Amaury Torres has a dream. I have one, too. OK, so his is far more inspirational, starting in 1994 on a raft leaving Havana, Cuba, and traveling through Guantánamo, Panama and Miami before ending up on Highway 14 in the San Marcos area south of Santa Fe.

Before tweens and hillbillies started singing that horrid Nickelback anthem, it was the secret dream of most writers to play in a rock ’n’ roll band. Some authors, including Rick Moody, Stephen King and even (alas!) Barbara Kingsolver, have actually nailed semi-regular gigs doing something a step above karaoke.

A student walked in late to first period and I gave him a hard time about it. “A plane just hit the Pentagon,” he said with a smile and a shrug. “It was cool.” 

For years, many Santa Feans I know have been spending their summers participating in an odd ritual called the shoe-b-que.

We’d carved out a time on Friday to have dinner with my father, Ben, and his longtime girlfriend, Barbara. They’d driven more than two hours from their homes in Sarasota to meet us. Even I had to admit such effort was sweet—especially given they are both in their 80s—yet I was on my toes because tucked inside those sweet gestures often ticked a time bomb

My advice? Jump in the car and head south, blowing by Albuquerque and all those hipsters whining at the Frontier; Socorro and the New Mexico techies pretending they know how to golf; dont even stop in T or C this time because who wants all those spaceporters and yoga freaks messing with your jones?.

I recently took my son London along to the gym. After I had inelegantly completed my routine and he had demoed all the machines that would not land him in traction, we hit the locker room. He was giddy at the exclusive father-son time in an exotic locale where adults wearing hiked-up shorts throw medicine balls and slip on booties to skate back and forth on polished wood.

I felt a calm feeling wash over me. I had nowhere to be, no students to win over for books void of sensational plots, no DSL hassles at home (damn you, Qwest!), no extended family members’ birthdays to remember (damn you, nieces and nephews!).

In New York visiting a sick friend (cliché but true), I told another friend, Drew, I’d be happy to pay to be a guest at his gym. “Only suckers pay,” he said. “Tell them you moved into the neighborhood and you want to try it out. They’ll wave you right through.”

It was early and so was I, but I figured that I’d enjoy a well-needed drink at the empty bar. The bartender handed me a menu and I scanned it. The night before, some other friends had served me a fancy rum and, although I usually choose that spirit only when I’m sunburned and somewhere that pipes in reggae music, I figured—what the hell?—I’d let my freak flag fly.