Phoenix is not Rising from Its Ashes

Much like Georgia O'Keefe, allergy sufferers, and suicidal longhorn cattle, I have headed Southwest. I am in Phoenix, Arizona.

Traveling to Phoenix is roughly the equivalent of saying to yourself, "You know where a cool place to visit would be? The surface of the sun!" I believe the only real difference between Arizona and the surface of the sun is that the surface of the sun supports more plant life.

Actually, I have never actually been to the surface of the sun, but I understand it's hot--although I am told it's a dry heat. That's what everyone here in Phoenix has been conditioned to tell visitors anytime someone comments on the temperature. It's supposed to make us feel better--as if the weather is a martini. I want to respond, "Once you get past 105 degrees, dry or humid really doesn't figure into the equation. Vultures have been circling me since the moment I stepped off the plane. It's ridiculously, irrevocably, unreasonably hot. Quit lying to yourself, accept it and move on."

Humans were not meant to live like this. My one trip to Mexico confirmed that the climate and surroundings are what drive our Latin friends north as much as the allure of low-paying manual labor and racism.

I am not a dessert dweller. I am Scottish and German. I require green-ness, roling hills, and unsuspecting cultures to brutally subjugate. I do not consider the cactus a plant. Instead, I see it as merely a less comfortable extension of dirt.

I do not consider bleached out skulls "quaint".

Mesas don't do it for me.

I will never live in a pueblo.

More later. I am going to get dinner. I believe a bison just expired outside my hotel room.