I’m an old school list-maker.

The art of moving … no, I'm not talking about rhythmic gymnastics or complicated yoga poses, I mean the actual art of switching residences and claiming a new territory as your personal sanctuary. Since, I'm in a perpetual moving limbo (waiting for a roommate to decide whether or not she's leaving the big, bad Burque), I've been searching Craigslist and various classifieds in search of a new home, a fresh start so to speak.

Since I'm [still] relatively new to the city, I'm not entirely knowledgeable about the various zip codes, what they entail, the good neighborhoods, the bad neighborhoods, the apartments that are low rent v. apartments that are close to a McDonalds. But, I've found that the actual practice of visiting complexes, searching the interweb, and conversing with various consultants is an adventure in and of itself.

For instance, I spoke to one consultant via phone. I couldn't really understand his name through the static, but it sounded something like Naim (I hope that's correct). Extremely excited and chipper on the phone, Naim said he had a great apartment that had been renovated, and the monthly rate was a whopping $450 (all bills included). Since this was in my price range, I jumped at the opportunity, and asked for the address. He informed me that the apartment was on Towner and Juan Tabo. Since I currently live near there, I assumed that the neighborhood would be somewhat nice, and the location seems central enough (in that there are a lot of businesses and stores in that area).

But, as I turned down Towner, what I envisioned as a picturesque resort-like complex of townhouses and pools was quickly overshadowed by streets with pot-holes, some dudes with jeans around their knees giving me the what-you-want stare, and buildings that didn't seem quite renovated. Now, I grew up in what some refer to as “the hood,” and though I rarely get skittish driving through neighborhoods that are considered treacherous for high crime rates (again, I just moved here, so I'm not making any assumptions), this didn't seem like it was for me. So, I kindly turned my car around after throwing the dudes a peace sign, and drove off. I called Naim and informed him that it wasn't for me, and slightly saddened, he just said, “Okay, thank you for calling. Let me know if you're looking for anything in the future.”

Aside from that, I've visited complexes that are within my price range, where the leasing consultants describe a complex as familial, yet tiresome (whatever that means). And I've gone to some that are out of my price range where the consultants said, “We like to keep it quiet around here.” So, no loud music? I'm sorry … next!

So, obviously, the art of moving to a new apartment is a bit like soul searching. You'll hit a few embarrassing moments (like when I jumped a curb next to the leasing office of Wyoming Place in front of the maintenance man), moments of realization (where I realized that a living room might actually be a nice amenity rather than a studio apartment the size of my roommate's closet), moments of clarity (ie. When I came to the conclusion that maybe I'm looking too soon, and should just be comfortable in my current situation). But that's too easy. And so, the search continues …

Mark Beyer

DJ, DIY promoter and music writer Derek Caterwaul joins live music fanatic Mike Smith in providing Alibi readers with 505 music scene reportage. Between these two cats, our readers are getting the best that Albuquerque music journalism has to offer. Read all about it in the inaugural mega-installment of MAXIMUMCATERWAUL. Scope related A/V below.

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Texts with Alibi editor Carl Petersen, during the incident.

When we wage war, we often do it with ourselves. Whether it be second-guessing critical choices, or diverting our mind's attention to something less intrusive. Yeah, that's vague. But, sometimes a war is waged on us, and the limits of control are bursting at the seams, begging the question: What happens when it happens to me? So, I thought I'd share my first run-in with Albuquerque police and SWAT.

So, I'm sure that it's no news to people that an armed robber was gunned down near Menaul and Louisiana on March 5th after fleeing from police. I believe the breaking news article focused on businesses in the area being on lockdown as police and SWAT were in pursuit of said robber. Living in the area, approximately smack-dab in the middle of the guarded perimeter which spanned several blocks, I was unable to get into my apartment building upon returning from a grocery-shop excursion.

As my roommate and I tried to turn into our street, a police officer (that reminded me of a young Ed Harris) told us that we had to turn around and find another way home. Pointing to our building, my roommate said, “But we live right there, like RIGHT THERE!” The officer kindly replied, “I'm sorry ma'am, but it's a SWAT stand-off. Can't let anyone through.”

We turned around and went down another road, only to find that it was also being blocked by police. Clearly, they had the entire neighborhood in check. We parked about two houses down from the officer, so that we could see her leave, and we'd know the streets were safe, and we could finally put the lingering perishables in a safe, cozy freezer. To pass the time, we read breaking news reports and ascertained the situation.

After about 20 minutes of waiting, while helicopters flew overhead and seeing several cars get rejected and told to turn around, my roommate looks at me and says, “I'll love you forever if you get down and ask the cop what's going on.” At first, I was a bit hesitant, because with my luck, the robber would have come out the moment I stepped out of the vehicle and used me as a body shield. But, after a moment, I said, “okay,” and got out of the car.

I walked over to a young female officer, and politely said, “Hello … I live right over there in that apartment building, and my roommate and I were wondering about how long do you think you guys are going to be here.” Right after the words left my lips, we heard several gunshots being fired. Without losing her composure or the polite smile on her face, the officer said, “It shouldn't be too much longer.”

After some careful maneuvering, my roommate and I circled the surrounding area, noticing they stopped blocking the entrance to the Sheraton hotel on Louisiana and Menaul. So, we entered the parking lot, drove around back in an attempt to exit the back parking lot, which sits directly across the street from our building. When we got there, we were disappointed to see that it, too, had been blocked off, and officers with assault rifles walked by our car, not even noticing us.

“I think we're in the shit now,” I said. My roommate, clearly one to panic, held her composure and actually got out of the car and told an officer the situation (It being that we were literally across the street from our building and just wanted to get home and put our groceries away). The kind officer said he couldn't remove the tape to let us drive through, but that we could walk across the street and go home. Needless to say, we went home, picked up a grocery basket (my building has several in a downstairs closet), and we walked back across the street and got our groceries.

Upon entering the gate of our apartment building, we found our maintenance guy outside, drinking a Bud Light as he scoped out the situation. As we walked by, he said, “They got him.” “Oh, they did?” we asked. “Yeah, they shot him right over there, see where all those guys are standing?” We turned and saw several armed officers standing in a group on Chama Street (though we'd later discover that this wasn't actually the location where the man was killed).

After settling in our apartment and taking several trips to the balcony to see what was going on (like true nosey Mexicans), we finally went to bed. Upon later reading about the incident, I found out that the deceased's name was Parrish Dennison, and read that he had several ties to white supremacist gangs. Now, a life is a life. Regardless of your beliefs or your political standing, every life lost is always a tragedy.

As human beings, we make choices. While some decisions we make may not always reflect our most innate goodness, every human being has multiple layers that complete the indelible picture we present to people. Dennison chose to rob homes and died for what news reports said was “a guitar and a banjo.” Yet, I learned from a very early age that death is one of those inevitable, inconceivable situations that comes around to teach you the value of living. So, on that note, I say thank you, Mr. Dennison. While you may no longer be with us, you reminded me of that value.

• clever (sloppy) [ Fri Mar 15 2013 4:51 PM ]
  

Adam Faucett

Whatever your aural mood, there's bound to be a show happening—on this night in this town—that'll suit your fancy. If you need a refresher on tonight's hybrid instrument smorgasbord, aka A Cabinet of Curiosities, at The Kosmos, peep A Cure for Stockhausen Syndrome and/or this blog. If you're frustrated by the inherent limitations of dead tree space, check out an up-to-the-minute Saturday night show list below. Rock on, y'all.

• Arkansan swampy-folk soul/songwriter Adam Faucett emotes tonight at an all-ages show at The Glitter Factory (2127 Silver SE), along with Carlosaur and The Alchemists. 7 p.m. $5.

• Pay tribute to inimitable local musician Eric Johnson's life by raising money for Casa Esperanza at The Texas Independence Day Party, happening tonight at the Albuquerque Press Club (201 Highland Park Circle). Consume armadillo eggs and Lone Stars while Big Sad Guy, Edith Grove, The Handsome Family, Next Three Miles, Saltine Ramblers, Wildewood, Double Plow, The Jake Leg Three and The Old Main tickle your ears pink. 4 p.m.'til 1 a.m. $25 per person, or $40 a couple. For more info, click.

• Roc the Mic 13—which Alibi columnist Mike Smith wrote about in this week's installment of Last Month in Music—goes down tonight at Evolution Nightclub (6132 Fourth Street NW). 8 p.m. Learn more here.

• Move your body to Gavin Russom's EDM orchestra The Crystal Ark and Rand Larzeny at Sister (409 Central NW) this evening. 9 p.m. 21+. $10. Get tickets here.

• Desert surf purveyor Phantom Lake soundtracks The Mask of the Red Death Masquerade Ball at ArtBar (119 Gold SW) tonight. 9 p.m. 21+. $10.

• Santa Fe-based singer/songwriter (and, yes, former Angry Samoan) Gregg Turner performs at No Fun Dance Party tonight at Blackbird Buvette (509 Central NW). Satellite Sky and DJs Bea and Ms. Stoche spin garage, soul and rock and roll. 10 p.m. 21+. No cover.

Off With His Hair!

One of the great things about living in Albuquerque is that I have this newfound sense of adventure. Mind you, I usually have more of a self-conscious apprehension of doing anything out of the ordinary. It's borderline obsessive to think about how much I hate to stray from the formula (whatever the formula may be). A mundane example would be how much it bothers me when something interrupts my morning routine i.e. Having to stop for gas on the way to work because I didn't do it the night before. The thought before the action drives me crazy.

Having said that … being in Albuquerque has awakened something. Not sure what it is, but I find myself saying “yes” to more things, and not in a contrived, Jim Carrey movie-inspired way. It's more that I've learned to let go and just say “to hell with it.” Maybe the Burque mentality is rubbing off. Not sure. But in terms of new experiences, here are a few snippets:

I ate at Tucano's Brazilian Grill (which was outrageously delicious). I wish I had more details beyond that, but considering I had a death cold and was forced to sit upright and place pieces of delicious food in my mouth, the meal itself was a magnificent feat.

I went to Knockouts. This undocumented foray into a strip club was my first. Sure, I had offers way back when, but to a warm-blooded, homosexual man, seeing women do the tootsie to Kelis wasn't exactly on my list of things to do before I meet my maker. But, a “straight” friend said I was his boyfriend to get me in the club for free. Needless to say, I had drinks with neon ice cubes (weird!), gave some $1 bills to a woman in a fishnet tutu (do those really exist?) and laughed harder than I can ever recall.

And lastly, I shaved my head and took my first bathroom picture to prove it. This may not seem like such a big deal, but I haven't had a shaved head since I was in seventh grade, and I think it mostly had to do with people constantly telling me I had beautiful hair and should let it grow. So I did. Maybe it was the mountain air, the high altitudes, or just something I ate, but out came the clippers and off went the hair. I can't say I like it, but it is an interesting change. As for documenting it, I rarely stand in bathrooms long enough to pull out my phone and take a snapshot, but I think it was warranted.

Until next week, Burque.

• Enchantment: (Samantha) [ Fri Mar 1 2013 3:08 PM ]
  

Sandia membership card

Between the time I wrote about the welcoming attitudes of Albuquerque and the time I'm taking to write this, at least one interesting thing happened.

Hoping to acclimate myself to the city more, a friend recommended that we indulge in one of the simple pleasures that aligns itself with living in the 505—gambling. And I'm sure everyone has at least one good gambling story to contribute to the masses. Now, I've never gambled before, unless you count weekends with my family back in Texas, playing poker or screw-your-neighbor (it's not what it sounds like). Always excited to unleash my competitive side, I said, “to hell with it!” So, we got dressed up and headed to the Sandia Resort and Casino.

After waiting in a ridiculously long line to register to become a member (all the while staring at the beckoning slot machines and blackjack tables), I kept growing antsy, and my inebriated friend was becoming somewhat of a nuisance. Like a soldier in battle, I kept my composure and my eyes revealed nothing … except that I was growing impatient.

Once we were issued member cards and let into the casino with our complimentary $25 in chips, we headed straight for the bar. Oh, and you can smoke in the casino, which immediately indicated to me that I was home. After downing a couple of vodka-red bulls, I headed to the blackjack table, where I eagerly threw my money (and my friend's money because she became too drunk to play) into the game. The dealer pushed the chips back to me, and said, “You have to wait until a new game.” Somewhat embarrassed as the other players scoffed at me, I sat back and watched.

I eyed their expressions, their bodily ticks, their gestures. I had them pegged. Once the new deck was dealt, my money was on the table, and it was on. The $50 that I started out with turned into $100, and that $100 turned into $150, and that $150 turned into $200. A voice inside said to walk away. To a young, broke writer like myself, quadrupling your money in 10 minutes is unheard of. But I ignored the voice, and my $200 turned into $100, and that $100 turned into $25, and then BOOM! I was out.

It only took 15 minutes to land at ground zero, but it was perfect timing. My aforementioned companion telephoned me to say she had hailed a cab outside, and seeing as how I had no funds left to enjoy myself, the time to leave was then or never. So, I reluctantly sauntered toward the exit, turning around to take one last look at the casino, my home away from home. The live band playing Temptations covers made it even harder to say, “good-bye.” Upon getting in the cab, I knew I'd be back. Still, it just goes to show that even when the stakes are high, and your funds are low, there's always one last silver lining to guide you safely onward, or it at least to a cab gearing up to take you home.

Until next week …

 

So what does that say about Albuquerque? Promiscuous yet hygienic? Faithful yet forgiving? Free-thinking yet conservative? Who the hell knows? I’m just glad you’re all out there keeping things sexy for the rest of us. Let’s do it again sometime.