Intellus New Mexico, Los Alamos National Laboratory’s massive database, is “the future of environmental data”—at least according to its website.

  1600s: Early settlers bring Cannabis sativa to colonies to cultivate hemp

Once upon a time, I lived in New York City—that lovely, messy town where food trucks reign supreme. The city teems with them, and my friends and I established a sort of game around the hardest-to-find mobile-food outposts.

Of course, in the interest of thorough reporting, SFR couldn’t visit just one local drinking establishment to sample its winter menu—so we also checked out the seasonal cocktails on offer at Secreto Bar, the cozy alcove tucked inside the Hotel St. Francis (210 Don Gaspar, 983-5700)

Canyon Road is magical, sure—but when you see it decorated to the eaves with holiday lights and farolitos, music and the scent of woodsmoke in the air, it takes on a whole new identity.

As much as I adore cute little French cafés, it seems like a counterintuitive moment to open one in Santa Fe.

No matter your partisan leanings, the 2012 election cycle—nasty, costly and seemingly interminable—probably makes you want to just give up and have a drink. Fortunately, you can. The state law banning drinking on Election Day has been defunct for more than a decade, and at least one local bar is taking advantage of that: the Inn of the Anasazi, which will offer politically themed drinks on Election Day—Tuesday, Nov. 6.

It’s been more than three years since Marino “Reno” Leyba shot and killed his pregnant teenage girlfriend, Sarah Lovato—but this week, the New Mexico Supreme Court sent the case back to the district court for a new trial.

Anna Moss, 20, sits cross-legged in the center of a large couch, nervously twirling one of the silver rings that adorn her fingers.

“I don’t know where to start,” she says, but then launches into the story of her life: “I have post-traumatic stress disorder. I grew up with a mom who was bipolar and schizophrenic. I moved around a lot. I spent three years being homeless between the ages of 10 and 13. When I was 13, I was raped.”

Ashley Sanders calls me from somewhere near Flagstaff, Ariz. She and Renae Widdison, organizers for the Move to Amend Coalition, are on their way from California to Florida, piloting a truck loaded with a giant money-stamping machine that labels bills with big, red slogans like “A corporation is not a person; money is not speech” and “Not to be used for bribing politicians.”