This afternoon I went to a Phoenix Museum of Art fundraiser where you pay $75 to tour rich people’s houses. I’ve never done anything like this, but I saw an ad in a magazine yesterday on my flight from Texas. Why not?

The first house was bizarre. In the middle of the desert is a tidy stack of boulders, like God was planning on doing something but got distracted with the Grand Canyon. These are colossal boulders, each the size of a school bus. So this couple decided to seal up the stack with a few walls and call it a house. Once inside, felt like an Indian or Fred Flintstone. They wanted $6,000,000 for the place. I offered them a million in cash, but they didn’t take it.

The next home was wonderful, but only because of the owners. Of course, they weren’t there, opting not to witness hundreds of strangers snoop through there house. But, I got acquainted with them through a long hallway of family photos. This good-looking family of blondes blazed a trail through 80′s fashion and hairstyles. It was like a history of sitcom cool, rivaling the likes of “Family Ties” and “Full House”.; By the end of the hall, even the baby had grown up and gone off to college. They grow up so fast.

The third house had really nice bathrooms, and everyone knew it. It was odd, standing in a stranger’s bathroom with other strangers. To put things in order, we complimented the space so others could hear.; “What a clever, sculptural sink!” “Did you see the custom marble spa?” I wanted to comment that the toilet looked comfortable, and that when you fart, it’d echo.

We couldn’t go to the fourth house because their neighbor threatened to sue them. How dare they bring in an unruly mob of art patrons?

The last house was the kind that rock stars live in. It was modern and boxy but too orderly. So I dressed up the place with rock-star drama.

I was in the kitchen and imagined my girlfriend throwing a plate across the room, yelling about me always on tour and all those groupies. Baby, I’m not like that. You know I love you. I’d get mad and hop in my Ferrari. I’d wrap my tattooed knuckles around the steering wheel and rev the engine and yell back at her. Finally I tear out of the place and disappear into the dark of the night.

While I was gone, my drummer got in a fistfight with our manager and threw him in the pool. The whole thing was a drunken, drippy mess. Everyone laughed and they made up. They turned up the music and trashed the place.

I got back at dawn to find everyone slumped into the pool chairs. The guys strummed their unplugged guitars and we sang “No Woman No Cry” to the sunrise.