V.25 No.32 | 8/11/2016
Courtesy of the University of New Mexico
A Chronicle of Misdeeds
Valencia scandal points to a larger issue at UNM
By August March
August March chronicles a series of unfortunate incidents at UNM, calling for an end to the culture that engendered them.
V.25 No.32 | 08/11/2016
Jones Goes to College, Part Two
By August March [ Wed Aug 10 2016 8:34 PM ]
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.
V.25 No.31 | 08/04/2016
Jones Goes to College, Part One
By August March [ Wed Aug 3 2016 10:49 PM ]
Jones dug the hell out of that first semester at Coronado Hall. It was awesome, even if there always was some dude from Peñasco or Ojo Caliente passed out, drowning in his voluminous post-beer-bong vomit in the third floor head. The world was over for that rascal except for toilets and tile floors thought Jones as he hit the shower.
The Grateful Dead tapestry he put up on the window to shut out the light was, like, a total hit with his roommate and the fellows next door. And damn it all if the food wasn't a gazillion times better than at Allsup's.
With “Yow!” and “Yeah!” serving as enthusiastic interjections, the semester jetted out quick across the blue dome of the world. That spring, Charlie Jones made a grip of ceramic objects, read and decoded two situationist texts and learned how to tinkle out a couple of dances by Bartok.
Jones decided, as sure as eggs was eggs, he could never move home again. Living with the old man wasn't of any use, anyhow. That dude never seemed to get over his Afghan hound Duchess dying early. Twenty years had come and gone and it was still like living on the moon when Dad was around, all silent and dusty.
Reckoning the student ghetto was the way to go, Charlie began exhaustive research focused on finding a shack he could call his own. He did not have to extend himself too much into that realm mostly because he happened to run into his pal Donna in front of the student union.
It was just about May in those parts and Donna was gamboling about on the lawn with a lady friend who was dressed all in white. She was sporting a long skirt and sorta looked like Stevie Nicks, except for her hair. Her mop was as black as crow feathers and was blowing around in the springtime wind like it was trying to fly away into the clouds or something.
After a couple of obligatory hippie-hugs, Donna introduced Zelda and let it out the two of them had found an underground haven. It was a remodeled, carpeted, and suitably dark basement apartment they had found south of campus. The deal was they needed a third person to make the rent.
“You gotta be fucking kidding me,” Jones said as a storm came up and it started to rain like it used to do in Albuquerque before the environmental disaster of 2037.
The next morning, Jones got up early and hauled his sorry ass over to the student ghetto. It was early, with the light just coming over the new jungle of tired elms that framed the place. As Charlie approached the underground pad, a dude dressed like a steam-shovel operator came racing up the stairs with Zelda on his heels in a fashion that vaguely reminded Jones of the German retreat from Stalingrad.
Charlie stood there while the two of them began to argue and cajole, gesticulate and weave. After about five minutes of that, the guy in the industrial costume lumbered over to his El Camino and rolled away while April Wine blasted through the truck’s speakers. Zelda gritted her teeth and extended her right hand, all friendly, acting like nothing at all weird had just happened around there—or anywhere else earth—for that matter.
But Jones sensed she was unsettled about the whole thing. With Zelda standing out there in her bare feet, toeing at the dirt nervously and clad in an oversized wife-beater and sweatpants, he gravely intoned—drawing back a ways as they shook hands—“Tell you what, I'll start bringing my stuff over tomorrow.”
It poured water from the sky for the next two days and the lightning flashed and flashed. When the storm let up, when Charlie Jones finally got moved in, he still thought it was a sweet deal. There was a tiny kitchen at the top of the stairs and the rest of the place really was underground; all the walls were cool to the touch and hardly any light got in at all.
Donna was never home. Sometimes Jones played new wave music recordings in the big room in very back of the joint. Otherwise kept to himself and got up early every morning so as to dutifully haul his sorry ass to school.
He couldn’t tell whether Zelda worked or not. Every time he went by her room, the door was open with Fleetwood Mac songs floating through the air, incense wafting here and there and Zelda reclining languidly on her bed while leafing through books about food and flowers.
She'd usually glance at him wanly as he passed. He'd smile vaguely or give her the Vulcan hand salute. One or the other of them would tilt their head curiously before looking away.
After two months of that, a spot opened up at Harvard House, which was a broke down palace occupied by a collective of artists. Their pad was right down the street from a haunted house; a decent pizza joint was just a block away. That was an easy choice thought Jones as he handed over three Franklins to his new landlord.
Charlie split from the underground chanti just before the sun came up so he didn't have to make eye contact with Zelda. He didn't see her again until a big house party came around just after Thanksgiving. By then it was easy enough for both to pretend they were strangers.
That was the only pretense they chose to preserve as the two began making out on the couch. As their hands entwined, Zelda tried to remember the previous summer while Charlie attempted to recall what sorta tuneage the lady favored. Everyone else was out on the porch drinking tequila, eating pumpkin pie and watching a winter tempest come down from the mountains.
V.25 No.26 | 06/30/2016
Raise Your Voice
Tuesday, Jul 12: UNM Seal Forum
By Monica Schmitt [ Sun Jul 10 2016 10:00 AM ]
The first of a series of discussions with the public about the meaning and future of the seal of UNM.
V.25 No.22 | 6/2/2016
APD Stops Targeting Homeless, Mentally Ill in Reverse Drug Stings
By Joshua Lee
APD ends drug entrapment, the city offers $10k reward for violent protesters, and there were years of tension between UNM and Gathering of Nations.
V.25 No.21 | 05/26/2016
Thursday, Jun 2: Taos Poetry Festival
By Monica Schmitt [ Wed Jun 1 2016 10:10 AM ]
Story slams, workshops and open mics featuring poetsÂ Ocean Vuong, Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer, Nathan Brown, Sabina Jones and Alyia Martinson.
An Odd Adventure (for an Otter)
Wednesday, Jun 1: Otter's Odd Adventure
By August March [ Mon May 30 2016 10:00 AM ]
World premiere performance of a new work for narrator and orchestra by the creator of "Too Much Coffee Man Opera."
V.25 No.16 | 04/21/2016
Who Needs Picasso?
Friday, Apr 29: ArtsUnexpected
By Monica Schmitt [ Wed Apr 27 2016 1:00 PM ]
ThisÂ student-curated event features over 250 artists including filmmakers, dancers, thespians, visual artists and musicians performing and showcasing their works across campus.
V.25 No.11 | 03/17/2016
Danger at the Rodeo
Press Release [ Thu Apr 14 2016 1:15 PM ]
Karen Glinski, retired hot-air balloon pilot, will be at Page One Books at 2:30pm on Sunday, April 17, to talk about and sign her young-adult book, Danger at the Rodeo.
The book is described as such: "This exciting young adult book is the second to feature Emerson, his dog Lucky and his grandpa Charlie, a Navajo elder. This time, all three are headed to a week-long rodeo but instead of fun, they are plucked headlong into a criminal coping scandal and Lucky is stolen. Emerson begins a race against time to save his beloved dog and expose the criminal before they get him!"
Glinski was born in Yokohama, Japan, and grew up the oldest of six children in a military family. She majored in Anthropology at UNM, where she formed a life-long interest in the Native American cultures of the Southwest. She shares her Albuquerque home with two miniature dachshunds, Mr. Bojangles and Wee Willie Winkie. A retired hot-air balloon pilot, Glinski spends her time working, writing and training her doxies in rally and scent discrimination. Danger at the Rodeo is her second published book and the sequel to Stranded at Sheep Camp. She is working on the third book in this series, The Badge of Honor.
Page One Books is located at 5850 Eubank NE, Suite B-41, in Albuquerque's Mountain Run Shopping Center (southeast corner of Eubank and Juan Tabo). The Glinski event is free and open to the public. For more information, please call 294-2026 or visit www.page1book.com.
Teaching Across Cultural Strengths
Press Release [ Tue Apr 5 2016 1:00 PM ]
UNM Associate Professor Alicia Chávez will be at the UNM Bookstore on Thursday, April 7, at 12pm to sign copies of Teaching Across Cultural Strengths (Stylus, 2016).
In Teaching Across Cultural Strengths, Chávez suggests that an imbalance in the teaching and learning situation exists when the teacher teaches from one cultural perspective and the student's primary learning experiences come from another cultural perspective. To enhance the possibility that the student will master the learning situation and achieve its deep objectives, it is important that college teachers expand their cultural reach and include multicultural perspectives in the teaching and learning situations. Teaching Across Cultural
Alicia Chávez is an Associate Professor in Educational Leadership and Policy at UNM. She has served as collegiate leader, student affairs professional, and faculty member in universities around the country. Chávez has also co-authored several books on culture and college teaching, including Web Based Teaching Across Culture and Age (Springer, 2013).
The UNM Bookstore is located at 2301 Central Ave. NE at the intersection of Cornell and Central.
V.25 No.11 | 3/17/2016
The readers write about ABQ Rapid Transit and UNM sports.
V.25 No.7 | 2/18/2016
By August March
Use of Force Policy Updated
This week in Newscity: APD’s new Use of Force policy, the State legislature and weed, plus abortion foes continue their assault on New Mexico healthcare providers.
V.25 No.6 | 02/11/2016
Down with Digital
Thursday, Feb 18: Basement Films Analogue Spectacular
By Devin D. O'Leary [ Wed Feb 17 2016 12:13 PM ]
Watch strange and beautiful 16mm educational films and 8mm home movies. Featuring real celluloid film and real live film projectors.
V.25 No.6 | 2/11/2016
The Daily Word in Denver Broncos, Beyonce and Politics
By Desiree Garcia [ Mon Feb 8 2016 2:01 PM ]
What’s a better way to celebrate a Super Bowl winning? Trash your own hometown.
Beyoncé? More like Beyon-slaaay.
You’re a bad feminist if you don’t vote for Hillary Clinton. I forgot that’s the fastest way I get sent to the depths of hell.
The Clintons v. Sanders. Yikes.
V.25 No.1 | 01/07/2016
Courtesy of the artist
What Happened to the First Peugeot
By August March [ Wed Jan 6 2016 8:06 PM ]
A story about summer written in winter
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