Monday, February 20, 2012


In the laid back desert city of Albuquerque NM, in the heart of downtown , stands the Kimo Theater. Opened in 1927, a competition was held to find a name for the building. A native American chief entered the name Kimo, meaning "mountain Lion" and "King of All", winning the grand prize of 25 dollars.
We arrived for our sound check and were met by our stage manager, Cathy who showed us around and made sure we had what we needed.
"Do you have WiFi here?" I asked. "Yes we do," she said, "the password is Bobby". I thanked her and asked "Why Bobby?". "Bobby's our ghost" she replied. Sensing my piqued interest, she asked me if I would like to see "the shrine". "Oh come on," I thought, "quit pulling my leg."

Sure enough, at the end of the hall, nestled in an alcove under the stage sat a mixed and colorful jumble of tchotchkes and accoutrerments from various acts that had previously graced these halls and left a little something to appease the ghost of Bobby - ballet shoes, masks, candy, drumsticks etc. So finally the obvious question- who was Bobby?
Well, back in 1951, during one of the Kimo's regular movie matinees, a 10 year old boy named Bobby was scared by what he was seeing on the screen and ran from his seat, following a stairwell downstairs beneath the theater, and close o the boiler room where he stayed, safe from the on-screen bogie men. As fate would have it, one of the boilers in the room exploded, fatally wounding young Bobby.
I asked Cathy if Bobby ever made his presence felt here in the theater.
She recounted a tale of one musical act that came to the theater, and on hearing the story of Bobby and his shrine, one of the band members proclaimed quite plainly "I don't believe in ghosts".
That night , just before showtime, the sound-mixing desk refused to power on, much to the frustration and bewilderement of the technicians at hand. In desperation, a staff member ran downstairs, respectfully placed a small bag of candy on the shrine to Bobby, and returned to the stage area. The sound-mixing desk powered up and the show proceeded without a hitch.
Before our show, I took a guitar pick, signed a quick "thank you" on it for Bobby, and left it on the shrine. We had a great show, and left with very fond memories of the KiMo theater in Albuquerque NM. Thanks Bobby.


The plane was the smallest I had ever boarded. I should have expected as much when I asked the girl at he gate if there was room in the overhead for my guitar, and she replied "There is no overhead."

Me, 17 passengers, a pilot and co-piiot hopped on board. Turns out the co-pilot was also our cabin steward, and from where I sat, I could see out through the front windows in the cockpit. The cheery co-pilot made the usual announcements - no microphone or speaker system necessary , and if he had added "....and as we approach our destination, we will fill the cabin with brine and land in the canned food section of the supermarket." , I would not at all have been surprised. Neither would it have been the first sardine reference heard on board.
Looking through the cockpit window, I couldn't help but notice how small the window was as it sat atop a myriad buttons and dials. But then it struck me - why have a big windshield on an airplane? When's the last time 18 sardines at 30,000 feet hit a deer?

We took off from Denver CO, where, as I may have mentioned elsewhere in this blog, people just seem happy, and as my wife - a one time resident of the state - likes to point out, it's hardly surprising given it's natural beauty, clean mountain air, sunshine and endless outdoor pursuits. I've heard it said that Colorado is an expensive state to live in, but I suspect it to be money well spent.

We were headed for Farmington NM, a quiet town on the Colorado Plateau that shares Denver's mile-high elevation and sits at the confluence of the San Juan and Animas Rivers. Soaring towards our destination, the clear sky allowed us a perfect view of the San Juan mountains below us, snow-capped and silent, standing like noble elders, perhaps bemusedly watching the coming and going of us tiny creatures over centuries, our lives lasting no more than a blink of their eyes.

We touched down on a cool sunny day, and I headed for the hotel. My driver told me that coal mining and the power plant are major employers here, and it does feel like a working town. It seemed like every second car on the road was an unwashed flatbed of some kind, many of them lining the broad main street like so many tired horses, hitched to their post and dutifully awaiting their master's return.

Once I reached the hotel, I was told that a river walkway ran right behind the premises, and that it was worth checking out. Later in the day, I headed back there as a bright sun was starting to fall behind the trees. Mallards and Canada geese populated the banks. "Maybe looking for sardines" I thought, chuckling. The shallows of the Animas river babbled along beside me as I walked a loop of 2 miles or so, and although never far from the sound of traffic, the river serves as an easily accessible respite from the urban landscape, perfect for joggers, walkers and nature lovers.

My friends JD and Emily, who live in the area, told me of Farmington's apparently under utilized array of hiking and biking trails in the area, and if time had allowed I would have investigated further, but this is a working town, and I had to go to work. Oh well. Next time, but if you get to it before I do, let me know what you think.