A Long Drive Through Aztlan

Should you drive to an alien convention perhaps you'll do well

To roll past the Spaceport north of Las Cruces

And the old Civil War era watering hole

Where wooden crosses poked holes in thirsty dead travelers

Rewarding their aimless journeys from Durango City Mexico.

And float across White Sands to the military checkpoint where

Dusty soldiers stop

Every highway traveler.

And climb through the Lincoln National Forest where Bob Dylan's Desire

Plays somehow better.

Or detour through the Gila National Forest where Smokey the first Bear was born

And so was Geronimo at the headwaters of the Gila River.

medicated

The soufflees are a bit lighter these days.
The sass is a little less sassier. Actually, quite a bit less, truth be told.
In fact conversation in general has seen quite a drop off.
Yep, she's one well-medicated lass, roaming the rooms of our house, haunting them like a pale, sallow spector.
As you can see, she still casts quite a spell in the kitchen.
So I've got that going for me.
Which is nice.

Top That

How? That is what I've asked myself each time I have visited this here Blog hoping each time that I wasn't the first poster in '09. But I suppose the saying is true: with a great title comes great responsibility. So it is up to me. But what runs through my mind for the first post of 2009? It isn't of the approaching Spring, or of baseball season, or cuttlefish; no my mind is 8 months ahead. What should I shave into the back of my skull this year? A full beard? Or is shaving fascial hair in the back of one's head so 2008?

It's hard to say how inspiration works. The idea of the head-stache came many months before the fated Cainmas. Like a fetus, it had time to incubate inside my mellon for some time until that winter evening at my sister-in-laws, where through electric shears the stache entered this world.

Perhaps I have it all wrong. It might be that I can not top the splendor that was the head-stache. If Cainmas has taught me nothing in the many years of its existence it's that I am not one built for one-up-man-ship. The infamous meatball eating contest of several years ago that spawned the even more infamous meatball meltdown the following year is a prime example. The winning tally of 50 at the original meat-off is held by our very own Mardi Gras. (A tip of the hat to you my friend)

The following year my attempts to beat said record of 50 resulted in me puking early in the evening just shy of the goal line. Instead of enjoying that party and all its goers I was losing the contents of my tummy in the downstairs bathroom. And so it goes.

So instead I have decided to spend this year reveling in my title as Mister Mustache. I will spend my time extolling the virtues of the stache and spreading word far and wide of its majesty, awaiting this years Cainmas where one of the party-goers is sure to top it. Of this I am sure.