Two medieval beings chatted about the science of astronomy in the late 15th century.

One marvelled, “The Renaissance is just barely beginning, and soon we’re supposed to become great painters, poets, scientists and philosophers, and already, scientists know the names of most of the planets. Without having traveled into outer space, how could anyone know these things?”

Using the primitive instruments of past centuries, astronomers really must have worked hard. In this day, we marvel at the precision with which experts can predict things like the just-passed Annular Eclipse. They had it down to the minute. Continue reading →

An article in the New Yorker once told of competition among purveyors of steaks along the tollways.

My first experience with tollways — long before the Interstate network developed — was getting on the Turner Turnpike in Oklahoma, which in those days, the ‘60s, was the only way to drive across the state in less than a week.

The article stressed that wherever privately owned tollways exist, that gives states an excuse to neglect the free highways. But what impressed me the most was the number of billboards advertising quickie steaks. The first billboard promised a sizzling sirloin steak on your plate in a mere 10 minutes. Farther along, some restaurateur peddled an 8-minute, 8-ounce steak. Continue reading →

The rate of exchange didn’t fluctuate much for people like your resident doorman who doubles as a columnist.

The few quarters I carry in my pocket remain there, even after an exchange of pleasantries and cash as my entry fee to local businesses.

We’re referring to two things here: My habit of asking for a quarter tip when I hold the door open for someone; and the ceaseless greetings by some mendicants who ask for “spare change” of customers when they enter — and leave — restaurants.

Last week’s column covered some of the interesting people one meets by the mere act of holding the door open for them. As you may recall, I reported on a tense confrontation in Santa Fe, when I asked for a quarter and got a not-too-subtle refusal. Continue reading →

Sometimes I meet the most interesting people. I did Sunday at Souper Salad in Santa Fe. Let me explain.

One can usually identify me as the man who, when holding open a door for someone at a restaurant, will ask for a tip.

True, the denotation of “Twenty-five cents, please” means, of course, “Hand over the cash.” The connotation — and to me that’s what communication is mostly about — is “I’m just joking, trying to be friendly.”

When the denotation (what the expression is supposed to mean) and the connotation (what we make of the words) collide, there’s often friction.

But let’s return to Las Vegas: Continue reading →

The issue still isn’t settled. It might never be. Hopefully, this column will enlighten some people and bring a few to my way of thinking. Notice I said “hopefully.”

For years, language purists recoiled in horror over the misuse of words and phrases that the Miss Grundys of our youth would implore us to avoid.

Let me explain:

William Safire, a former columnist for the New York Times, shook up the language generation a few years back when he sided with the use of “hopefully” in places where, to the rest of us, it doesn’t belong.

For example, most language mavens cringe at the insertion of “hopefully” when the writer or speaker means “I hope.” Continue reading →

“I don’t wanna hear it!”

Usually we hear that refusal when the utterer of the admonition says, “Don’t confuse me with the facts; my mind is made up.”

We also hear it in the context of refusing to hear the bad news: a firing, a loss of a game or an announcement that follows, “Hey Dad, you remember that can of paint on the shelf by the car in the garage?”

I’ve used and heard that expression on different occasions. Remember back in the ‘60s, when the UNM Lobos would play a game that was televised not live, but on a delayed basis? The game would start at the regular time, and fans either in the Pit or those with a powerful radio could keep up with the game. Continue reading →

“Cáscara or piñon?” That was the choice my oldest sister Dolores offered us in our youth, as the aroma of our mother’s homemade bread wafted through the kitchen.

Bread was a Saturday staple in Mom’s kitchen, and those first in line got the choice pickings. Let’s define a few terms first:

A cáscara is a shell. The piñon is what’s inside. So when Dolores gave us a choice, naturally we were thinking piñon. Besides, who wants to fill up on piñon shells? We’d naturally ask for the piñon.

Then Dolores would grant our wish; she’d give us the still-moist, warm inside of the newly baked bread (the piñon). Good, but not quite as pleasing as the crusty part. I would have died happily if the crust (cáscara) of Mom’s bread had been my last meal. Continue reading →

Several months back, around the time Highlands University developed its own license plate, I jumped in line for one of the lower numbers.

Sharon Caballero, in charge of selling the new tags, called me when someone cancelled an order, and I was able to draw HU00011. A second plate, HU00211, which fits my second car, I got directly from the local motor vehicle department, unaware that Highlands had a stash of the lower-numbered plates.

Not bad! The lower number makes me feel oh so important; the higher number, 211, reminds me I ought to weigh a lot less than that. Continue reading →

The rage is palpable. Remember the casting call from an out-of-state agency that sought only “Caucasians or light-skinned Hispanics”? Anger has gone viral.

To review: On Location Casting posted on its website a solicitation for “real families.” The Web site listed desirable qualities among the applicants, but the light-skinned requirement simply set people off.

What were the talent scouts thinking?

As a member of the dark-skinned brigade and obviously unqualified to be cast in a series of commercials designed to bring flatland touristers to New Mexico, I’m amused more than upset. On Location Casting apparently wants the outside world to stop visualizing New Mexico as a suburb of Arizona. Continue reading →

Edward Flores, limping, fearing frostbite and distraught over marital problems and separation from his sons, is also without a car.

It’s a strange tale, as circuitous as the routes he followed to get to Las Vegas, all of it occurring within the past two weeks. Part of the odyssey consumed much of last Saturday, through the winding, twisting cow-paths of eastern San Miguel and northern Guadalupe counties, as he and volunteers went in search of his car.

The experience, lasting until nightfall near Santa Rosa, also points out the dedication of volunteers, people who go to extremes to help: Rosalie Lopez, Percyne Gardner, Carol Silon, Pat Smith and Jo Rita Jordan, who have connections with Samaritan House, and/or the Las Vegas Peace and Justice Center. Continue reading →