Finding History in the Bottom of my Beer

I recently stumbled across an online repository of digital article reprints collecting local history stories originally printed in El Defensor Chieftain, the venerable twice weekly source of news for the residents of Socorro, New Mexico. I won't bother trying to catalog the maze of hyper-linked rabbit holes that brought me to the website, though I will grant you that I probably should have been spending my time more productively. In any case, I learned some interesting things about what I consider my home town.

Born in Virginia, my folks moved to the high desert when I was three. My first and haziest memories are of scenes and events in the east, but for all practical purposes I grew up in Socorro, completely unaware of and uninterested in the historical significance of anything I saw around me. Sure, I dutifully went on field trips to the San Miguel Mission, built between 1615 and 1626 (the church was founded in 1598, but the original building was replaced starting in 1615), and looked through the glass at the example of the original adobe, but I don't recall being particularly excited by it. I suppose that is the natural order of youth. The significance of the past pales against the prospects of the afternoon.

But San Miguel never held reign as the only historical building of note in Socorro, some of which were never recognizable to me as anything more than blight. Like the multi-storied structure east of California Street on the south side of town? Turns out it had been a flour mill, the Crown Mill, first opened for business in 1893 in an environment dominated by two existing mill operations. The mill flourished for a time, but fell victim to the vagaries of capitalism and the market power of Pillsbury. The Crown Mill closed in 1938. Other businesses operated from the building up until 1965. I only knew the building as an example of industrial ruin, a structure subject to rumor. Kids I knew in turn knew other kids (always several times removed) who had broken into the mill, reportedly finding the place booby trapped and inhabited by a crazy man who leered out at them from behind a pile of rubbish—or perhaps bones. It turns out a local man bought the building in 2003, and has since done some renovation, rebuilding the third story and roof which had fallen into disrepair. I hope he made provisions for the crazy man. You hate to see gentrification chase out a neighborhood's original residents.

I was most interested in an article detailing the long history of the Capitol Bar. The Cap sits today on the plaza where it did when first built in 1896, Socorro's only surviving bar from back when New Mexico was a territory. I had a vague awareness of the place growing up as a den of iniquity near the Junior High and Edward's barbershop, but never saw the interior prior to a remodel following a fire in 1993. Now it has been bestowed the honor of “Bucket List Bar” but none other than YouTube contributor “drunkenhistory.” If there is a higher honor, I know it not. There were two points in the article, however, that I found particularly striking.

First, the article notes that as of its publication date (2010), the Capitol was one of only three bars left in Socorro (the other two being the Roadrunner Lounge and the Matador Lounge at the El Camino, but a quick online search suggests the Roadrunner may have since closed). Are you seriously telling me that Socorro can't support more than three (maybe two) bars? What happened to the rest? And in particular, what happened to that sketchy little bar west of California Street on the south side of town, kind of across from the then-deteriorating Crown Mill? The little rectangle of a building, made out of cinder blocks, with a dark door and seemingly no electricity? This place too was subject to rumor amongst the kids. There it was rumored that murder occurred nightly (most of which must have gone unreported; looking back I do not recall reading about these frequent killings in the Chieftain). Indeed, you were guaranteed to, at the very least, be stabbed, if not shot, within minutes of walking through the dark doors. Maybe the rumors were true, which would account for its closure. It is hard to build a stable clientele if you keep knocking them off soon after they pass through the doors.

Second, the article told the story of the Emillio family, which was involved in the Socorro bar business from the repeal of prohibition until approximately 1960, at which time the son, Willie Emillio, decided to try his hand in other lines or work. Notably, the local college, the New Mexico School of Mining and Technology, made Willie an honorary member of the alumni association, and on his death Willie left the school money to start a scholarship fund in his name. All of which suggests the Tech students were perhaps spending more time (and money) at the Capitol than they were in their classes. Having spent time as a student in geology programs at three different schools, I can just think that, yes, that sounds about right. So, next time I'm in Socorro I'll need to stop in for a beer. And I will expect to see the geology students working away on homework, absorbing (I'm sure) the historical significance of the place.

The Top Ten Nude Celebrities of 2013

I looked at the calendar today and realized that time was running short to make my contribution to the valuable body of work that is the collection of annual year end lists. If you are like me, you spend the better part of twelve months ignoring popular culture, current events, literature, film, politics, and the events of your own life, and wait eagerly for the weeks leading up to January 1 when internet content providers of all stripes take cursor to screen and map out the top ten of everything from the prior year. As the lists are published, I am able to catalog all of the movies I should have seen, the books I should have read, the photos that should have moved me, the meals that would have been most memorable, and the destinations I should have visited over the prior year, thus saving me from the work of experiencing any of it on my own. It is a real time saver, and I think we all owe a collective debt of gratitude to the tireless critics and social gadflies who do the heavy lifting for us.

But no longer wanting to take without giving, I have decided I too should help the people of the world and make my own top ten list to guide others.  And, no, the list won't include any nude celebrities.  What do I know from naked famous people?  That was just a teaser to get you to read.  So, without further ado, I present the Cobras In Alaska 2013 Top Ten list, with items presented in no particular order:

1. Puppies.

2. Em7add11.

3. Sipping Pina Coladas, served on the rocks out of citrus rimmed glassware and mixed from fresh pineapple juice and coconut infused rum, watching the sun set, bare feet dangling in the warm salt waters of the South Pacific, while mermaids nibble deliciously at the bacteria under my toe nails, their hair tickling my shins.

4. Cleveland, Ohio.

5. The International House of Hot Dogs.

6. Brownout – Oozy.

7. Akron, Ohio.

8. This guy:

9. Determining the proper influence of science on policy.

10. Learning a valuable lesson about the importance of friendship AND the true meaning of Arbor Day while solving mysteries on a tandem bicycle.

I hope the list proves helpful to each of you as you either map out the details of the coming year or prepare to let chance yet again dictate your fate. Happy New Year.

On Tour

I like to plan trips around my hobbies, which means I will not bother leaving Anchorage unless I can accomplish one of two things. First, continue my exploration of the artisanal pickle world, perhaps by meeting a producer, tasting product, or volunteering to shepherd free range cucumbers from their summer to winter pastures. Or second, by visiting iconic bridges. Really, other than the satisfying crunch of a perfectly brined and seasoned Kirby, does anything satisfy the soul like a beautifully designed conveyance across water?

To advance my appreciation of river crossings, I launched my Tour of Iconic Bridges back in 2011. You've probably seen my Kickstarter campaign, setup to fund my Tour (although don't think that I haven't noticed that you haven't contributed). The Tour got off to a bang-up start, with an early visit to the Tower Bridge in London.

The Tour slowed significantly thereafter due to lack of activity on my Kickstarter page, but last month I had the opportunity to visit the Brooklyn Bridge.

And now I got to visit the Golden Gate Bridge early this month, hopefully a sign that the Tour's momentum is really picking up.

With any luck, you will find the above photos inspirational, pull out your credit card, and rush to make a donation. Feel free to recommend another Iconic Bridge as a stop on the Tour at the same time. Perhaps the Trenton Makes bridge from Trenton New Jersey?

Since we were already in San Francisco to admire the bridge, C and I decided to make good use of our time and attended Alex and Daniel's wedding. They exchanged vows and then proceeded to impress us all by serving a fascinating selection of artisanal pickles at the reception. Other highlights? The chance to join the hungry crowds on Mission St. at 1 a.m. looking for burritos, stumbling upon a ukulele orchestra playing Sinatra tunes in the Presidio while hiking a big loop through the city, and realizing that the tourist zone in and around Union Square still bumps up against the city's rougher edges when gun shots rang out somewhere outside our hotel late one night. Three rapid shots, followed shortly thereafter by a flood of police cars rushing up Taylor Street. Nothing in the paper, which left me to assume that the gun play involved some dispute over an artisanal pickle sale gone bad. San Francisco's pickle mongers are, by reputation, some of the most territorial and fierce to be found. It will probably be safer to just focus on the bridges from here on out next time we travel.

Get off my lawn!

I did not intend my corner of the internet to be a place to either publicly gloat or complain, but feel compelled here to do a little of both. You see, after coming home from New York (see previous post), we were beset with news both good and bad. First, the good news. It turns out storms dumped snow on Independence Mine State Park at Hatcher Pass, and the powers that be started grooming trails. C and I were able to get in the first ski of the season nice and early this year. The problem with Hatcher Pass is that to get to the ski loop, you must first climb a ¾-mile hill. So, here we are, out of shape and weak, and the first thing we have to do is climb and climb long. It is a rude awakening to every season, but we are happy for it just the same.

And now the bad news. There is no way to sugar coat this, so I am just going to come out and say it.  Slayer canceled their show at the Sullivan arena that had been scheduled for October 22, apparently realizing that it costs a ton of money to ship their tour set up to Alaska. They officially blamed “logistics,” but I expect that means “dollars.” Maybe they thought we were just north of Vancouver at the time they scheduled? What ever the reason, it has brought a dark cloud across the Cobrasinalaska household. “Why? Why must you toy with our emotions, oh Godfathers of thrash?” I cry to the bleak and uncaring skies.

Of course, I use “we” pretty loosely here. As you might imagine, this cancellation has had a bigger impact on me than on C. Indeed, C—by her own choice—didn't even have a ticket to attend. Upon learning that Slayer was (purportedly) coming to town, the conversation went something like:

“Slayer is coming to Anchorage!”

“Who?”

“FUCKING SLAYER!” [Which is, by the by, the universal and officially sanctioned greeting of Slayer fans worldwide, either followed by or preceded by an out-thrust of the arms in a devil-horn salute.]

“What does Slayer sound like again?”

I proceed to cue up and start the 1986 masterpiece Reign in Blood, an album that leads off with the at times controversial “Angel of Death.” Precisely 7 seconds later: “You have got to be kidding me.”

So I bought a single ticket. But as already mentioned and whined about for some length, I never got to use it. And now I wander the halls and wonder if my life will ever have meaning again.

That I have reacted so strongly to the cancellation of a single concert may suggest that we do not get much in the way of nationally recognized live acts in Anchorage (my prior discussion of the Red Hot Chili Peppers being the exception that proves—that's right, proves—the rule). But we did get the chance to watch some of this year's Lollapalooza streamed live. Readers of a certain age (read: mine, plus or minus) will remember Lollapalooza as the brain child of Jane's Addiction's Perry Farrel, a music festival that criss-crossed the country in the early- and mid-nineties. It disappeared for awhile, but has resurfaced as a single three-day festival in Chicago. And technology having reached the point that it has, several of the sets by the festival's top acts were streamed live. And because one of those sets was by The Cure, I decided to tune in and watch. And I walked away wondering, “What is wrong with kids today?”

You see, from time immemorial rock-n-roll has been about two things: repulsing parents and inspiring children. If a kid needed a role-model for debaucherous living, was he going to look to his own parents? Of course not. But the rock star in leather pants, empty bottle of Jack Daniels in one hand, a gold record in the other, with vomit drying on his shirt? That is an image that gives a kid hope that the future will not be bleak and populated with responsibility and the routine of 9-to-5 (or, more accurately, 8-to-6, Dolly Parton movie or no).

One look at some of today's top acts makes clear that something has gone awry. As the following scientifically rigorous graph demonstrates, the social respectability of your typical rock-star had been on a consistent downward slope, but has taken a surprising upswing that brings today's top acts in-line with Please Please Me era Beatles.

Really, what message is it sending our kids when Vampire Weekend (photo at far right of the graph) is made up of a bunch of Columbia graduates and is perhaps best known for a song that is single-handily responsible for teaching an entire generation about the Oxford comma? Do we really want the youth of America to come of age aspiring to an Ivy League education and a comprehensive understanding of grammar?  And what are they wearing, anyway?  Sweater vests?  Suffice to say, not a leather jacket in the bunch.

On further reflection, though, I may be looking at this all wrong. Perhaps rock-n-roll has nothing to do with inspiring kids and everything to do with repulsing parents. I may not have kids, but I fit the demographic. And really, how can you repulse someone who came of age with this?

 (Slayer, circa-1984)

Yup. Sweater vests. Long live rock-n-roll. These kids may be on to something yet.

A Tale of Two Cities

C has a friend, Heather. There is actually more to this story than that, though, although it requires some background. Heather sings, and sings well. Someone with a background in music and voice could probably describe her singing with more nuance than that, but what do you expect from a lawyer? “Well” is as good as it will get. But you can judge for yourself ( http://www.heatherhillsoprano.com/779071). From the layman's perspective, let's just say she sounds professional, which she is. The kind of voice that astounds as an instrument, makes me simultaneously want to break into my own aria and never open my mouth again for recognizing that some things I will never be able to do. Sing an opera is one. Heather can, and has. These days she sings on Broadway. Heather is a cast member in the longest running musical on Broadway, working in the ensemble of Phantom of the Opera. But she also understudies for the role of Carlotta and at times gets to strut her stuff—fittingly—as the operatic diva of the Paris Opera house. A couple of weeks ago, C received an e-mail from Heather announcing her schedule for filling in as Carlotta. C had never heard Heather perform, but always wanted to. As it turned out, C was in up-state New York, visiting family, and as such in the neighborhood for one of Heather's scheduled turns as Carlotta. C rebooked her return to allow a side trip to Manhattan, and I flew out for a long weekend.

We saw the show, which despite its long running tenure had an incredible line at the door 15 minutes before curtain. As I suppose it has several nights a week for 25-years, the chandelier came crashing to floor, Christine Daae was both repulsed by and drawn to the Phantom, and the diva pouted as divas do when younger voices muscle in on their spotlight. After the show, Heather led us backstage to marvel at the wigs (which we learned quite a bit about from another friend in Manhattan; suffice to say, I never much thought about Broadway wigs before, but the hair you see on stage could be the subject of another complete blog post), see the inner workings of theater magic, and stare out at the empty seats of the Majestic Theater.

But the excitement of Broadway and catching up with old friends was only part of the trip. Walking the streets of New York also gave me the opportunity to dabble in comparative urbanism, a school of study in which I am something of a hobbyist. I can't claim any formal training, but have, of course, read the classics. Being in New York gave me the chance to come home and look at my current hometown of Anchorage with new eyes as compared against one of the world's great—some would see greatest—cities.

Clearly, the foundation of a great city is great architecture. Buildings and living space provide the framework upon which a vibrant society is draped. The buildings and structures of New York are true icons, recognized the world over. The Empire State Building, the Flatiron, the Brooklyn Bridge, they are unmistakable symbols of urban America and the pull of the new world.

Well, Anchorage does not have the benefit of long history, but just as New York stands shoulder to shoulder with Paris, London, and other giants of the old world, Anchorage is itself home to inspiring architecture enhancing life in our city despite its relative youth. In just a few short years, classics like the abandoned layer cake church, the Wal*Mart, and that weird shanty like building in the middle of mid-town have been built and inspire Anchorage residents on a daily basis to strive for greatness.

Similarly, great cities have great cuisines. Some of the best restaurants in the world (or, at the very least, the most expensive) are found in New York, but classic eats are found at all points on the economic spectrum, including the classic New York slice.

Not to be outdone, Anchorage too is known far and wide for its food specialties, like the classic waffle, biscuit, gravy, roll, a celebration of carbohydrates smothered in fat.

Great cities often have rich spiritual traditions. Home to famous cathedrals, New York embraces religion at all scales, and it is not unusual to turn the corner and find streets closed to accommodate a procession celebrating the Virgin Mary.

Anchorage's houses of worship similarly operate on all scales, including the humble Wilderness Village Baptist Church.

But a rich and complex urban life is built on contradictions, and just as New York welcomes its residents to worship in its great churches or in the city streets, the city billboards make its residents question the very utility of prayer.

Anchorage's contradictions are evident only in geography. The Wilderness Village Baptist Church is, after all, located directly across the street from the city's most famous strip club. I like to think that gentleman, having spent a night and the bulk of their savings within the dark walls of the Alaska Bush Company, stumble out into the bright light of a Sunday morning and directly across the street to pray for forgiveness. A closer look at the Wilderness Village sign, however, makes me wonder if that is such a good idea.

The Wilderness Village congregation appears to have very specific ideas as to what should be done to sinners. That is a picture of two angels pushing some poor man to an eternity of damnation in the fires of hell, right? I think I would want to make sure I knew what side of the line I stood on before I walked through those doors. Maybe safest to just head back to New York. At least there you have a chance of getting lost in the crowd. Or you can hope that the two angels will get distracted by the bright lights of Times Square and maybe forget about you altogether.

A Study in Science Reporting

One statement from the National Snow and Ice Data Center.  Two headlines.

"Ice Cap Rebounds from Record Low of 2012"  -- Anchorage Daily News
(http://www.adn.com/2013/09/21/3086257/ice-cap-rebounds-from-record-low.html)

"Arctic Ice in Significant Retreat"  -- The Guardian
(http://www.theguardian.com/environment/2013/sep/20/arctic-sea-ice-decline-melting-summer)

Catching Up On Summer

A perk of working at a reasonably-sized national law firm is the occasional boondoggle. For instance, the Anchorage office takes a day each summer to ostensibly relax in each other's company outside of work. Every year that has meant fishing. Back before my time, the office took fly-in trips to remote sandbars, battled weather and halibut in boats too small to the task, set tents, and drank whiskey around the fire until someone started throwing punches. But the office has grown, and in recent years we have limited our summer trip to salmon charters out of Seward or drifting the Kenai River. This year our office manager—on whose lap planning the summer trip always falls—suggested we branch out and explore something other than fishing. She threw open the door for suggestions.

“Easy!” I thought. “We should all go see the Red Hot Chili Peppers!”

The thought was not as random as it may at first appear. The Red Hot Chili Peppers had just announced a concert in Anchorage. I intended to go. After all, I had history with the Red Hot Chili Peppers.

As a young boy, my older cousin came West to visit us in New Mexico. My parents packed up the car and we took a road trip to the Grand Canyon to marvel at deep geologic time. Somewhere on the road, at what I imagine was a dusty service station with tumble weeds piled six-foot high against the eastern wall and a vending machine that dispensed packs of cigarettes along with the candy bars, my Dad jokingly asked my cousin by the magazine rack, “So, you want me to buy you a girlie magazine?”

“What is a girlie magazine?” I asked.

I imagine my Dad was surprised to see me standing by the magazines too, and possibly immediately regretted opening his mouth at all, but nevertheless dutifully explained, “Well, it is a magazine with pictures of naked women.”

Oh. Doesn't that sound intriguing. To this day, I remember the mental image that followed: a magazine with pictures of buildings on white backgrounds shown in cross-section, outside walls removed so we could peak at the people inside. The buildings were filled with women. The women were going about the tasks of daily life: cooking, working, shopping, sleeping. But they wore no clothes. Fascinating. This I have to see.

“Can I have a girlie magazine?”

“No, you're too young.”

“Maybe later?”

“Sure, kid. For your next birthday. I'll buy you one then.”

I'm sure my Dad thought that was the end of it. Little did he know I would store his promise, pull it out, keep it polished and dust free, and lift it up to his attention on my next birthday. “Dad, do I get a girlie magazine now?”

“What are you talking about? What do you know about girlie magazines?”

“You promised I could have one on my next birthday. That's today. Can we go get one? Now?”

“Wait. What? I did?”

It is not my intent to start a debate on parenting, pornography, or promises. Whether against his better judgment or without a second thought, Dad kept his promise. Later that night he presented me with the latest issue of Playboy, hot of the presses and direct to my hot hands. Suffice to say, I don't think it did me any harm. In fact, it probably helped my popularity immensely with the other 11? 12? year olds in town, each of whom took a turn flipping through its pages. And I flipped through the pages with them. From front to back, again, and again, and again. While there is no denying that the pictures of the women devoured the bulk of my attention, it turns out there were words and other tidbits in the magazine as well. Including this picture in the back, with a short press-release about a new L.A. Band getting attention for its choice of wardrobe:

Some years later, I actually bought albums by the Red Hot Chili Peppers. Some time after that, they became international rock stars. And then they announced a show in Anchorage.

It turns out no one else in my office thought a Red Hot Chili Peppers concert would make a good summer trip. But somehow we did overcome the inertia of fishing and went kayaking in Blackstone Bay instead. It was a beautiful day on the water in front of glaciers.

We stopped for lunch on a beach, just out of view of the face of Blackstone Glacier, in a small amphitheater bordered by steep slopes. While eating from the spread that the guiding company provided, we marveled at the roar from what was clearly an immense calving event. Moments later, the water pulled away from shore, regrouped, and crashed back in wave after wave, circulating within our cove to amplify and confuse the later sets. One partner was knocked off the rock he had been sitting on and was pulled part way to sea (though he immediately stood, wet but no worse for the wear). The boats were sucked out and pushed in. We grabbed flotation devises and the other flotsam and jetsam of our trip, casually left strewn across the beach, and now swirling in the salt-water. Way more exciting than hauling in a salmon on a charter.

As fun as kayaking was, it meant I was on my own for the Red Hot Chili Peppers. So C an I bought our tickets, showed up on time, and put in our ear plugs, because, well, we have become the old people standing in the back of the show worrying about their hearing while the kids go crazy up front. But we weren't the only old people at the show. After all, the band is in its fifties. Thankfully, they've started wearing more clothes over the years.