activated their flashlights and left their hiking boots at the edge of the water tower's maw. Freeman stared at his watch.
Alexander got on the walkie talkie. Barbara and Sherri were on the other side, parked down the road a ways, by the Temple of the Nazarene. He told them if they didn't hear back in exactly two minutes, one of them ought to come up the stairs with the flare gun while the other drives over to Fire Station 16 to tell what happened.
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