The Single Girl's Complaint

Tonight's dinner. Actually tasted better than it looks.

Cooking has become torturous. It hate cooking. I detest cooking. If I could live on Ghirardhelli chocolate chips and Ben & Jerry's Chubby Hubby with no consequences to my arteries or my thighs, I would. If I could consume sticky buns and snickerdoodles with impunity, I'd be a happy girl. Oreos. Trader Joe's Ripple Cut Sweet Potato Chips.

It wasn't always this way. About 13 years ago when I was freshly divorced, I made an effort. Good food. Veggies. Salads. Every Friday after work, I shopped for the ingredients that would become either Saturday night or Sunday dinner. Then I (cheerfully) ate the leftovers all week, bringing them for lunch like the thrifty bachlorette I was. Recipes cut from the newspaper or old Food & Wine magazines were photocopied and snapped into 3-ring binders.

It started changing when I went to work as the editor of three city magazines for a division of The Kansas City Star. One of the magazines (which was my creation) was an arts publication that required me to be out and about most nights of the week. Receptions and schmoozefests were commonplace. I started living on granola and yogurt for breakfast, whatever for lunch, and for dinner, the best canapes and little bites that Costco and various arty parties could offer. At work, I kept a jar of peanut butter in my cabinet and change for the vending machine in my drawer. I took high quality vitamins. I ran or walked daily. Did Pilates.

Not thinking about food was just so much easier than planning meals for one person.

I'm quite certain that this is not an unfamiliar or uncommon phenomenon. But it hit me like a frying pan upside the head tonight when I wandered into the kitchen, hungry, yet completely uninspired by anything in the cupboard or the frige. But not only was I indifferent to what I found, I was angry about it. What the hell am I supposed to do with this odd combination of ingredients on hand? What can I make from broccoli, apples and milk? Do I just eat peanut butter - again? I glared at the graying celery as though it was at fault for not planning a menu.

My friends would be surprised to read this. I bring goodies to gatherings and make homemade cookies for bake sales. In fact, many people I know talk to me about food and I participate in those conversations with enthusiasm.Eating is a pleasure and I have a fundamental understanding of how food goes together, but my real talent is baking. Friends would protest, oh, you're such a good cook! I am no such thing. I know how to follow a recipe, much like I know how to read music. Learning to play piano and learning to bake were similar in that each depends upon combining separate components into a whole according to proscribed rules. Key signature, time signature, whole notes, half notes. Mixing bowl, cookie sheet, cup, half cup.

Cooking is like improvising. Certain flavors compliment each other; particular scales and phrasings create an original solo. When my former husband would corner me into playing the Hammond organ with him while he played guitar, he would look at me and say, "take it!" meaning that I should solo. I would freeze on whatever chord I had been playing. At times I actually ended up in tears, not know what to do with the notes in front of me without a sheet of paper to organize them.

I feel a similar frustration lately in the kitchen. Fresh food is a commitment for a single person. How does one cook for one? The conundrum is complicated by the fact that I find frozen LeanCuisine or Healthy Choice-type meals repulsive. (Yes, I've tried them.)  (Yes, I've tried them recently.) And it's not that I don't like healthy food - I do. When I have the money, I will eat at Luscious Lorraine's or Native Foods every day, or employ a chef to create dishes for me. I will empty my cupboards of ingredients and spices, let someone else drive.

Dinner tonight was a lo-carb tortilla with a piece of Colby-jack cheese and a slice of turkey Canadian bacon topped with a scrambled egg. Not bad, but not particularly exciting, either. Good thing the chocolate chips are in the cupboard and the vitamins are in the medicine cabinet.

None of these fifty chocolate chips were harmed in the making of this message. However, many were taken into digestive custody soon after.

The Boys Can Play

Chris Robinson

Since last Friday, I have been involved with the low residency MFA creative writing program of the University of California, Riverside-Palm Desert at the Riviera in Palm Springs. As the managing editor of The Coachella Review, I've had the pleasure of speaking with graduate students about literary journals, editing, reading, soliciting work - even being in conversation with Caitlin Roper, the former editor of The Paris Review, now on her way to San Francisco to work for Wired magazine. Tomorrow at 4:30 p.m. I'll be in conversation with Will Grofic, who is an editor for Potomac Review, a publication of Montgomery College in Washington, D.C.

A girlfriend called me last night. Asked if I was out of town since she hadn't seen me for a bit. I told her that I wasn't exactly out of town, just sort of out of town.

She:  Ooohh. That's too bad. I have a last minute thing...

I: What's up? How can I help?

She: Oh, no, I don't need help. I just have some extra tickets for the Black Crowes tonight...

I: What time do you want to meet?

So off I went to the Black Crowes at Spotlight 29 casino in Coachella. And have the illegal photos to prove it.

I confess that I didn't recognize anything from the first half of the concert because the boys just jammed. They eventually worked their way into Thorn in My Pride, She Talks to Angels, Hard to Handle and Shake Your Money Maker. Fun was had by all.

Luther Dickinson

More about the low residency to come. Big fun. And long-ass days.

The Ultimate Driving Machine

I have an aging BMW that my ex-husband purchased for me right after we got engaged in 2004. It's a 1999 323i, and it now has 133,000 miles on the odometer, about 7,000 of them earned on the road trip you have been following on this blog. The little putt car, as I call her, is a wonderful car, and I have the most fun driving her as I've had driving anything since the 4-door, 4-wheel-drive GMC pick-up in which I learned what a clutch was. I should say, in which my father forced me to learn what a clutch was. But that's another story.

The beemer reminds me of my former husband, who had (and still has, I imagine) periods of frenzied activity followed by utter collapse. I've written about this phenomenon before. Two speeds: on and off. As my car has aged, it has developed much the same mode of operating; it's either running at tip-top condition or on the side of the road with me inside (sometimes hyperventilating and crying) calling the auto club.

The on the side of the road thing has become a more frequent state lately. After all, I put nearly an entire years' mileage on the car in about six weeks. A gal can only take so much before she needs a spa day. She had hers in Tucson, which interrupted the last leg of my journey from El Paso back to Rancho Mirage.

The details are gnarly. Interstate high 10 through Tucson was undergoing construction. From what I understand, this is the typical status of I-10 through Tucson, but I didn't know that and neither did my car. Arizona DOT had three lanes merged into one, and most of us know what happens. Drivers dash forward to get as far ahead as possible before the merge. Eighteen-wheelers grind gears and hiss brakes. People who tend toward impatience become intolerant. Those who are kind become strained. Those who are assholes start acting out.

Moving along at 30 mph was OK. Even moving at 20 mph was OK. Stop and go was trying. Stop was just awful and became unbearable.The trouble started when I noticed the needle on the temperature gauge nudge past center. I immediately turned off the air conditioning, even though the thermometer read 106 degrees outside temp. The needle dropped back to center. (Note: one does not become dewy at 106 - one becomes slick.) I turned the air back on for a short respite. The temp needle tilted right again. I turned the engine off. The needle dropped to center again.

We were at the point of the final merge when when traffic started moving again, and I praised Jesus, Buddha, Yahweh, Krishna, Thor, Odin, Zeus and many other deities (you know who you are) at some volume, pressed the accelerator, and .... and ... no power. I pressed harder. No power. I pleaded. The a/c was still off, the temperature gauge in my head was well past center, and the hyperventilating started.Then the egine light came on, the little one that looks lke a valve. I pulled to the side in time to watch all the other drivers (most now fuly transformed into assholes, waving, honking, pointing and laughing) zip by.

I have been a member of Autoclub - or triple-A as most of us call it - for more than 10 years, and have never, ever once regretted it. I bless the money that goes to that organization. They unlocked my old Toyota at least three times (I had a bad habit of leaving my keys on the seat when I got out to fill the tank and then locking myself out); they once came to lift the same car back over a parking lot divider when I accidentally drove over it and got high-centered (don't ask); and now, they dispatched a tow truck that also had to go through the 45 minutes of nasty traffic that I had just suffered through. What a country. What a club.

I had plenty of time to sit in the heat and slowly sweat through every single piece of slothing I was wearing, to practice breathing slowly and stop hiccupping. Few things are as frustrating and frightening to me as car trouble, probably because I feel like I must have done something wrong. (I grew up with car guys - need I say more?) And with a mature BMW, there are getting to be a lot of opportunities to practice breathing slowly.


The tow truck arrived, the nice man who drove the truck told me to get in the cab, the air was runing, he'd take care of this. He delivered me to a hotel near the dealership and wished me luck.

I had never been to Tucson before, and this was not an ideal was to get to know the city. But I happened to be in a motel that was quite affordable ($62 with my AAA discount - bless them again) and it was only a block from a large shopping mall. After I showered, I headed to the food court where I found  a Dairy Queen. (Yes, there are quite a few mentions of Dairy Queen in this blog and no, Dairy Queen is not a sponsor, but hey, I think that's a good idea.) My point is that sometimes life gets better when there's a large chocolate milk shake involved. That and a couple high-quality multi-vitamins were what I called a well-balanced dinner that night.

In the morning, another driver loaded the car back up and took it (and me) to the mechanic. For those of you who read my blog entry about eighteen wheelers and people who drive for a living, this is the guy who told me that he absolutely loves his job and that they had lost three drivers between Tucson and Phoenix already this year. Lost as in dead, not lost as in without a compass.

One thing I can thank those aforementioned car guys for is a rudimentary knowledge of how a vehicle works. As a woman consulting with a mechanic, it helps. Once I'm over my fright and actually get to the shop, I'm less likely to be cowed or talked into something that I don't need. As for trusting? How do you trust someone that you're never going to see again? This was the mechanical equivalent of a one night stand. But what could I do? As it turned out, I got to visit Dairy Queen yet again - for the next two days.

The real fun started when I got home and reported in to my own mechanic.

Me:  Hi Scott. I need to get in for an oil change and do the control arm bushings that we talked about before I left in June.

Scott: Right, right. How was the trip?

Me:  Awesome. Best thing I've done for myself. Had a little trouble in Grand Junction, though. I had to replace a couple tires.

Scott:  Well, that's not too bad.

Me:  Nope. But then they had to take care of the brakes.

(Pause.)

Scott:  Brakes? (suspicious) What did they do?

Me:  New pads, and they had to turn the rotors.

(long silence)

Scott:  You shouldn't have done that.

This is the inevitable response I get from Scott whenever I have to repair the car or have maintenance done by someone else. It wouldn't matter if I was in te middle of the Mojave (actually, I guess I was kind of in the middle of the Mojave) with nothing but a trickle of water in my canteen - I should not have done whatever I did, even if I couldn't get home any other way.

Me:  Scott, don't tell me that. It doesn't do any good now.

Scott:  You never, ever turn BMW rotors.

(Silence. I have my head in my hands.)

Me:  Yeah, well, when I was coming down out of Yosemite, I figured brakes were pretty important. But I'll get it in and you can get the front end taken care of.

Scott is actually a fabulous mechanic and we have a great rapport. He's always been fair with me, considerate of my pocketbook, worked with me when I've had to split payments (he doesn't take plastic) and realistic about prioritizing work. Each time I bring in the car, I bitch and moan for awhile, despair of the expense, threaten to sell it or trade it in on something new. Scott then gives me his spiel about how it's an older car that now needs more repair because things get old and break and you have to understand that. I nod. I know this. Older cars stop working. Moving parts break. BMWs just happen to be more expensive to fix than, say, the space shuttle. Paying for maintenance and repairs was a lot less painful when I was married to an attorney.

Yet, when I look at the dollars objectively, I'm still ahead on cost. Yes, repairs this year have been high. Or at least it's felt that way because, unlike a car payment which is a set amount each month, repairs tend to take random chunks out of the bank account. If feels more expensive. But the fact is, when I add up and average out the cost, it's still less than a car payment. Right now, anyway. But there are diminishing returns, and if I'm going to sell it, better do it soon. Neither of us is getting any younger.

This is what I tell myself while the car is with Scott for four days. That's because of his own backlog of work, not because the car is so disabled. I mentioned already he's a specialist who is an honest straight-shooter, qualities attractive in any relationship, but particularly with someone who is up to his elbows in my primary mode of transportation. But I steel myself when the car is gone, start looking at Consumer Reports Car Issue.

Then I go out today to pick up Ms. Putt, and see that he's buffed out the headlights which were terribly etched and pitted. He says, "I figured if you're wanting to sell it, that would be something to make it look good." Yes, it does. Thank you, Scott. "By the way, a mechanic friend of mine is looking for one of these." We discuss what I might be able to get for it. I tell him to let the mechanic know that I've got one. We'll see.

Here we are, Putt and me. She looks even prettier with her polished headlights. And with new control arm bushings, her loose front end is tighter (every girl eventually ends up with a loose front end) so she's more responsive and more fun to drive. She likes the cooler weather now, as do I, so we open the sunroof. I crank AC/DC.

I really love this car. When she's working, she's a blast. She is one of the nicest possessions that I've ever owned and I'm not ignorant of the status that comes along with her brand. Right or wrong, this vehicle has in some ways legitimized my presence here in this, the playground of presidents.  I feel comfortable in her. I feel safe in this big hunk of German sheet metal that doesn't sound like an empty tin can when I shut the door.

In many ways, this is a metaphor for my marriage, my husband. At the start, it was fun and felt safe. Then it was comfortable, but not reliable. Eventually, it became an emotional rollercoaster that sometimes worked and sometimes didn't, and when it didn't, it really didn't. Through it, I had some of the nicest things I've ever had. But after a point, it became confusing, a question of who owned whom. How much to keep putting into it? The law of diminishing returns. To keep it or not was such a difficult decision, even when the best and sanest course of action was obvious. Unlike the car, my marriage went well past unreliable to no longer functioning and no mechanic could fix it.

So will I sell her if Scott's mechanic friend contacts me with an offer?

I thought so before I got back behind the wheel again.

Out in the West Texas Town of El Paso

Yes, there really is a Rosa's Cantina in El Paso. On Doniphan Drive, just about on the Mexico/US border. I understand that although it looks a little sketchy from the outside, inside it's a place with good food and good service, and usually half a dozen border patrol officers having lunch.

Speaking of border patrol, let's get that out of the way right now.

El Paso is the largest border town in the state of Texas. The Secure Fence Act of 2006 allowed for 700 miles of double-reinforced fence to be built on the border across Texas, New Mexico, Arizona and California. It's off-putting in some ways, especially since then-President George W. Bush cited it as an important step in immigration reform. What the fence is supposed to do is cut down on illegal drug trafficking through El Paso. No word on its success yet. Although, years ago, my sister hit a drug dealer making a run for it on the Border Highway. (OK, she hit just his foot.) Anyway, this was before the fence was built, so maybe the fence has achieved something.

The fence is not necessarily attractive, but there is an aesthetic here that defies ready description. This is a place where first world butts up against third world, and seeing that other world from behind chain link is disconcerting.

And now for Juarez. Many of us hear "Juarez" and hear "murders" right after it. As of October 31, there have been 2,678 murders in Cuidad Juarez this year. (Tim Johnson posted on mcclatchydc.com Nov. 1) The same year that the U.S. enacted The Secure Fence Act, Mexican President Felipe Calderon declared a war on the drug cartels and unleashed the Mexican army. In 2007, Juarez had about 300 murders. the number has escalated every year since. Conversely, according to an October 20 post on El Paso ABC affiliate station KVIA's Web site, there have been exactly 2 murders in El Paso in 2010. As in most cases, suffering reputation by association is almost inevitable, inaccurate and unfair.

That's not to say that El Paso is some kind of suburban, white bread Utopia where bluebirds sit on your shoulder while small rodents gather acorns for your basket. No. El Paso is incredibly vibrant. On Saturday, we cruised the mural tour through the city, ending up in Lincoln Park, a green space that hides under a tangle of highway overpasses referred to as the spaghetti bowl by residents. Every single concrete support has been painted. Check it out. Next - the last leg.

A Ripe Restaurant, Foot Massage and Mundy's Gap

El Paso, Texas is at once everything you expect - and nothing that you expect.  There is a fence that runs along the border. We'll get to that. And unless you've been off-planet, you've heard about the insanity that is Juarez, Mexico. We'll get to that, too. But over the years I've become a little miffed when I say that I'm going to El Paso and some smart-ass in the room says, "oh, I'm sorry." Nothing to be sorry about. I'm certainly not sorry. And I can provide some information for education and edification.

I left San Antonio at 6:30 a.m. It was still dark, and I was on a state highway until I reached I-10 in Boerne. While I cruised along dealing with my depth perception issues and a dark, freshly resurfaced highway, assertive pickups followed closely (read: rode my ass). And on this dark highway, there was the only wildlife casualty in 7,000 miles - I hit either an armadillo or a possum. Whatever it was, I now understand the term "mosey" , because whatever the creature, it was not moving fast. Probably worn out from a long night doing whatever possums or armadillos do. I haven't run over very many members of the wild kingdom in my lifetime, and whenever I do, I feel sick to my stomach knowing that I directly caused the death of another being. The thud was followed by, "oh, nonononononono...!" And, "oh, I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry ..." I don't know who I was apologizing to, but I was truly so sorry. Not an auspicious beginning.

I-10 winds through hill country for awhile, and the drive was serene. Even the 18-wheelers seemed nicer.

Somewhere around Ft. Stockton, the hill country became desert. I was there for the transition, in my car, driving, looking. OK, maybe gapping out a little bit. But the actual moment snuck by me until there I was, looking at wind chargers in the desert, much like what's just north of Palm Springs on I-10. This great swath of the country from Montana all the way down to the border and even into the Southwest is one big wind tunnel.

It's not a short drive between San Antonio and El Paso; it's about 550 miles, eight hours. So it still took me until 2 p.m. to reach the city, and then I had to find my sister's place. Here is where technology failed me - my iphone map app. I drove easily ten miles out my way through the city. Why does this thing ignore shorter routes? Why does it always stick to major highways? Why can't I re-program it or choose my route? It was 3 p.m. by the time I got to the house. An extra hour finding my way through the city. It was not a simpler route. Apple - are you listening?

I consoled myself with the knowledge that my sister and her husband and I were going to dinner at a little restaurant called Ripe. Back in April we all ate there before the Nora Jones concert, and I had requested a return. Ripe is a funky little bistro set in a strip mall (everything is in a strip mall now, it seems). The main reason I wanted to return was for the sweet potato fries. And I'm not a huge fan of sweet potato fries, but these are done crispy and served with cilantro ranch dressing for dipping. Not a big ranch dressing fan, either, but this - this is not your typical ranch. The soy ginger calamari is also terrific, and I had the shrimp taco appetizer as an entree. Last time I was there, it was the barbecue salmon sandwich, which can feed a family of four. Visiting my sister in EP is always enjoyable, not only because she's cool and her husband is cool, but because there's usually some sort of food dysfunction that happens. In April, there was the brownie and ice cream dinner. This time, it was sweet potato fries at Ripe. I couldn't manage to scam a photograph from their website, but if you're heading to EP and want a fabulous meal, check out their site: www.eatripe.com.

I'm not good with food guilt, so the next day we went hiking at Mundys Gap. It's a nice out-and-back trail that runs about 3.5 miles and takes a couple hours to complete. Elevation gain is about 1300 feet, and at the top, there's a panoramic view of the entire valley.

Along the way, we encountered local wildlife. The lizard was posing, I swear. I kept getting closer and closer and he moved only to give me a better view. If I had brought a fan, he would have been working the wind.

Farther along, we saw a furry critter that I have never seen in its natural environment - a tarantula. It also posed. Clearly the Park Service is training the wildlife.

Although I'm old enough to know these things, I learned yet another lesson about the importance of sun screen. I thought I had put enough on, but I guess there's no such thing as too much SPF, because I got a good one and ended up peeling a week later.

Once we got showered up, we headed out to use up a gift certificate that sister had for foot massage. This was not your average foot massage. When the little lady saw that my jeans weren't going to fold up over my knees, she had  me remove them, tucking a towel around me and clucking. This place had giant recliners, and two-foot tall baskets in which to soak your feet and legs up to the crook of your knee in hot water. Until they started working over the tootsies. I was in a daze by the time we left. And since dinner was a nutrition conscious helping of fish and salad and other good things, we decamped to Dairy Queen afterward for a treat. Yes, there's much mention of Dairy Queen in this blog.

Next, El Corazon de El Paso.

Paseo del Rio

After remembering the Alamo, I headed past the Guinness World Records Museum, Ripley's Believe It or Not and the Plaza Wax Museum on Alamo Plaza, found the steps and ended up down by what's left of the San Antonio River, what is called the San Antonio River Walk.

I had been to the River Walk a few years back during a Christmas or Thanksgiving holiday with sisters and brothers-in-law and extended families.A whole pack of us got on one of the boats that cruise the waterways with a guide who rattled off all sorts of information and statistics and anecdotes. I did what I usually did at the time - absorbed very little and thought about the leftovers waiting in the frige. So I when I reached the walkway, I had a modicum of knowledge to draw upon besides - "oh, this looks kind of familiar."

According to the website thesanantonioriverwalk.com, the San Antonio River Walk is the number one tourist attraction in Texas.  Built as a flood control measure, it is essentially a canal system that winds through the city. The first construction of the waterway started in the 1920s, and the latest extension (to the San Antonio Museum of Art) was completed in 2009. My goal was to reach that museum, even though it was a little more than 1.5 miles one way. On the way there (or on the way back) I planned to stop at the Southwest School of Art and Craft to explore their gift shop and gallery. It was a good plan.

What really happened: I walked a quarter mile in the wrong direction, got turned back around in the right direction, asked directions again when my cute sundress became soaked through with girlsweat and I had decided to stop at the school first, and was sure I should have been there by now, then exited the River Walk too soon and had to consult the map on my i-phone to find the school, and when I reached the gallery I was told that the show had been taken down the day before and gosh, they were so sorry. So I found my way to the original campus and the little cafe and the gift shop. When in doubt, eat and spend money.

The Southwest School of Art and Craft resides in what was once a convent, established in 1851 when seven Catholic nuns arrived in San Antonio and founded the first school for girls in the city.  Buildings are elegant two-stories constructed of native limestone. The website notes that as the campus expanded, architecture was supervised by Francois Giraud, I assume to keep the look uniform. The site is included on the National Register of Historic Places.

By the time I walked in, I was desperate for only two things - air conditioning and a bathroom. Strolling along a canal that is one story below street level, I experienced little breeze. Did I mention is was about 95 with 85 percent humidity? (Not hyperbole.) Anything resembling a good hair day was in the distant past. And my dress was literally soaked through in some unbecoming places. Smile and walk fast.

I did order lunch, a turkey melt with a salad that was summarily disappointing. However, the gift shop was not. I spent at least an hour examining tiles, vases, earrings, charms, cards, coin purses, shoulder bags, ceramics, silk scarves, and more stuff I can't even remember. Considering my bank balance and my role in fiscal responsibility, I decided to explore the outer campus.

I'd like to tell you that I immersed myself in the history of the place, took a docent-led tour (they do have docents) asked lots of questions and absorbed all the information offered. But I did not. I was exhausted and still hot and dehydrated and worst of all, still hungry. So I sat down on a lovely stone bench (with a plaque attached stating just who donated the thing, or the money for the thing - more about ownership tags later) and stared at a fountain in the courtyard and the cat snoozing against the wall. The fountain was a stone and wrought iron trickling affair with much greenery surrounding it. Both the cat and I felt little compunction to move, so we didn't. After about half an hour, I asked directions once again to find my way back to the River Walk and returned the way I had come.

One of the best things about the River Walk to me is not the restaurants and bars - I don't drink and couldn't care less about mediocre bar food. I didn't have money to spend at the boutiques, either, although there were many and they clearly prospered. No, the best thing about the walk to me was the nice guys in bright yellow vests who, every time I got turned around, were available to point me in the right direction. I swear that they leaped from behind stone planters and bridge supports, or scooted out from under patio tables. Just as I turned around, there was a nice man (they were all men, funny enough) telling me where to go. Typically, I don't want any man telling me where to go. But in this case, it was appreciated. Especially if they were directing me to a place that had air conditioning. Maybe it was the sun dress and the movie star shades. No matter. They were immensely helpful. I found out later that the River Walk is actually a public city park, and helpers have been stationed there since 1957. Rangers were placed on the river before the walk was developed commercially because it was a dangerous place to be at night. Hence the development.

I left San Antonio the next day, headed for El Paso, Texas. I can just hear all of you saying "Oh, I'm so sorry ..." but I think you'll be surprised at what El Paso offered. More to come.

Remembering the Alamo

And now, a word about humidity.

Oy.

If I thought Dallas/Ft. Worth in the aftermath of Hermione was a soup, that oppressiveness was temperate compared to the bad-hair-day-making-shirt-clinging-sweat-dripping-down-my-back-to-unmentionables variety of humidity I encountered in San Antonio. I grew up in the Midwest where the summers are full of hazy mornings and damp evenings. (When Curly sang, "there's a bright golden haze on the meadow," just what do you think that haze was?) I had the least of it up near the Canadian border where the mosquitoes grow large and threatening. When I was a child, I recall begging, pleading for air-conditioning to be installed in the old farmhouse that, incidentally, had no ducts, only a gravity furnace. Needless to say, air conditioning was not installed (while I lived there) and now I look back and laugh because there was about three weeks of what we considered unbearable.

Then I moved to Kansas City, which I referred to as the Banana Belt of the Midwest, convinced that if there was a hybrid of that fruit adapted to a shorter growing season, bunches could be cultivated in Jackson County, Missouri.

Now I reside in the southern California desert, the Palm Springs area, which is like Death Valley with golf courses. For years I've heard people proclaim "but it's a dry heat!" My response is "just like hell!" After five years in the desert, I forgot about humidity. Sure, we get the monsoons moving through in August from Arizona's Sonoran desert, made worse by the evaporating swimming pools that belong to folks who leave in May when the temperature starts edging toward triple digits. But that's fleeting and comes close to the end of the hot season.

Humidity aside, the drive from D/FW to SA was through what is referred to as the hill country. It is a landscape which is little like the rest of Texas. Rolling hills crowded with trees under a sky full of fluffy clouds that sail in and out like tides. Outcroppings of limestone covered with mere inches of topsoil. I'm not sure the photograph does it justice, but ...

San Antonio. Oh, the humidity of it. But what a beautiful place. Canyon Lake - gorgeous. See below.

And the systems that come up from the Gulf spawning these fabulous cumulo nimbi - better and better.

So I donned a sun dress and headed out to Remember the Alamo. Funny to hear the interpretive talk from a volunteer speaking of "Texians." Not "Texans." At first I thought he just had an odd variation of Texas twang. But that's really how they refer to the individuals who settled the area when there was still a Mexican flag flying over it. The battle of the Alamo was nearly the culmination of what is referred to as The Texas Revolution.

The Alamo was originally named Mission San Antonio de Valero, one of the many missions built to force Native Americans' conversion to Christianity. About 70 years later, in the late 18th century, the Spanish secularized the mission and the lands were ceded to the Indians. Then, in the early 1800s, the place was occupied by a Spanish cavalry unit. During those years in the early 19th century, both royalists and revolutionaries occupied the Alamo (Spanish for "cottonwood" in honor of a village in Mexico) during the war for Mexican independence. 

The important thing to remember in all of this is that, once Mexico won its independence from Spain, Texas was part of Mexico and U.S. citizens who settled there (lured by land grants) were subject to Mexican laws. Settlers wanted to raise cotton for big profit - Mexico dictated that corn, grains and beef be raised. Settlers were accustom to freedom of religion; immigrants were required to swear fidelity to Roman Catholicism. Settlers were also encouraged to form their own militias to protect themselves from Indian attacks because Mexico won their independence but exhausted their resources  - the country was, quite simply, broke.

In 1835 Ben Milam routed Mexican troops and his forces occupied the Alamo. A couple months later, in February 1836, Santa Anna and his men showed up and we know the rest. Texians held out for 13 days; on day eight got some reinforcements, bringing their numbers up to about 200 troops against 1500. On March 6, the real battle ensued and just about all were killed including William Travis, David Crockett and Jim Bowie. But even though fewer than 50 Texians survived, somewhere between 400 and 600 Mexican troops were killed in the battle. Those Texians kicked some serious butt.

But now they were in full blown retreat, led by Sam Houston. It wasn't until April 6, the battle of San Jacinto, that Santa Anna was defeated. And here's yet another clue into Texas character - 900 of Houston's troops finally got tired of retreating, and decided to turn around and meet the Mexican force. Houston had no choice but to follow. Mutiny wins revolution.

That's what I know about the Alamo. The grounds are lovely, and obviously the place is a much visited attraction. The building that we typically see pictured is called the shrine. No photography, cell phone use or loud conversation is allowed. This is where men literally fought and died. There are other buildings as well, the Low Barrack, which was used alternately as a hospital, a barrack, a barn, etc. There is also a large combination museum and gift shop, which is pictured immediately above.

After that, I headed to the River Walk, which we will discuss in the next installment.

Nasher Sculpture Center and the Dallas Museum of Art's Stupidity

Put rather crassly, the Nasher Sculpture Center is yet another example of rich people collecting a whole bunch of incredible art and then building a museum for it. While that sounds at least flippant and at worst condescending, I am grateful for these wealthy citizens as I am a patron of estates made accessible to the public.

I learned of the Nasher not through my sister, but because I worked at the Palm Springs Art Museum when the board hired Steve Nash to be the executive director. Nash came to Palm Springs from the Nasher, where he helped bring Ray and Patsy Nasher's vision to fruition by first serving as a consultant and then as the first  executive director of the Center starting in 2001. So I thought I'd go see what all the fuss was about. And since the Dallas Museum of Art sits conveniently right next door, we availed ourselves of that opportunity as well.

While the Nasher had some fabulous work in the inside galleries, it was the sculpture garden area that was so arresting, despite a level of heat and humidity that should be illegal.

Barbara Hepworth, Squares with Two Circles (Monolith) 1963 (cast 1964) photo from Nasher web site

I can always tell a Hepworth because it usually has a couple holes through it. She is British, but that doesn't explain the holes, I know. Hepworth's early work was naturalistic, but by the 1930s she was making abstract shapes and was interested in what she called "abstract negative space." Thus, the holes. By enabling the viewer to see through the object, she allowed the viewer to see the object differently, bringing what is outside the piece into the piece and reforming it. Cool, right? And this is a fabulous setting for the piece.

Henry Moore, Working Model for Three Piece No. 3 (Vertebrae), 1968, bronze

I like Henry Moore's work. If you look at the "I (heart) KC" blog entry, there's a photo on their of one of his works displayed at The Nelson-Atkins Museum of Art's sculpture garden, called "Sheep Piece," which I refer to as The Humping Sheep. There is something about his abstracted shapes, the smoothness of the bronze, and what I perceive as a compassion and kindness toward the images he sculpts. Also a Brit, he was actually a contemporary of Hepworth's and attended the same art school, the Leeds School of Art. I've seen charcoal sketches that Moore did during air raids in London down in the tube tunnels. Eerie stuff, but it shows the same treatment of form even then, even in that situation.

Magdalena Abakanowicz, Polish, born 1930 "Bronze Crowd" 1990-91

You'll notice from Abakanowicz's birth date above that she was a child during WWII, which means that she witnessed many of the atrocities inflicted by the German's. There are thirty-six larger-than-life-size figures that comprise this sculpture, and although all of them appear identical from a distance, each one has subtle differences. The fact that they are headless suggests what happens with group  mentality. Abakanowicz has said, "A crowd is the most cruel because it begins to act like a brainless organism."

After feeding the parking meter, we went to the Dallas Museum of Art. I had been to the DMA one time before, and remembered one piece in particular that I was hoping to see again. "Stake Hitch" by Claes Oldenburg and Coosje van Bruggen, the same artists who did "Shuttlecocks" for the Nelson-Atkins in KC. What's interesting is that, like at the N-A, Oldenberg was commissioned to create something for a specific location, in this case, a large gallery with a barrel vaulted ceiling. The artists created something that I thought and still think is perfect for Dallas. Unfortunately, after 18 years, Jack Lane who was then the director of the DMA, removed the work. He promised to bring it back in a decade, but it hasn't shown up yet. Too bad. It was a 5,500 lb icon of the city, and had a lot of "wow" in it. And even with all the wonderful work on display, the DMA is flat without this piece. Next, remembering the Alamo.

Stake: aluminum, steel, resin, painted with polyeurethane enamel. Rope: polyeurethane foam, plastic materials, fiberglass reinforced plastics, painted with latex. Total height, including upper and lower floor: 53 ft. 6 in. Installed 1984. Image copied from Claes Oldenburg and Coosje van Buggen's web site without permission.

Cowboys and Bling

When I think of Dallas, I think of big hair, galleria shopping malls, and McMansions. Ft. Worth never, ever crossed my consciousness. It was always just the place next door to Dallas. They were cities that had grown together - same place.  And since I grew up around places like Fargo-Moorhead and Minneapolis-St. Paul, both cities divided only by a river, I thought of DFW the same way. Just one place, no unique identity beyond the neighborhoods of either or both. I was wrong.

It may be argued that Dallas is the more sophisticated sibling; glitzy, full of itself, a bit ostentatious.  Ft. Worth is sort of a big brother, unapologetically Western. If Ft. Worth is the rodeo cowboy, Dallas is the rhinestone cowboy. There are other city founder who would agree with that assessment, as well, especially those who founded Ft. Worth.

When I got to my friends' place in Mansfield, I admit I was ready to just hang out - visit, eat, pet the dogs, get some laundry done. But as usual, there's just too much to see and do, so we found our way out and about to the National Cowgirl Museum and Hall of Fame. I know, I know; only in Texas.

The reason I even knew of the Hall's existence was because of a trip to Ashland, Oregon for the Ashland Shakespeare Festival in 1997, five years before the current location of the Hall opened its doors. We had just seen "A Midsummer Night's Dream," and were window shopping. I glanced in the window of a gallery, and saw this image:

It's a piece called "Legends" by Donna Howell Sickles. I didn't buy it, but I did buy a coffee table-sized book of her work. My sister, who has been involved with the art world forever, of course knew who this artist was. And then took a job with American Women Artists, of whom Donna Howell Sickles is a member. Then DHS was inducted into the National Cowgirl Museum and Hall of Fame. And there it is.

The museum is dedicated to real cowgirls of course, the nearly indestructible women who raised the babies and laundered the clothes and cooked the meals and helped wrangle the cattle. It is also a place that pays tribute to those women who embody the spirit of the cowgirl - independent, strong, creative. Sandra Day O'Connor is in the Hall. She grew up on a ranch in Arizona.

The Hall itself is impressive, although the cost of admission was a bit steep - $10 per adult. I tried to explain that no one that I know considers me an adult, but Maxine at the front desk wasn't buying what I was selling. I paid my money and consoled myself with the discount I would receive at other area museums when I presented the ticket.

After an unremarkable lunch at Z's, housed at the art center down the block, we walked over to the Amon Carter Museum. I knew that the Amon Carter was a treasure house of American artwork, but had no idea who the heck Amon Carter was, or if it was two people, or what. Carter's story is the quintessential American success story: He was born in a one-room cabin, worked his way up, and ended up collecting enough art to found a museum. Carter was an advocate for Ft. Worth from the beginning of the 20th century, encouraged the Ft. Worth Star to acquired the Ft. Worth Telegram and became advertising manager of that newspaper. In fact, he considered archrival Dallas as "east Texas" and claimed that Ft. Worth is where the West begins. He might be right about that, although Kansas City has been dubbed the eastern-most Western city.  Carter wanted to fund a museum because of his own poverty as a child and lack of exposure to art and culture. It's a beautiful collection, full of American western masterworks such as this classic Frederic Remington painting, "A Dash for the Timber."

 Enough for now. Next, our day in Dallas and the injustice of de-installing art.

A Digression on 18 Wheels

The road from Kansas City to Dallas/Ft. Worth was one filled with fun, adventure, romance, high winds and blinding rain. OK, just high winds and blinding rain.  In order to reach DFW, I cruised straight down I-35, despite my i-phone's best efforts to direct me an hour out of my way on I-70 through Topeka. (And i-phones are great because ...?) When I left KC, the sun was shining in a clear sky. The drive was downright bucolic until a little over one hundred miles later, in Emporia, Kansas, I ducked under the hard cloud line of a front moving up. Hurricane Hermione was moving north as I moved south. The two of us intersected somewhere around Oklahoma City. I let her win and pulled in under a filling station awning. Not even my new dual-hemi-overhead-cam-turbo-powered graphite windshield wipers could keep up with her.

Here comes the digression. I never thought in my lifetime I would speak positively about semi-trucks. Long haul truckers and their rigs were the stuff of country songs, some of them actually good ("Six Days on the Road") most of them bad ("Teddy Bear"). On my travels throughout the western side of the country, eighteen wheelers were thick and fast on the roads and not appreciated by me most of the time. I dislike the draft created when pass them. I dislike how close they follow when they're trying to pass me. The back splash they create in rainy conditions frightens me. And transporting goods by truck, although just about the only way to do it, is grossly inefficient and uses a lot of fossil fuel and we all know what that does.

But a conversation with a tow truck driver in Tucson (more about that in future a future post) got me thinking. The gentleman, I will call him Mike because he seemed like a Mike, was telling me how much he liked what he does for a living. He lived in California, around Chino, I believe, until 1996 where he was a roofer. His wife's family lives in Tucson, so they moved there, and since the thought of enduring 100+ degrees installing a tile roof did not appeal to him, he became a driver. He told me that he's been driving since he moved in 1996.

I could imagine liking getting to play with a tow truck, I guess. There are all sorts of hydraulics and moving parts and truck beds going up and down. I might even be able to understand that he likes "working with the public," as he said. It takes a special breed to be patient with someone whose car has just taken a dump. Then I brought up how dangerous driving a tow truck must be.

"Yeah," he said, "between here and Phoenix, we've lost three drivers already this year."

"Lost as in quit, or lost as in ... no longer with us?" I asked.

"Killed," he replied.

So I got to thinking and poking around. And here's what I have learned: In 1992-95, the trucking industry experienced a 12% fatality rate - higher than any other occupation. Since then, that percentage has come down to about 7% according to a DOT statistic posted in September 2009. As recently as 2005, long haul carriers estimated a shortage of 20,000 drivers which was projected to become around 100,000 by 2014. In 2005, it was also estimated that there was a 136% turnover rate among long haul drivers. Since then, there's been a recession (in case no one's noticed) and many of those vacancies have been filled by construction workers. However, if the federal government comes through with a real investment in infrastructure, there goes the surplus.

But the thing that impressed me the most was how these drivers stop for nothing. From where I was settled in my snug car under the awning, I saw trucks plowing down the Interstate. I can't imagine grossing about $1,000 a week, (which was pay that I saw posted on a chat site, which I can hardly believe) and working those kind of hours. I'm sure this is different depending upon the company and if you're an owner/operator, etc. But after driving nearly 7,000 miles in the past six weeks, I have nothing but respect for truckers.

Next, DFW and cowgirls.

I (heart) KC

The term “fly over country” has always offended me, possibly because I have lived most of my life in what others refer to as fly over country.  For my part, I’m glad that the folks who refer to it that way flew over it instead of stopping in while I was there. I suspect I wouldn’t have liked them much.

The first year that I lived in California it inevitably came up in conversation that I was a recent transplant. In polite conversation, the question about from where I moved was next. I learned to answer neutrally – “the Midwest.”

“Oooohh. Where in the Midwest?” was the next inevitable question.

“Kansas City, Missouri.” I would answer. And watch for the reaction, usually something akin to how grateful I should be to have escaped that hellish place.

“Oh, thank God you’re out of there! This is so much better.”

One evening at a dinner party, after receiving that reaction for the 1,024^th time, I asked the man who said it if he had ever visited Kansas City. His response was an adamant negative. “Oh, no. I’ve never been there.”  I looked at him for a moment and finally said, “Then I guess you don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about, do you?”

Until 2005, the whole of my life was spent in the Midwest – part in Minnesota, then 16 years in the environs of Kansas City. The Midwest is a green place. I grew up on farm acreage in a place of the world where dirt is really black. Kansas City has lawns that suffer only in the bleak heat of August.

When I left my job as a magazine editor and moved to the southern California desert, it was a moonscape to me. Anything green was that color because of irrigation. Everything else was buff, putty, brown or tan. Even all the houses were the same color – California beige – and large garage doors were the most prominent architectural feature.

So I love Kansas City. It’s comfortable, pretty, green, shady, cultured. There are scads of galleries and a couple fabulous museums (one encyclopedic, one contemporary) neither of which charge admission. There are bunches of theaters. A city ballet company. A symphony. A camerata. A small orchestra. A chamber ensemble or two. Choirs. Independent book stores.

There is also food. From where I lived in the Waldo neighborhood, I could walk to Planet Sub, Chipotle, 75^th Street Brewery, Waldo Pizza, Sancho’s, that little coffee place on Oak, the bar and grill down Gregory from that. Independently owned businesses were the norm there – the canine friendly independent video store that kept dog treats on the counter, the designer consignment place on the corner, the small used car lot (a reputable one, no less) the list goes on. I could run miles on the leg- and knee-friendly packed sand of the Trolley Track Trail. I could rely on my neighbors for anything from dog sitting to car repair.

There is a general impression that Kansas City is a cow town. It was. In some ways it still is. Unfortunately, a lot of people there keep trying to deny that piece of history instead of celebrating it. But honestly, how can you have that much fabulous barbecue and not be a cow town? Puh-leez.

So here’s a little tour of some of my favorite places not only in KC, but in the world.

                                      

The Nelson Atkins Museum of Art is a comprehensive art museum and has one of the largest collections of Henry Moore sculpture in the country. My favorite piece is “Sheep Piece,” which I refer to as “The Humping Sheep.” You can see what I mean from the photograph. The Nelson-Atkins has recently undergone a fabulous remodeling and expansion. Some find the new galleries ugly as warehouses, but personally, I sort of like them. They snuggle into the berms of the sculpture garden as though they themselves are sculptures. They glow at night. They show off a lot of cool art in natural, indirect lighting. And the sculpture garden itself … well. You’ll notice a photograph of what appears to be a badminton birdie. It is. Only it is in a much larger proportion. Claes Oldenburg and Coosje Van Bruggen were commissioned to create these for the N-A and chose the design after seeing an aerial photograph of the site and thinking it looked like a giant tennis court. The ball thing was just too repetitive and boring so they chose shuttlecocks, lighter, more ethereal object which are also reminiscent of Native American headdresses in a way. (Van Bruggen recalls seeing a feathered Indian head piece in a gallery in the Nelson while brainstorming.) There are several lying around the yard on both the south and north sides of the building. Just think of the building as the net and you’ll get it.

The south lawn of the N-A as seen from the steps of the N-A. By the way, the Nelson-Atkins is named after William Rockhill Nelson who was the founder of The Kansas City Star newspaper who, when he arrived in the late 1880s, said that Kansas City was "incredibly ugly and commonplace". He set about making all sorts of civic improvement. Mary McAfee Atkins was another resident who inherited an substantial estate from her husband and started collecting art. The estates were combined in 1927 to form the Nelson-Atkins.

The Country Club Plaza is the creation of J.C. Nichols, an early KC real estate developer. After traveling through Europe, Nichols was determined to recreate something of Seville, Spain. He did it on the Plaza, which features a half-scale Giralda Tower.  Architectural style throughout the area is European and Spanish, dotted with fountains and classical statuary. The Plaza is arguably the first regional shopping center created for people arriving in automobiles. Happily, parking is available in cleverly disguised multi-story garages, not in sprawling asphalt lots. The area opened in 1923 and according to New Urbanist land developer Andres Duany, the Country Club Plaza has had the longest life of any planned shopping center in the history of the world.  The Plaza itself is beautiful, and it’s connected to other parts of KC that are gorgeous. Ward Parkway is known for its wide, manicured boulevard lined with vintage mansions of the Stover family (of Russell Stover chocolate), the Pendergasts (late 19^th and early 20^th century political bosses), etc.

Waldo Pizza  - one of the places within walking distance of my former home, the wonder that is Waldo has never found an equal in my mind. Or stomach. If you haven’t been there, I can’t explain it to you. It’s like trying to explain sex to a nun. Plus, they serve Ted Drewes frozen custard.

Smoke Stack BBQ – If Kansas City is famous for one thing, it is most likely jazz or barbecue. Actually, those two things probably run neck-and-neck.  But ever since Henry Perry started serving the stuff in the early 1900s, the art has been refined to the point of eccentricity. Several major barbecue competitions are held throughout the year, including the American Royal Barbecue Contest, held in conjunction with the American Royal which is a rodeo, cattle drive, general celebration of all the things that Kansas City continually tries to deny. More than 100 restaurants in the area specialize in the cuisine, and each one has its own unique sauce and smoking method. My favorite is Smoke Stack on the corner of 89^th Street and Wornall, right next door to Flo’s Polka Dot Lounge, Rainbow Laundromat, and Rayz-R-Edge Barbershop. And while I know that saying something is better than sex is passé and cliché, it’s hard not to think “oh my god, yes, yes, oh god, yes” while you have a mouth full of Smoke Stack’s burnt ends and ribs.

Thanks to Priceline.com, I stayed at the Hyatt Regency Crown Center on my recent visit to KC at $60/night plus parking. The Hyatt has a little sad history. Some of you may remember the disaster in July 1981 when two atrium skywalks collapsed during a tea dance, killing 114 people and injuring 200 others. A friend of mine (who became a nurse) was there that night, dining in the hotel at The Peppercorn Duck Club restaurant with her family, including her father, who is a doctor. She said that there was a crash that sounded like a server had just dropped a cart full of dishes in the kitchen. The restaurant went silent for a few seconds, then conversation resumed. A few minutes later, a page on the PA system, “Would any physicians who are dining with us this evening kindly come to the coat check area?” Then ambulance sirens. Her father responded to the page, and nearby Children’s Mercy Hospital received casualties that evening. Ironically, the entire thing was captured on video because a reporter for one of the television station was there covering the tea dance as a human interest/community story. During an interview regarding that night, he said that he hadn’t wanted to cover that story because he liked to cover hard news. He got his wish that night. It was hard news, alright. Hard to believe, hard to accept, hard to understand.

American Svenska Instituten, Marching bands, Unicorns, and Butterheads

I am the product of two mixed marriages. My grandmother was Norwegian and my grandfather was Swedish. My mother was Norwegian, my father 1/2 and 1/2. However, I do claim the Svenska side of my heritage enthusiastically, mostly because there seems to be more of them around and I think the flag is prettier. So when I was in Minneapolis, I stopped in at the American Swedish Institute, pictured above.

What is now the Institute was once a home built by Swan J. Turnblad, publisher of the Svenska Americanska Posten, a Swedish language newspaper that enjoyed a large circulation as evidenced by the opulence of the above structure. Clearly, this is from another, long ago time when publishers actually made a lot of money. The building is just as opulent inside, which makes me wonder about his heritage, simply because most of the Scandos I know are pretty self-effacing and oh, don't need anything like that, now, donchaknow. Despite my doubts about whether this guy was really a Swede or just knew the language, it's a cool place that is a cultural center and museum as well. Currently, the art exhibits are "My Paradise" and "With a View of the Water," photos of second homes along with scale models. The photo below is from the "With a View of The Water" exhibit. (Emerson residence and sauna at Cook Lake, Duluth, MN photo by Peter Bastianelli-Kerze from www.americanswedishinst.com)

I feel as though I have done a disservice to the Minnesota State Fair by depicting it as a food orgy. Although there is that, the fair has a little more to it than Pronto Pups and Tom Thumb donuts. So. Here’s a little bit of a history lesson.

While the territory established the Territorial Agricultural Society in 1854, Minnesota did not gain statehood until 1858 and held its first state fair in 1859 in what is now downtown Minneapolis. After being held in multiple locations (Red Wing, Rochester, St. Paul, Winona, Owatonna), the Ramsey County Board of Commissioners donated their 210-acre poor farm, providing a permanent home to the fair. The grounds are now 320 acres and boast historically significant buildings as well as facilities constructed by Franklin D. Roosevelt’s WPA project.

Although the MSF was first founded as a way to promote agriculture in the state, exhibits and activities have expanded over the past 150 years. Yes, livestock and ag is still a huge part of the fair; combined premiums for livestock run in excess of half a million dollars. The fair also schedules twelve days of top-notch grandstand acts. This year the BoDeans and Big Head Todd and the Monsters opened the fair. Rush, Tim McGraw, Seether, Brandi Carlile, Carrie Underwood, KISS, A Prairie Home Companion and the Dukes of September Rhythm Review (including Donald Fagen, Michael McDonald and Boz Scaggs) filled out the schedule.

Every day at 2 p.m. there is a parade through the grounds that includes everything from art cars to visiting pageant royalty to unicorns. The Saturday we attended, I was minding my own business at the Twin Territory booth, looking for an appropriate souvenir t-shirt, complaining bitterly to myself about the lack of selection, when I heard the Minnesota Fight Song – Minnesota, hats of to thee!  A marching band led the way for Santa Claus, Smokey the Bear and others. My favorite was the gigantic Angus steer in the last post, but there are others below, including the art car with trout (or bass?) and lobsters animated to move in sync with Handel’s "Hallelujah Chorus." Personally, I think the lobsters had it all over the trout, but maybe it’s because they got to do the hallelujahs.

Yes, Virginia, there really are unicorns.

Good ol' George Fridrich is spinning in his grave.

Oh - again, going back to the agricultural roots of the fair ... Every year, there is a competition for dairy princess sponsored by the Midwest Dairy Association. Contestants are selected at the county level, then advance to the state competition. This year, 19-year-old Katie Miron was crowned Princess Kay of the Milky Way. Her first duty as Princess is to sit for eight hours on a rotating platform in this refrigerated chamber and have her likeness carved out of a ninety pound block of butter. Then she'll go on to reign for a year, promoting the dairy industry. Each contestant is judged on her communication skills, general knowledge of the dairy industry, willingness to promote the industry, and personality. All twelve contestants were blonde and plump with sunny dispositions.

Next, on to Kansas City.