The photos you are looking at below are of that old home became. It has some styling inspired by the mid-century modern homes, but doesn’t stay confined by the original home’s lines. It’s better looking and more livable than ever. (And now it’s definitely out of my price range.) I’m sharing the photos here on my blog mostly because I like looking at ‘em.

Megan and Norah at LGO

Megan and Brad, the two happiest people in Phoenix.

Mr. Monkey, Norah's new best friend. She chews on his head.

Later in the afternoon, I went to the Chandler Car show and snapped some photos of my favorite rides. After you click on each photo, you’ll see my thoughts about the car beneath.

Many of the people in the community came to the church to pray for the president and for our nation. We are such a politicized society that it is hard for anyone to believe there was no agenda behind the prayer service. Well you know what, we prayed for George W. Bush through an 8-year administration. Why would we not pray for Barack Obama? Do you know who else we pray for? World leaders. Local leaders. And for the people that they lead. That’s what Christians do–we pray for peace and justice.

I snapped some photos from the morning, including a few shots of the new grass they put in around Dobson High School to impress the president…

I looked online to find some more information, and I was happy to find stunning photography of the home. What I like about the house is the freshened interior with thoughtful details that make the home both modern and livable. Don’t get me wrong, a glass and steel structure with minimal furniture looks great in a magazine, but it’s torture to live in. That’s why mod homes like this one are so desirable.

By the way, if you’re interested in buying the house, it can be yours for $849,000.

Here are some photos from the weekend, including many from when we played outside…

For those who are interested, I snapped those photos with my week-old camera, the Canon PowerShot SD 880 IS. This is the pocket digital camera I’ve been waiting for:  small but still takes excellent photos. Plus, it has a wide angle lens, which allows me to capture more engaging scenes.

Shouldn’t They Have Closed This Road?

The drive home turned out to be difficult and frightening. The 50 mile stretch between Show Low and Payson is wilderness, so even in the best weather it’s a little unnerving to drive. There are no gas stations, no restaurants, no nothing. It was all about steep inclines and declines, snow and ice. Had I known the danger we’d encounter, I would have never have left Show Low.

In normal conditions, you can make that stretch of the trip in less than an hour. But it took us two-and-a-half hours, and every minute was horrible. We saw two wrecks, one of which was a semi truck that had spun out of control, tore through guard rail, and then flipped upside down in the snow-covered median. We crawled past the thrashed truck illuminated by the spinning lights of a police car. It was a terrible thing to see.

And how do you deal with these semi trucks? At first I was happy to follow a pack of  trucks because they carved a good path for my own wheels. But having a big truck behind me was claustrophobic. Twice I crawled down the mountain side to see the headlights in my rear-view mirror growing stronger brighter and closer. Was he sliding? Has he lost control of his truck? For a full hour I tried to maintain a healthy space between the semi in front of me and the semi behind me. It’s not enough to keep your own car on the road–you have anticipate everyone else on the road.

I believe that was the most persistently scary thing I’ve encountered as an adult. In between Payson and Phoenix the snow turned to rain and all Candyce and I could do was to gush about how relieved we were to be alive. It was surreal to eat pizza and watch the end of the Suns’ game in the comfort of our own home. Because just two hours before, we didn’t know if we’d be alive.

We got up early the next morning to go to Mass to thank God for taking care of us. It’s crazy how an experience like that can weld a close relationship even tighter. We hug each other more than we did last week.

The Suns acquired dynamic shooting guard Jason Richardson today in a trade with the Charlotte Bobcats that will also bring second-year forward Jared Dudley and a 2010 second-round draft choice to the Suns in exchange for shooting guard Raja Bell, forward Boris Diaw and rookie point guard Sean Singletary.

Raja Bell will be missed. He’s a hard working and down-to-earth player who is very good with the fans. Everyone I know who likes the Suns thinks that given the opportunity, they would become good friends with Raja and his family. Some would say this is the delusion that all sports fans share, but they’re missing the fact that fans rarely connect with the players on the court. Does anyone remember who went with Shawn Marion to Miami in the big trade for Shaq a mere 10 months ago?

Exactly.

As for Boris Diaw… He had a great year in Phoenix shortly after he was acquired from Atlanta–the same year he was awarded the Most Improved Player in the league. Since then his impact on the team is unclear. Commentators love to gush praises about his versatility, but it’s hard for a fan to connect with a player if he’s terrified of shooting the ball. I like a good passer as much as anyone else, but after a few years of watching Boris in a Suns jersey, he starts too look like an overpaid coward. In contrast, Raja Bell was an underpaid warrior. You could see his passion for the game and his desire to win everytime he stepped onto the court. He wanted the victory as much as the fans.

That is why I wasn’t surprised to see the results of the Arizona Republic poll this afternoon that 34% will miss Raja, and only 3% will miss Boris Diaw.

It’s too early to know how Richardson and Dudley will fit into Steve Kerr and Terry Porter’s blueprint for a championship. But it’s clear that today the city of Phoenix has lost one of it’s hometown favorites. So Raja if you are reading, know that the city will welcome you back when you’re ready to retire from basketball get involved in the community. My wife told me that she would like to have your family over for dinner.

*Answer: Marcus Banks, the $4,000,000/yr bench warmer

Instead, let’s talk about *the new hotness* that is the intersection of Central Avenue and Camelback Road. I haven’t been to that part of town months, but it seems like anything new and cool that I read about is within a stone’s throw of those cross streets. There are several clothing boutiques, Lola Tapas & Coffee Bar, Red Hot Robot, Stinkweeds Record Exchange, and the aformentioned RED Modern Furniture. Each of those spots are interesting for scrappy scenesters, but there’s not enough gloss to encourage the Y.U.P.s to come out after dark.

But that could soon change. The old Katz Deli (never heard of it till yesterday) was purchased by LGO and will open as Postino Central in January. That’s good news for uptown Phoenicians who tired of migrating to the Biltmore for a classy night out.

You get a letter in the mail that your license plates are expiring. But before you renew your plates, you have to drive to an emissions testing station to have your car’s exhaust measured for pollution. The station is an open air garage that can service five cars at one time. Behind each service bay is usually 10 cars waiting for their turn. Imagine parallel lines of people waiting to pick up their food at the drive-thru at McDonalds. The end goal is to keep dirty cars off the streets, but the emissions testing station is one of the dirtiest spots in the city.

But the Arizona Department of Air Quality (ADAQ) is trying to solve the problem. They’ve set up webcams that update every couple of minutes that show everyone how long the lines are at each station around the city. Now you can gauge where and when you make the trip to the station. It’s a simple solution and everyone wins.

See it in action

1. Prelude, from Holberg Suite, Opus 40 by Edvard Grieg
2. Largo, from Concerto in D major for Two Violins, BWV1043 by Johann Sebastian Bach
3. Allegretto, from Palladio by Karl Jenkins
4. Adagietto, from Symphony No. 5 by Gustav Mahler
5. Canon by Johann Pachelbel
6. Serenade for Strings, Opus 1 by Samuel Barber
7. Serenade for Strings in C major, Opus 48 by Tchaikovsky

I don’t think you find anything more inspiring and enriching than tickets for two to the symphony. Which affirms my belief that….

Your City is Not Boring. You are boring.

I am tired of meeting young adults who complain about their city. I can understand why teenagers whine that there’s “nothing to do here” because a lot of them don’t have a car or enough money to explore their city. But once you’ve graduated from the dramas of high school, there’s nothing keeping your from enjoying your city but your own laziness. There are a thousand things to do today, you just have to get off your ass and get out there.

I am beginning to see that these “young adult whiners” do not age very well. Soon they’ll be just an “adult whiner” sliding to the Middle. Tomorrow, they’ll be the adults that the new young people come to ignore.

Thoughts on Popular Music

Let’s talk about pop music. This is a difficult subject to bring up, because it’s hard to say only a few words and be done with it. That’s why there are dozens of music magazines that have something new to write about every month of every year. In the interest of time, I will write two paragraphs:

The problem we have today is that the overwhelming majority of new music is created for and marketed exclusively to young people. That’s why the most successful bands, rappers, and entertainers come pre-packaged with an image–or even better–a lifestyle. Teens grab onto these lifestyles because gives them an identity in a time in their life where they don’t know how to be cool.

Can anything so shallow be of any lasting worth? Last night we enjoyed music that was written over the course of the last three centuries. Will any music be written in my generation that is worth passing onto the next generation?

Tom Brady’s name is already chiseled in the NFL record books, with or without an undefeated season credited to his arm. The Hall of Fame will reveal he’s already directed three Super Bowl victories before he turned 30. But if Brady wants to become a real NFL war hero, he needs a enemy. Nothing could add more drama than a pair of gun slinging brothers: Eli Manning and Payton Manning. Sports writers and historians are going to have a lot of fun writing this story over and over again.

Payton looks to Eli in the stands and chuckles at his chance to fulfill their childhood fantasy of clubbing Terry Bradshaw in the head with a trophy.

Second, the world should know that the NFL played tricks with the cameras last night. As the game was beginning, they showed an aerial shot of the setting sun igniting the sky behind the distant mountains west of Phoenix. My pride in our city’s natural beauty was interrupted by reality: I looked out the window and saw the sun low in the sky peaking through the clouds, but it was no where near the horizon. We had another hour or so before the sun would set. If anything, the sun would set first in our part of town, even if by just a few seconds.

I pointed out this inconsistency to the crowd in the room. Neil explained that it was cloudy, and maybe it messed with the cameras on the blimp or something. Soon it was time to watch the game, and we all forgot about it. We continued eating nachos.

Then later in the 2nd quarter we had a second aerial shot of the stadium, except this time the stadium was a beacon of light in the dark of the night. I looked out the window, and the street lights hadn’t even flickered on yet. What’s the deal? The consensus in the room was that the NFL grabbed the sunset and city light shots on Saturday night. My guess was that the NFL sped-up the setting sun to make the fans in New York and Boston feel less disoriented by spinning earth. They needed to know that their boys were close to home.

I know that people will act like they already knew that camera crews mess with the space-time-continuum all the time, but who really knows that? The facts of Fox’s “creative editing” of the Super Bowl footage is as new to me as it is to everyone else.

On a final note, this game will complicate the politics at the ESPN office. Their headquarters in Bristol, Connecticut, is 2 hours and 10 minutes from both New York City and Boston. I expect that it’ll be an intense day at the office.

Let’s try to figure out what they’re going for here. The red looks like “Sedona red” that dominates the Diamond Backs new uniforms that came out last season. Before they upgraded their uniforms, the Diamondbacks’ were covered with turquoise, copper, black and purple since the team started in 1995.

Teal and purple were vaguely fashionable in 1995, but I suspect that the primary reason they were chosen is because they’re Arizona colors. Really, when you think of it, it’s rare that a state in the US has loyalty to colors that doesn’t already stem from their big universities. It’s because Arizona is a geological freak show that makes for good postcards.

Exhibit A: The Arizona Dbacks Debuted Sedona Red last season.

Here’s a summary of our indigenous colors:

1. Earth Tones because there’s a lot of earth here.
2. Copper because you’ll find it in the earth.
3. Turquoise because you’ll find it in the earth.
4. Purple because it pairs well with turquoise and teal since the early 1990s. It’s an adopted color that the state loves like it’s own.
5. Red because of the rock formations through the state, especially in Sedona and the Grand Canyon.
6. Oranges because we grow a lot of citrus, and the sun is pretty bright here.

So I’m guessing that the designer of the Super Bowl logo picked from this list (#3 and #5) and then threw in the spots of blue to make merchandise easier to sell to NFL fans.

Me and Candyce riding in the back of the sleigh.

This horse was huge. It could kick over a house if it felt like it.

L to R: Candyce, Cowhand, Lauryn Oertle, Megan Madigan, Dani Weimen, Kevin Day, the horse

This afternoon Danny  and I found snowshoes in the closet, so we strapped them on and ventured out of the cabin. After about 20 minutes, we had worked up a sweat and the sun was warming up. I lifted my hoody off back and stood there shirtless for about 10 seconds. It felt so good that I tied it around my waist. Danny did the same. We spent the next 45 minutes scooting across the snow-covered valley like a bunch of bareback freaks.

Kevin spotted us from the cabin’s front porch, and he decided he wanted to get in on the fun. Danny went inside and Kevin joined me for a second trip. We explored the building sites for new cabins near the base of the mountain. We rounded the frozen lake and jumped over frozen creeks. We discovered tracks and crap from elk and deer. It was quite an afternoon of adventure.

There was a professor in the room who paced back and forth with excitement as I sat there trying to figure out what to do with my avocado. Some grownups started chatting away in the corner about how ridiculous this whole ordeal was, and they were violently yanked from their desks and dragged out of the testing room by police officers.

I was so happy when I woke up to realize I’m actually here in the White Mountains of Eastern Arizona. I’m a grown man who’s married and spending a weekend with his homies. I peeked through the blinds to see that the sun was getting ready to rise, so I scrambled downstairs to see if I could see some wildlife in the early morning. I got hooked on looking for wildlife in the early morning last summer at Yosemite when I was rewarded with bobcat, a coyote, and a bunch of deer. I never knew it was so much to be the star in my own Discovery Channel TV show.

So I fumbled down the stairs to catch the show. I built a fire in the fireplace and made some coffee so my homies will l have something fun to wake up to. Now I’m here typing because I think it’s too damn cold out there even for the animals. They still lounging in their animal houses up in the woods. There’s about ten inches of snow on the ground outside, and the snow drifts on the front porch are two feet deep. It’s fun looking at the snow, but it’s like staring at the same painting for an hour. You just get bored.

:::

High Mountain Rangers

1988 was a good year for me. I was nine years old and my family took a trip to the Outer Banks of North Carolina to hang out at the beach while staying in a free weekend at a “timeshare”. (Dad described it to me like this: We get to stay here for free as long as me and Mom sit in a three hour meeting where they try to get us to buy this place.) I remember thinking those people were dumb because they obviously didn’t know we were broke. We couldn’t even buy pop tarts, much less a “combo” by the beach.

I was thrilled because we were at the beach and there would be skateboarders there like me, but I was strung out with joy because our condo was on the 10th floor of the building. I’d never stayed in a place that high off the ground before.

The adventures just kept coming. That night Katie, Kristie, and I got to explore all of the TV channels that beach people got to watch, and we came across a show called The High Mountain Rangers. The plot was pretty simple: a dad and his two sons are part of a rescue crew that saves the lives of dumb tourists lost in the snowy mountains. Check out the Show intro High Mountain Rangers on YouTube.

This show made me feel pretty cool because I lived in the mountains too and I was always in the woods. And although I was only 9 and wasn’t officially dating anyone, I liked the idea that I was a rough mountain man that was misunderstood by the pretty city girls. This was my kind of show.We got back to the mountains, I looked for the show for about a month with no luck. In college, I poked around the Internet hoping I’d find something, and didn’t come up with anything.

I just checkout out Wikipedia and found out the show was canceled after its first season of 12 episodes. No wonder I couldn’t find it on TV! It’s a shame too… You know, I might be the biggest fan that show ever had. If I had more time on my hands, I’d start an ironic High Mountain Rangers fan club online.

Over the course of writing this, it’s gone from “kinda dark” outside to a bright bright morning. The snow is a big mirror to reflect the rays of the sun, and this cabin is so bright inside I can barely see the computer monitor because of the reflections. I should point out that although it’s cold outside, my bare toes are warm right now. Radiant floor heating is the best thing in the world. By the way, I still haven’t seen a wild animal outside.

Sweet.

We went to the lake to ski, but I spent most of my time admiring the scenary. Here are a few photos from the afternoon.

That’s Four Peaks in the distance, made infamous by our license plates and a brewery.

Candyce enjoying the sun.

Danny (striking a pose), Lauryn (confused), and Candyce (confident)

Grillin’ and Chillin’

Most of the day on the lake was serene, but the final hours was nothing but surreal. We finished skiing and pulled up to a sandy beach to grill some dinner. There were a half-dozen other boats there, each the main stage of a their own little spring break in September. Big speakers on their boats echoed “Party Like a Rokkstar” around the canyon walls. Males were drinking, yelling, and insulting each other. Females were strutting around in their bikinis showing off their new tattoos. It was a bizarre scene in the middle of the desert. I lit the grill and started cooking. One by one, they backed off the beach and cruised out of the cove. The last boat left leaving a trail of music bouncing through the canyon: Will.i.iam’s “I Got it from my Mama.” Then all we heard were birds and bugs at dusk. Humans really are an unruly species.

Rock the Boat

Before I move on, I should explain that Saguaro lake is the fourth and lowest lake in a series of four. Roosevelt feeds into Apache, Apache into Canyon, and Canyon into Saguaro.

I was flipping the chicken when our placid lake began to ripple with a strong current. This is bizarre, because lakes don’t “ripple with a srong current.” We were all staring into the distance trying to make sense of this, when I looked down and saw a pair of flip flops (left by a party girl) float off the sand and into the water. Within minutes our sandy beach had become smaller than my kitchen.

We hopped up onto the boat and ate dinner and listened to Jason describe his plan for sailing from Los Angeles to Sydney, Australia. Before we knew it, it was dark and it was time to go. Unfortunately, the water level had lowered, and our boat was a beached whale. The guys got out and rocked the boat for ten minutes until we were finally floating again. It was a funny scene because the girls were in the boat and it looked like we were harrassing them I read in the paper earlier this week that they were lowered the water level in Canyon Lake by 20 feet to repair the dam. They opened up their dam upstream and flooded our picnic.

The cruise out of the lake was magical. It was dark and we were the only boat still on the lake. You couldn’t see the canyon walls, so we had to drive slowly. The sky was illuminated by a full dome of stars. It’s been so long since I’ve seen so many stars like that.

We stopped for twenty minutes and just floated in darkness, staring up the the sky. In the distance a camper was staying warm by a fire of mesquite wood, filling the air with the smell of autumn. It was such a calm moment at the end of such a severe three weeks of remodeling.

I am delighted that people are concerned about getting the real deal–not some imposture food prepared by the kitchens of chain restaurants. Part of our insecurity comes from our fear that other countries judge American cuisine by our most famous ambassadors: Burger King and McDonalds. It’s natural that we would look across the street at Taco Bell and know that they’re not doing the Mexican thing right. To be clear, America is a better place because it’s citizens are concerned about authentic cuisine. Bravo.

Now the problem: we’re so damn obsessed with authentic cuisine that we can’t think straight. Consider our decades-long obsession with authentic Mexican food. This is of particular interest to me because I live in the Southwest, and everyone who comes into town wants to know where to get authentic Mexican food. Before I can even open my mouth, they usually go on to clarify what qualifies authentic Mexican food:

1. Avocados come from California, not Mexico.
2. Rice is an American addition to the burrito.
3. The burrito is an American addition to Mexican cuisine. (Well, which one is it? Did we add the rice or did we add the whole burrito?)
4. Mexicans don’t use tomatoes because they require too much water, which they don’t have a lot of.
5. Tex-Mex is not authentic Mexican food.

Each of these sounds like reasonable qualifiers for what constitutes authentic Mexican food. True or not, I’ve patched these together in an attempt to shore up my understanding of authentic Mexican food. Before we try to check Yes or No next to each sentence, let’s consider this whole conversation from the outside.

Mexico is a big country.

How naive do you have to be to assume that the entire country eats the same way? I mean in America, you have different cuisine in every region of the country. Isn’t it reasonable that that Mexico is the same way?

Mexico has thousands of miles of coastline, and I guarantee that the ocean-side cooks in Mexico have a different authentic food from the inlanders. There are more fisherman in Baja Mexico than there are cowboys, and you can’t try to convince me they eat the same thing. So this whole pursuit of authentic Mexican food is a waste of time. But let’s keep thinking about this.

Texas was part of Mexico.

When you consider the lands of Texas used to be a part of Mexico, Tex-Mex food should have as much of a stake in the claim to authentic Mexican food as anywhere south of the border. It’s arrogant to dismiss their 120 yr-old Tex-Mex food today as anything less than authentic.

Here’s another point to consider: what if authentic Mexican food sucks? Maybe the reason Tex-Mex food has stuck around for over a century because the authentic Mexican Indians were tired of the same old stuff. What if they were amped that the Spaniards brought in good stuff that made their blah dinner taste better? And there’s no convincing them to do it any other way. Those first Tex-Mexers fixed this new food for their kids. Those kids did it for their kids.

I know I’ve just lost people here. This sounds implausible to a lot of Americans because it’s fashionable nowadays to disown the ocean-hopping Europeans that settled/took over North America. It’s popular to think that everything they brought (religion, culture, gun powder) was nothing but trouble. I’ll let someone more knowledgeable than me pick up that debate–I’m here to talk about food. All I’m suggesting is that you have to respect Tex-Mex, the Spanish-Mexican fusion that they still love in South Texas today. It’s here for a reason, and it’s here to stay.

Who cares?

I guess I’ve gone off for the last 45 minutes about this whole issue because I’m tired of being caught in the crossfires of the Authenticity Debate. I’m tired of being judged by people who think they know more than me. As a white man, I always defer to my close Mexican friends, only to realize that they were confused too. The only differnce between us is that they just quit caring.

There are better things to do than to cause all of this needlessly complicated, racially-contentious drama over very simple food. There’s no use wasting time trying to decifer authentic ingredients. Shut up and eat your taco.

When my out-of-town friends ask me where to go for authentic Mexican, I spare them the debate and get right to it: you’re in Arizona and you want authentic Mexican food? Go to Filibertos. It might be a low-budget chain restaurant. Every Filibertos looks like it was built in a building that once sold burgers and fries. But their menu doesn’t explain their numbered “value meals.” They don’t have sales or specials, they don’t introduce new food. Their salsa bar is poorly lit and looks unappealing to me. But regardless of how formidable the restaurants may be, they are everywhere. Mexicans work there and Mexicans eat there. What can be more authentically Mexican than that?

For my money, I’d rather eat at the sanitized chains like Rubio’s or Baja Fresh, but I’ll never try to convince you it’s authentic Mexican. It just tastes better and that’s all I need.

If this were a new restaurant in another part of town by a different restaurateur, I wouldn’t be so critical. But LGO has momentum, so you expect creativity, especially when it comes time to branding the restaurant. Having said that…

The atmosphere disappointed me. It’s one thing to keep a visual theme in all of your restaurants, but it’s another thing to re-use old ideas. The interior is all-too-familiar: lots of hard surfaces, concrete floors, block walls. These surfaces might be hip, but it makes the dining area too loud. Even with a full spread of fabric curtains stretching across the back wall, the voices of the room roared too loud for good conversation.

The only thing that sets this restaurant’s interior apart from the gang that is LGO is the ceiling and the seating. They inherited the unique architecture from the previous owners, and they played up the low, wood arched ceilings from wall to wall. The chairs and tables were wood laminate held up by thin, spidery legs. When compared to the volume of the room and the scale of the arched ceiling, the furniture combined for the busyness of a high school cafeteria.*

There were a couple details that did please me. The front windows look like they’ll swing right open in nice weather, a detail worth carrying over from their other restaurants. The lower portion of the windows is a wide concrete shelf that will serve as a bench for folks inside and outside. It’s a clever way provoke the social life through the restaurant walls. Like Chelsea’s Kitchen, waiting for a table might be as fun as having a table.

The other details I like were at the back of the restaurant. Behind the wide curtain on the back wall were glass doors that will most likely open to the narrow strip of courtyard. The young trees planted in an orderly row will give some organic relief to the industrial vibe inside. If they’re smart, they’ll make friends with their neighbors whose back wall defines the far edge of the courtyard. A whimsical Italian mural could set the tone for the whole restaurant. (And why not? The wall is shielded from the harshest desert sun.)

The food? For the record, the restaurant is a “new Italian” concept. Aside from the fashion capitol the restaurant was named after (Milan), there wasn’t much on the menu that spoke Italian. I didn’t expect numbered pasta dishes, but I expected to read through creative interpretations of Italian classics.

We started with the vegetable plate. It was fresh and tasty, but it was hard to figure out how you can charge $11 for a handful of vegetables with two thin slices of fresh mozzarella. Listen, if you are a “new Italian” restaurant and you are going to anchor a dish with an Italian staple, then make sure to slice like that mozzarella like the hungry Italians do. And I am talking about a handful of vegetables. I could’ve scooped them off the plate and put them in my pants pocket.

Perhaps the waitress was too scared to tell us the truth, but we were under the impression that we got real entrees with descent proportions. The menu seemed to be divided into appetizers and entrees. Come serving time, we were surprised to see we bought appetizers that were priced like entrees. The confusion grew…so this is a new-Italian tapas restaurant?

I understand the concept of a tapas. You get lots of little servings and you share them with friends. You explore the menu and discover different flavors. But that only works when you have dozens of options at reasonable prices. I’ve been to several tapas restaurants and enjoyed every part of the dining experience. But Radio Milano’s menu was short, and every item was stickered between $10 to over $14. It’ll take five orders for a couple on a date to feel full, and all of a sudden you’re inching towards $100 with tax and tip. Where’s the fun in that? For less money than that, you can have the timeless $10,000,000 atmosphere of Sassi up in Pinnacle Peak.

Anyway, I was served my main course. I ordered the meatloaf because I like to see how chefs spin a comfort food classic. It was tasty and moist, but it was just a fraction larger than a biscotti I ate that morning with my espresso. If you can make it bigger and serve it to me at Chelsea’s Kitchen, I’d order it again. Candyce and I didn’t bother ordering anymore when we realized the cost of the night had already run over $50.

After dinner, Candyce and I walked to the car and we both admitted to still being hungry. We flirted with the idea of going to LGO Grocery across the street to buy a salads or a couple sandwiches to go. If our night had ended there, our evening would’ve been a big let down. But we swung by Safeway and got a big massive sub sandwich from then sat by Tempe Town Lake under the night sky. It was the perfect night, almost a little too cool with the breezes coming off the lake. (Could this really be June in Phoenix?) (Could that’ve really been LGO’s newest restaurant?)

*Note 04/07/09: I peaked in the window of Radio Milano and saw that they re-ordered the tables and chairs so that it doesn’t look so cluttered.

:::

The Suns got knocked out of the NBA playoffs. It’s been melancholy around town, and I haven’t been in the mood to write about it. Candyce and I were downtown at Stoudemire’s restaurant to watch Game 5 at home against the Spurs. We were without Diaw and Stoudemire because of an unjust rule in the NBA that killed us in the closing seconds of Game 4 in San Antonio. We won that game, but we were punished in the series.

Stoudemire’s restaurant was proud and rowdy. Even the kitchen crew came out into the restaurant to watch the final quarter of the game. The place was a happy riot until the final minutes of the game. The Suns came up a few points short in the final minute, and we lost the game. Slowly, the crowd emptied into the streets. Nobody spoke. Everyone just walked to their cars, stunned by the reality of our bad fortune.

On our walk to the packed streets past the stadium and to our car, I was encouraged by dozens of fans I didn’t know. “We’ll see you back Sunday night…we’ll get ‘em back here in Phoenix.” There were 25,000 friends walking those streets. How fantastic is that? Sports break down a cities walls so that absolute strangers are able to encourage one another and show compassion.

By the time Candyce and I got to our car, I was overwhelmed with by how much the team fought in that game. They were undermanned, but they fought with every fiber of their bodies. They left it all on the floor, and few people in this world really know what that’s like. Even though I was discouraged, sitting in my car beneath that humming street lamp, I had such a profound respect for the tigers that are the Phoenix Suns. Victory or not, they were tigers.

:::

Earlier this season (sometime after the All-star break?), ESPN ranked people throughout the NBA according to different statistics. Steve Nash was ranked number one in fist bumps: putting his fist out to his teammates as a sign of encouragement on the court. He gave the other people high-fives, encouraging words, whatever was he showed connection with the other players on the team. This is important because players have feelings too. Teams have spirit, a collective self-esteem between all the players and coaches. You need a team leader who can contribute to that spirit and to make that team better. You’ll never see Steve Nash angry at his teammates. He never shouts at his guys on the court, even if they miss an easy shot.

I’ll never forget a situation earlier this season when Raja Bell shot an air ball from behind the three point line. This is rare because this is where Bell hits most of his shots, but this season he’s been off. Steve Nash understands that he has to build up Raja Bell’s confidence, just like all of us understand one another need a boost of confidence. So after Raja Bell missed a three pointer, Steve Nash scrambled for the rebound and dished it back out to Bell, still standing at the three-point arch. Of course Bell drains the three, team runs back to the other side of the court and high-fives fly. How many people would offer someone redemption like that?

This season I got to see this up close. I had good seats, maybe 20 rows up from the court behind the scorer’s table. I watched two of the Indiana Pacers bench players walk up to the table and got ready to check into the game. They both slowed down caused stepped over something and then stood patiently at the sideline until they could go in. I wouldn’t have noticed this as anything eventful, but a few seconds later, Steve Nash stepped up to the table. He reached down and picked up a piece of paper and handed it to guys behind the table.  How awesome is that? Those guys thought they were too big too cool and too important to do something as silly as picking up a piece of paper. But apparently the leagues 2-time MVP isn’t too important.

There’s no doubt Nash will leave a legacy in the NBA. He’s still writing that legacy every time he bounces the ball on the court. So nobody knows for sure how his story will be told. But it is undeniable that he possesses a certain magic that take the game to the next level. Anyone with eyes to see knows that he leads a team unlike any team of this generation.

Next season, we’ll see this team do it again.

I drove across the intersection through the red light. It was almost like I was on Frogger. A few seconds later I was dialed 911 before jumping out of the car. I ran through the ditch and my flip-flops towards the flame now 5 feet tall. As the 911 operator picked up the phone, I turned back towards my car and grabbed a gallon of milk I just bought at the store.

(Honestly, I look pretty stupid now that I think about it, talking on the phone while running through a ditch, wearing flip flops with a gallon of milk.)

I tore off the top doused the fire with 2% milk. I could smell the chemicals that teenagers poured on the dry bush. At this point, the excitement was over. I stood next to the fire answering the questions from the 911 operator. I looked to the left and right and realized that many other bushes could’ve caught on fire, and I was happy to be there when I was.

I met a cop in the parking lot five minutes later, and he hit me with the typical questions and officer might get someone who he believes is actually the culprit.

1. Where were you when you saw the fire?
2. Did you say there are how many boys?
3. And you just happen to be here?

I couldn’t help but want a laugh in his face. Really. I’m a 28-year-old man, I have better things to do than light bushes on fire, extinguish them with milk, and then report myself to the police. I gave him a quick thank you and then walked back to my car, just like the impatient New Yorkers do on an episode of Law & Order.

My brother is a police officer, so I called him this morning and retold the story. He got a good laugh out of it to.

Not once in my first 21 years did I call 911, but now that I’m out of college, I feel like I do it every year.

1. Several years ago I called 911 after I heard gunshots in my neighborhood. They said that they would send a police officer right over to check things out. I went back to sleep and forgot about it.
2. Six months later Matt Maher and I woke up in the middle of the night to a gigantic BOOM, the sound is so big that you imagine a dump truck filled with gasoline exploded in your living room. The windows of the house shook. He ran outside with his shotgun and I, well, I just ran outside. The dark street was peaceful. We called 911, and they said they would send someone over to check it out. (To this day, I have no idea what would make that loud of a sound.)
3. Earlier this year, I almost ran into a parked car in the middle of a busy street just after sunset. It was tucked behind a median in a dark corner where there were no street lights. I just knew the people driving through the intersection trying to make a green would rear end this thing and get seriously messed up. So I pulled over underneath a street light and ran to the median and back to the car to see if there was anyone inside.

It was empty and totally trashed. It smelled like cigarettes and alcohol in body odor. I felt so dirty. Whoever drove this car lived a life so unlike my own. The car wouldn’t start, but it did have enough juice in the battery to keep the parking lights on. I hopped in my car and drove off to my appointment. The 911 operator treated me similar as how the cop did last night. She prodded me trying to figure out if this was in fact my car and not someone else’s. I was blunt with her this and it’s not my car. I’m in my own car now I’ve got to go. I very neat car, by the way.

Ultimately, my good deed today with the fire was returned today by Leah, Nick’s girlfriend. She made a trip to the grocery store and picked me up a gallon of milk. There’s a true hero—no good story, no excitement. Just a nice thing to do for someone who really wanted to eat Lucky Charms.

There was Harley Davidson Fatboy bike laying on it’s side, and a dude laying down behind it grabbing his leg. His face was twisting with pain. A salty cigarette-bobbing waitress in her 40s got to the scene seconds before I did. We were an unlikely team, but she and I together lifted the bike up and moved it out of the entryway to the parking lot before someone plowed through it. (This seemed like the priorities were wrong, but the rider of the bike told us to do it.) The bike was as heavy as a horse. Once the kickstand was out and the bike was steadied, I ran back to the guy on the asphalt to wave off the traffic so he didn’t get run over. I tried to comfort him, but he was most freaked out that the police and ambulance was coming and the bike wasn’t his. He said over and over again in a slow, pain-filled voice, “That’s not my bike. That’s not my bike.”

–Now I don’t think he stole the motorcycle. Because if he did, he would’ve had to walk around town with his girlfriend, both equipped with leather jackets and helmets, until they found a bike worthy of stealing. If they did hot-wire the bike, it seems bizarre that they would’ve been cruising around town on a Friday night.–

His leg was all screwed up. I don’t to describe which way it was bending because Candyce might read this and she’d throw up. But this guy had to be in pain. Johnny and Danny were next to me by this time, and the three of us helped carry him out of the street and onto a chair near the entryway of the restaurant. The whole time he kept repeating, “That’s not my bike. I just slipped and fell and broke my leg.” At this point, he didn’t seem as delirious as he did manipulative. I felt like he was giving me instructions that I was supposed to repeat to the cops whose sirens were getting louder by the second. By this time, he had a few helpers around him and I knew it was our time to get out of there.

Once we were in the car, Danny said that he almost responded to his moaning: “Yeah man, I know how it goes. I trashed a my buddy’s bike too.” This was outrageously funny because Danny did in fact trash Johnny’s bike last year, and Johnny was sitting next to him when he said this. As tragic as the two bike wrecks were, the irony was hilarious enough to keep us laughing all the way home.

Downtown to Celebrate

We went downtown last night to celebrate Adam and Carolyna’s upcoming wedding at Lisa G Wine Bar. I’ve read a lot about the restaurant, and it seemed like the perfect place to celebrate with friends: classy, casual, and cozy.

As much as I enjoyed dinner, I need to complain about the greedy sonofabitch waiter. I’m 28 now, and I’ve been to dozens of places around the country who pride themselves in the wine selection. And to date, only one waiter actually had something of substance to say when I’ve ask for a suggestion. The rest of the waiters always recommend the same thing: the most expensive wine on the list. For them, a $15 bottle of wine brings a $3 tip, and a $30 bottle of wine brings a $6 tip. I mean, don’t they think they’ll get caught being greedy?

Let’s say he didn’t do that out of greed. Then he could’ve at least made a case for the wine he chose. Or even better, he could’ve shown expertise by first considering the food on the table, suggesting three wines each of them in a different price range. Then he could explain what you get by investing $10 or $20 more. Then I could make an educated decision and feel great about it. But no, he was too greedy to do something so logical and considerate. He pointed to the high-dollar wine as fast as an arrow through the heart of a target. I actually tried to nudge the him into reality by asking him if there were any other wines on the menu he might suggest. All he could do was frown and shake his head: “I’ve never had anyone not like this wine.” As if by disagreeing with him, I’d dissappoint the thousands of elitists who’ve allowed me to sit in their company.

(I’ve learned a lot about greed since I’ve graduated high school. Greed is everywhere. You can’t treat everyone as if they are greedy, because that would be unfair. But you need to sniff out greed and know how to deal with it, or otherwise you’ll have dollars fleeced from every pocket.)

After dinner at Lisa G, we bravely drove through the construction to Lux Coffee Bar, a place I discovered a few years ago on a hot afternoon in downtown Phoenix. It was pretty exciting to sip on our hot drinks on such a cold night, looking out the big front windows onto a road ripped apart to make room for the Light Rail System that’ll connect Mesa to Tempe, and Tempe to Phoenix. It’s going to be a great catalyst for change downtown.

The Pre-Show: The Mondrian

Friday night my roommate Tam and I decided to go out and have fun. Our final destination on Friday night was the Martini Ranch in Scottsdale to see Matt Weddle in concert, but we had some time to kill before the show started.

We stumbled upon a new restaurant in Scottsdale called The Orange Table, a locals-looking spot for arsty people. A DJ was spinning The Shin’s “New Slang”, so it was worth checking out. It ended up being customer appreciation night, so they offered free appetizers and drinks. Not bad.

We scooted over to the Mondrian Hotel to shoot some pool by the pool side. Tam’s ninja skills explode in unlikely places, like shooting pool. He made some amazing shots. It was so damn cold outside that I could barely hold my pool stick. People don’t realize how cold it can get in Phoenix. Especially this year, it’s been so cold.

For the record, this used to be the James Hotel, Scottsdale’s first boutique hotel. It was purchased by the same company that owns/runs the Hudson Hotel in New York, one of my favorite hangouts. So I’m excited to see what the place looks like once they re-open.
The Concert: Matt Weddle

Matt Weddle became an Internet sensation after he did an acoustic cover of Outkast’s song “Hey Yah.” It’s beautiful. It got picked up by our local alternative rock radio station, and before you know it, he’s a local celebrity:

The line was so long to get in. It took 30 minutes just to get to the door. Everyone was too cold to make small talk with the everyone else in line, so we all just stood there and watched the street. I was caught off guard by a guy-girl couple standing on the curb waiting for a friend to come pick them up. He was casually talking to her about something like any guy does with his girlfriend, and she erupted into what I guess was her sexy stripper dance routine.

She kept her clothes on, but she popped and grinded and flipped her hair. It only lasted about 10 seconds, but it was a bizarre thing to watch while standing in line with 100 scensters on a crisp 30 degree night. The saddest thing was that she actually thought she looked sexy, like she’d been waiting for this moment to show us what she could do and now she was doing it. It was the type of bizarre impulsive behavior you only see from crazy homeless people (who think they’re sexy.) Nobody was impressed. She got in a car and left. The line moved forward.

Going to bars/nightclubs is a bit odd for me because I’m not looking for women anymore. I didn’t realize how many things I did and places I went over the past ten years just to meet girls. So all that was left was the music. It was a good night for me, because Matt sang “Hey Ya” at the same time that Shane Battier of the Houston Rockets hit a game wining 3 against the Denver Nuggest. Two good guys doing two good things.
The After Party: AZ88

After the show Tam and I went to AZ88 to grab a bite to eat. That’s the most hip, pretentious place in Scottsdale. I like the atmosphere and enjoy the food, so I just ignore the arrogant waiters and just have a good time and act like I don’t belong.

On the walk to the car, we stepped into the Scottsdale Center for the Performing Arts to check out an exhibit in the atrium. I’d read about it in the paper. It’s basically a 15 foot tall pyramid with thousands of toy figurines standing on the steps. It would look trashy if the figures were thrown in boxes at a yard sale, but when you see the cartoonish army looking back at you in the face, it’s almost intimidating. I actually found a few long-lost toys from my childhood perched near the top. It was bizarre. If I had a camera, I would’ve taken a picture.
Saturday Night at Da Club

That was all last night. It’s Saturday night now, and I just got back from Nick’s birthday party at Sugardaddy’s. The best way to describe my group of friends is fun, responsible, and moral. Disciplined, maybe. We always have fun parties at my house. And if I’m not having people over, someone else will. But I’ve never been out with this group to a nightclub. It was fun to watch their personalities take on a new life in a place like that. It was a good time. I would’ve stayed out later tonight, but I was already tired from a long day of working on my old house (more news on that later.)

It’ll be nice when Candyce gets back to town. She’s awesome.

I’m glad I went, because Bella was awesome. It was smart, indy, and so beautiful. Subtle. It’s the kind of movie that I’ll buy on DVD and keep on my shelf.

After the credits, the producer Leo (a young producer, I might add) came out and told a little history of the film, how he met the lead actor, Eduardo Verastegui, and the director Alejandro Gomez Monteverde. I’ve interviewed a few Hollywood producers, but I’ve never been a fan of their work. I just played my part to make a great interview. But I really enjoyed Bella, so having the producer stand in the room and talk directly to the audience was a thrill. (He actually thanked some of the people in Life Teen for their inspiration, and he mentioned my name. I was blown away. I mean, this was a good movie.)

I hurried out of the theater and walked under the palm trees of downtown Phoenix towards the US Airways arena to watch the second half of the Suns / Caveliers game. By the way, it’s been damn cold here. I only had $15 in my pocket, so there was no way I could get a ticket from a scalper. But I asked a couple for their ticket on their way to their car, and 10 minutes later, I was in the arena.

The Suns are so exciting to watch. If you don’t like watching the Suns play, then you just don’t like the game of basketball. They are the most exhilerating team to watch in the NBA. The arena was pulsing with energy on the court and in the stands. Awesome. I would’ve stayed for the rest of the game, but the Suns were crushing the Cavs, and I had other things to go to.

I drove over to Melanie’s house for a movie afterparty. It was fun to see some old friends again. I asked Amy what she’s been up to, and she explained to me that she’s personal assistant to REO Speedwagon. Yes, the band who brought us “(I’m gonna) Keep on Loving You” and “I Can’t Fight this Feeling Anymore.” Although she’s responsible for a variety of things, the most notable is that she actually washes their underwear. This means a lot to me, because my friend played Speedwagon on his mom’s boom box when we were hanging out at her aerobics club when I was in 4th grade. It’s a irrational sense of accomplishment to have my friend wash their underpants.

It was fun to talk to the producer a little more in the kitchen. He told me he actually visits lifeteen.com often. I was flattered. It’ll be exciting to see where this film will go. Here’s some photos from the night:

Leo the producer, Matt the Man.

My roommate Matt Maher talking with Eduardo, the actor

Eduardo with my friend Brooke.

Then earlier this week I watched a Christmas episode of The Simpsons where the town loser (Gil) moved in with the family for over a year. He eventually moved out of Springfield to Scottsdale, Arizona, and ended up becoming a successful real estate agent. Marge was determined to reprimand him for the trouble he caused them back in Springfield, so the Simpsons drove to Arizona.

I was so tickled to see the ever-familiar Simpsons characters drive around my town. It was nuts! After I got over my fear of having someone accuse of having too much time on my hands, I took pictures of my TV, then I drove around this afternoon looking for the real scenes. This is what I came up with:

There’s no “desert” left around Scottsdale, but the sign is pretty accurate.

(To be honest, I didn’t take this one. I tried to, but I almost got rear-ended. This picture I found online.)

Clouds are rarely in the sky in Arizona, but the sky always has fluffy clouds on The Simpsons.

That’s pretty close! I used to work at the foot of the mountain on the left.

The Simpsons’s new home in Arizona.

This isn’t a perfect match, but it’s close.

The most wild part of watching this episode was that it was a Christmas special, and I was watching it around Christmas. So I looked at the TV in my living room, then looked out the doors of my living room and saw Christmas lights wrapped around palm trees and cactus. It was a magical moment.

:::

Since I was out taking pictures this afternoon, I decided to hike through Papago Park and enjoy the 60 degree weather. Here’s my journey.

Papago Park

A desert tree

A crazy rock. That green dot in the middle is a tree on another mountain 300 feet away.

It’s hard to see in this photo, but that’s Camelback Mountain in the far distance on the right.

This is a self-portrait snapped while I was inside a cave at the top of one of the mountains. In the distance is downtown Phoenix.

To any of my friends from the ID department back at Tech, the chance to meet the Eames grandson is like a music fan meeting John Lenin’s grandson. (I’m not a die-hard Beetles fan, so I don’t know whether or not; John Lenin actually has a grandson.) In every creative field, there are talented people that eventually become stars, and their children will in some way continue that legacy and celebrity.

The lecture hall was packed with students from different all majors within the design college. Scattered in the group were fashionable college town adults of varying ages. Candyce and I had to sit in the isle because all the seats were filled.
The presentation itself was cool because we got a more personal story of the designers. We watched one of their short films, which was pretty cool. I always admire a designer that can be good at more than one medium.

The lecture dragged on because of technical problems with the overhead projector and the laptop that was supposed to play the DVDs. By the end, the more restless students had cleared out, leaving half of the once-coveted seats empty. I was embarrassed for them but at the same time a little bit jealous. It was a long night and I was tired.

The reward for the evening was that they had a raffle for some Eames stuff at the end. The grand prize was an Eames rocking chair, which will cost you about $500. I; had entered my name in box as we walked in because I figured it wouldn’t hurt to give myself a chance–even it it was 1000 to 1.

Well the first name the drew was my own. I couldn’t believe it! Everyone’s heads jerked around the room to see if someone would raise their hand. As I walked forward, they looked at me with contempt and excitement. I hammed it up and pretended I had just won and Oscar for best supporting actor. I acted shocked yet flattered. I even stopped to shake hands with some of the losers. By the time I made it up to the front, my arms were spread wide to give the Director of the Design school a heartfelt hug. He wasn’t as excited as I was, but the students in the room thought it was funny.

I didn’t win the chair, but I did win a book written by Eames Demetrius who had just given the lecture. Afterwards I met him, and asked him to sign my book. I explained to him how I caught a vintage furniture collector trying to peddle bootleg versions of his grandparent’s furniture around town. He was really proud of me when I recounted how I reprimanded the dealer for deceiving people.

He explained in his lecture that his grandparents believed that their designs were not just chunks of furniture, but a dynamic example of how to be a good host. When you sat in one of; their chairs, you were their guest. And when people copied their furniture and made it from cheaper materials, it was essentially people thinking they were going over the Eames house as a guest, only to be turned away angry because of a fake. I thought he was going to give me a hug because he’d found someone who understood what his grandparents were trying to do.

In his message that he wrote in the book, he encouraged me to buy a lottery ticket because I seemed to be lucky. After Candyce and I had dinner at a swanky restaurant, I drove by a greasy gas station and bought a lotto ticket–my first ever. Maybe tomorrow I will be a millionaire.

:::::

Wednesday night:

I just checked online and I didn’t win a lottery. I didn’t think I would, but I can see why people like to buy a ticket every so often. It gives you a rush because you get to play in your mind for the next day of how your life could change. But I feel lucky just to have me Eames Demetrius, and the lotto ticket will make a good bookmark.

He stays at a hotel that is right next to the studio where I work, so a day at the office involves driving through security. It’s so exciting to get stopped by guys in suits and sunglasses. I tell them I have to get in to go to work, and they flag me through like I was a senator.

Tonight there were all kinds of rallies and protests around town. It was exciting to being in the middle of all the freedom of speech, even though I don’t agree with half of ‘em. It’s wartime and it’s an election year, so people’s emotions are high.

I can hardly believe anything I hear on the news. Their job is to keep us tuned in, so they are constantly convincing us the race is close, and the hour-to-hour events can change everything. It’s interesting that media only briefly mentioned when Bush was up by 11%. But once it was cut down to 10%, it was “The President is losing his lead…”

Yuck. I am involved in politics, but it is so dirty. I saw politics in action when I was on the Road Rules Challenge. We were all trying not to get voted off, and things did get dirty. I just can’t listen to the presidential candidates the same way as I did before the show. It’s not that I can’t support them, but I know that the mud always flies.

:::

I wanted to get a room at the President’s hotel, but they buy up the whole place. I actually called for a room last time to make reservations. I just think it would be so cool to have Secret Service pound on my door and yell, “Hey you guys pipe down in there! The President’s trying to get some sleep!”

“$1500 is how much I paid for a shirt when I was your age. Maybe a little older. Beautiful shirts, embroidery and cuffs…”

He looked down onto his stack of plates, two shirts, and knickknacks. His eyes connected with his wife. She nodded, proud but matter of fact. “That was 1974 and I rode bulls. That’s the life I lived.” He traded a five dollar bill for a white plastic bag of his goods and pushed through the doors into the parking lot.

He must’ve noticed the plaid buckaroo shirt I grabbed from the dollar rack on my way to the counter to pay for my desk chair. I paid six and stepped into the parking lot of worn cars, dirty tires and bubbling window tint. I slid into my seat and powered the windows down to let out the heat, turned up the radio and went on with my life.

That was over six months ago an adventure into ghetto thrift stores just to see what I’d find. The nifty 70′s office chair sits proud and orange in my living room. But I can’t stop thinking about that quick conversation with the retired cowboy.

In Arizona, mountains erupt out of nowhere. It’s so steep, I feel like if I stepped forward I’d fall hundreds of feet into the bed of someone’s truck. People are backed up for over almost a mile in each direction, everyone trying to fit on Mill Avenue for a time around town. Everyone has worked so hard to pretty their cars and bods, and they all look the same from up here. A half dozen searchlights trace the clouds all around me, trying to draw in people on a Saturday night. Those lights are always kind of menacing. Maybe Batman will sweep out of the clouds.

Every ten minutes, a plane floats over my head and sets down just a couple miles to the west on the sparkling red carpet. I am so happy to be home.

The wind is whistling through the shrubs around me. To the south, I hear a classic rock band. To the west, I hear a Mariachi band. Harleys and hotrods make their own music. The bridge is shimmering into the water. The trees lining the avenue are lit with Christmas lights. The wind sweeps through and they all dance together.

I just watched a fire truck jump out of the station. Now it’s heading north towards the base of the mountain. I can hear another rescue vehicle to the east, but I can’t see it yet. The fire truck has slowed near a dorm room. I wonder what happened?

It’s game day. I can just peak over the rim of the ASU stadium. There are dozens or workers stooping down, picking up trash as the parking lot empties into the streets.

I can peak into the courtyard of Desert Palms Hotel where I stayed a couple years ago with my Real World buddies…long before I ever thought of living here, long before I ever thought of living in New York City. I was out almost all night, came back to my cold hotel room. I couldn’t sleep. My plane left early the next morning. I don’t even know where I was living at the time.

On the hike up here, the backpack was hot on my back. I got the backpack a couple summers ago for my adventures each day through NY. Feeling the heat on my back brings me down under the city while subways bang and screech.

I miss New York. I don’t.

This afternoon Stephanie treated me to a picnic on the lake. From there we drove to Fountain Hills for an arts festival. I bought metal sculpture of a critter that was so funny, I had to get it to make others laugh. The sun was setting and illuminated the mountains on our drive to Scottsdale art galleries. There is some stunning artwork out there. Ah…I was so inspired!

Phoenix goes on forever. In every direction, the lights keep going. The wind is blowing and it’s cold up here.

On Wednesday, I laughed with my friends on the other side of that mountain. On Thursday, I had dinner with my best friends, over there near the neon blue building. Then we went to a hip hop show about ten blocks from here. Most weekends, I am in the air, on my way to another city.

Matt Maher is a few hours north of here where the lights disappear into the distant mountain range. He’s playing music at a retreat for a couple hundred teens from our church. I really should keep them in my prayers. I know that nights like this can be life-changing.

Melanie and Stephanie got sweeped into our plans. It was about 10:30 pm and we agreed that it’d be fun to see the shower. I pulled out the blanket and with in ten minutes the lights were off and everyone went to sleep. It was really funny that we were so happy to go to sleep.

Matt got a new GTI and we filled the back with blankets, sleeping bags, and an old shower curtain. He turned up the radio and we headed east across the Indian reservation. After forty-five minutes and a pit stop at a gas station, we pulled off the side of the road in a National Forest (or desert). We set up camp, snuggled together and waited for the show.

The desert gets cold at night. It dropped thirty degrees from the parking lot to the camp site. It was nearly a full moon, and there was an eerie glow around us. It almost looked like another planet. It was the middle of the night and the saguaro cactus threw strong shadows \Matt brought a big Maglight just in case we ran into scorpions, coyotes, or javelinas (wild pigs.)

Stephanie and I laid there enjoying the stars zipping across the sky. Sometimes they were so bright the seemed to scar the sky. It was so quiet. The stars didn’t make noise, and we were just whispering. All my childhood was quiet in the Blue Ridge mountains, and here I am savoring the quiet in the middle of the desert.

San Diego is such a cool place. It’s so different from Los Angeles and San Francisco. Sometimes I can’t help but feel California is being greedy claiming so many beautiful beach towns.

This weekend was great because I could absolutely be disconnected from my work. I love my work, and I always want to dig into it. But when the beach is out the front door, it’s easy to leave the computer off.

I am listening to bootleg Matt Maher CD that someone gave me from his concert this past summer in San Diego.

:::

They drove, and I flew. Somewhere over the Arizona/California line, I caught up and then beat them to the beach. Pat from St. James Life Teen picked me up at the airport and we became good friends before we even got out of the parking lot. Man, that’s what I love about Life Teen—you have thousands of best friends waiting for you all over the country. We got to know each other over some darn tasty Tai food. I will drink Tai tea in heaven.

One of the greatest experiences in the world is driving along the beach at night. After about twenty minutes of sleuthing, we finally made our way into the house. Wow…it was an honor to be the one to fire-up the beach house. I was a kid in a playhouse. I explored the palace and dropped me suitcase on the floor. I pulled on my hoody and we hit the beach for a long walk.

Once back at the house, I opened up the doors to let in the cool ocean breeze, and then lit-up the fireplace. Pat and I shared adventures from our lives and time flew by. It was one in the morning by the time the family came thundering into the house. We stayed up late talking and laughing by the fire.

Saturday morning big John and I grabbed the boards and hit the water. I paddled far out and looked away from the shore. You couldn’t tell wear the water ended and the sky began. I bobbed up and down in the cold water looking into the bright gray. For a half hour I blocked out the world and lost myself in my thoughts.

We spent the afternoon lounging around, playing games and watching cartoons. It was good to be a kid again, playing in the sand with Carrie (5) and Matthew (6). While everyone played logic games, I proved to myself that I could still breakdance.

After dinner a few of their friends from St. James came over for game night. I don’t even know who invented them, but they were so much fun. After everyone had gone to bed, Candice and I stayed up talking. I am working on a new section for lifeteen.com called “random acts,” a daily challenge to make your day more interesting. We started a few days before with “put a rose on your mother’s night stand” and “start a hugging habit.” We picked back up again at number 191 and typed away. I wish everyone could be brainstorm with other people about little ways that we can all make a big difference in the world.

Sunday morning we went to Mass an abbey (monastery) on a mountaintop. It was only a couple miles from the ocean, and as the gray lifted, you could see the shore moving in the distance. I had a fun conversation with a bee-keeping religious brother (like a monk) who lives there at the abbey. The other brothers do stained glass, bake bread, and lead retreats.

They dropped me off in La Jolla where I would be speaking Sunday night. With a few hours to kill, the janitor took me off in his Jeep and gave me a tour of La Jolla. We went to a beach where there were all these seals lounging on the rocks while the humans watched.

How do you not feel like a stupid adult? I mean, didn’t we all go through this sheep mentality in middle school and high school? It’s the same old story, just cars instead of clothing labels.

For the first week in riding with Carlos to the studio, I told him for the past three days, there has been a hot mom in a full-size sport utility pulling through this intersection. As I said that, the fourth came barreling around the corner. For the next year and a half, I’ve counted how many Suburbans we can pack into this mile stretch before I get to the studio, on 56th Street between Indian School and Camelback. The highest count on the two-lane road was 17 full-sized SUVs, over half of the vehicles we passed.

It’s like they had a zip-code meeting and made a decision to only buy Suburbans. I drove by the school and it looked like a car lot. I mean, there were five Suburbans parked next to each other, the cloning only disrupted by an occasional Expedition or Excursion.

I hate Suburbans. When I see one, I get angry. Especially when there is two or three people in a vehicle made for seven. If I had baseball bat and a free day, I’d go on a rampage, saving the world from monsters that bring death to pedestrians at 10 miles/gallon. Then we wouldn’t have to send our brothers to the Middle East to die for our gas prices.

Twenty years from now, we’ll look over endless junkyards of SUV carnage and wonder “how could these people have been so selfish?”

The truth is, yes, the value of their home has gone up. But, that doesn’t mean anything until it’s time to sell. Your home can be worth $225,000, but if you can’t sell it for any more than $200,000, you walk away with…

Everyone is an investor. Though I buy the best priced clothes and research every car purchase, I am a new investor to the big leagues. There are these adults buying and selling while I was still turning in assignments in college.

I think investors rank…

In Atlanta, I was looking at my first prospective buy. I had nice view of midtown, floor to ceiling windows, wood floors, and new appliances. That, and there was a new super-development, Atlantic Station, going in over the next few years that would increase the condo value substantially. Everyone in Atlanta knows about the Atlantic Station development.

My car wouldn’t start this morning and that’s no way to start a morning. I got to the studio and couldn’t get into my work. Nothing seemed to interest me, at work or outside of work. But what was I supposed to do, sit there and let things continue to be bad?

I cleaned off my desk, played happy music, and changed my wallpaper. I thought of girls I might have a crush on. I prayed that I wouldn’t waste my day in just because I didn’t feel like being there. By lunch things were moving. By three, things were moving like a freight train. By the time it was 5:30, I was tired enough to want to go home.

Carlos jumped off my car, and I went over some friends’ house for dinner. It’s good to spend time with a family. It’s easy to get caught up in a “young adult world” and forget how the rest of the world really works.

I wish this computer got colder the longer it was on. I’d type journals all the time.

I told myself I wouldn’t complain about the heat, but I have to alot a paragraph to the climate in Phoenix. It’s too much a part of my life to ignore. My apartment is getting way too hot. I don’t want an icebox, just a temperature worthy of paying so much for the rent and utility bills. The thermostat is set to 84 degrees when I get home at eight at night. I’ll spin it to 72 and turn on all the fans. I was up till one this morning because it was too damn hot to sleep. I don’t think it should take six hours to drop the temperature 12 degrees, especially when the temperature outside has dropped more than that. I am done now.

Dear God…help me. I have such unrest right now. My feet hurt. My back hurts. This airplane is too loud. I am spent. Lifeteen.com has so much work that needs to be done and there aren’t enough days in the year to get it done. I am cold and tired.  I want to trust you, God. I want to trust that your time is perfect time. But it’s hard right now.

(The lady next to me—24 F—just buried her face in her hands, rocking back and forth.)

I am going to close this laptop and let this time pass. I need to find a happy place.

In the other room, the dark man with dreadlocks–lost in the desert–is passing time by playing 80′s love songs. The music doesn’t seem to faze my friends as they blab about “membership drives” and “collaborative subsets for students.” A band of lowrider bicycle choppers just rolled by the window. Ah…I am home on a Saturday! I can be out in the morning and the rest of the world is too.

(Strangers get stuck in my journals. They go on with their life not knowing what that kid with the Mohawk was typing over in the corner.)

Last night Carlos had a BBQ to celebrate his birthday. I was hoping for a gangsta BBQ like we had in high school, but I don’t think the crowd would be into it. His family came up from Tuscan and the entire posse came over. Before supper, we prayed. I was rushed with how much I care for Carlos. He is such a good friend and is such a gift to my life. It’s been fun to hang out with famous people over the years, and those experiences make for good stories to share with my real friends.

I would peak out the window at Carlos’s party to make sure some thug art collector hadn’t walked off with 150 lbs of Pop Art gold in the back of my car. Finally—my three Andy Warhol Marilyn Monroe prints are framed. Earlier yesterday I layered them carefully in the back of the PT Cruiser. Dale, my older artist friend in Hiawassee, told me an artist should always have a hatchback to carry around his artwork. I suppose a surf wagon works too. I drove home like I had a cup of hot coffee balanced on my crotch.

I pulled into the deck and the Friday night party was banging on Mill Ave. There was a rapcore band playing at the Bash, and they were really good. I carefully carried my sleeping Marilyn to my apartment. I asked a big dude and his girl if they could get the elevator for me. “You look like that dude…” I smiled and he smiled. “…that’s because I am. Hi, I am Matt from the Real World New Orleans…” He said, “…and I play for the Arizona Cardinals.”

He and his honey held back the elevator doors and we talked. They were a friendly couple. They are both from the South just like me. I felt connected to him b/c the studio does all of the graphics for the Cardinals, and a couple of their cheerleaders hosted LT TV. I wanted to invite them upstairs but I could see they were ready for a night on the town.

I leaned the painting against the fish tank, and one of the fish freaked out. He charged towards the end of the tank and jammed himself in between the wall and the pump—with his face out of the water. What an idiot. He was gasping with the “ah sh!t” look on his fish face. I let him sit there for a while so I and the other fish could laugh at him. Well, he must’ve felt as dumb as he looked, so he gave it one final buck and vaulted himself out of his death.

After a couple more trips, I had each of the paintings propped for a makeshift exhibit.  The club across the street played “Dirty Vegas” just loud enough to light up my art gallery. I laid a sheet on the floor and fell asleep.

Josh and I moved here within a week from each other. He moved from New Jersey, I moved from New York. We both moved to Phoenix to work for LIFE Communications.

In the past eight months, Josh has made SO MANY friends. Everyone who came was so happy to be there, like there was no place in the world they would rather be. Having Josh as a friend is a joy. Everyone he meets will tell you the same thing. He is just a loving smiley compassionate fun funny free happy open honest guy.

After a few hours, Matt M. finally showed up. It was cool outside, so we moved to the backyard and Matt started playing the guitar. We were singing so loud, I was afraid we’d wake up the neighbors. Some kids from neighborhood hopped the wall to join the party.
This guy can play any song we could think of. We had so much fun singing songs we almost forgot we knew:

1. R.E.M.: End of the World
2. Stone Temple Pilots: Plush
3. Elton John: Tiny Dancer (Blue Jean Baby)
4. Hooty and the Blowfish: Hold my Hand
5. Red Hot Chili Peppers: Under the Bridge
6. Counting Crows: Round Here
7. Mr. Bigg: To Be with You
8. Extreme: More than Words
9. Tesla: Love Song
10. Eric Clapton: Tears in Heaven
11. Isn’t It Ironic?
12. Matt Maher: Welcome to Life
13. Lemonheads: Mrs. Robinson
14. Blues Traveler: Hook

The funniest thing was when Matt pretended he was Kevin Arnold from “The Wonder Years,” narrating his “summer with Winny Cooper” while he strummed the Beatles, “Blackbird.”
Tonight was the perfect night. Just so much fun!

Aside from new projects and challenges at the studio, my life has settled and smooth since I moved to Phoenix in September. I continue to travel three weekends each month. On Thursday nights I have dinner with Monsignor Dale and the gang. I play golf by myself once or twice a week to decompress. A couple nights each week I watch my fish tank in silence for a couple hours. I go out with my friends.

I work with some of the funniest people on the planet. I laugh so much in my life!

I am so tired of working with computers. I can’t do it anymore when I leave the studio. I would like to redesign this site, but I pour myself into lifeteen.com, and there isn’t much left over. I could go home and work more on stuff, but then I get burned out by midday the next day. So I have to accept balance. Sometimes I have to force balance.

I miss my family.

It’s been several years since I’ve been off road like this. Where I’m from, this is the hobby of rednecks. Rednecks drive the big trucks. None of my friends drove big trucks. But, we knew it would be fun, so we eventually hit the dirt with some kids from school.

We got up really early this morning and headed east towards Payson. I couldn’t believe how fast the scenery changes around here. We live in the Sonoran desert, which has a distinct charm. The desert turned into rolling hills with lots of saguaro cacti (cartoon cacti) and airy bushes. Higher up, there were all these gumball big bushes, monstrous aloe plants, and white trees. Even the rocks changed a few times. It got much cooler in 45 minutes.

We rode the ridges and toyed around on side roads. We set up camp on a ridge for lunch. It was fun talking with these kids…all of them from St. Tim’s. It was funny seeing the rosaries swing from the rear view mirrors as they bounced through riverbeds.

I saw an airplane way up in the sky, the size of a flattened staple. Every time I am in the sky, I wonder what his happening down in all those mountains…and now I am down here.

]There were a couple cows and a bull at the top of this hill. I couldn’t believe they just run wild like that. So it only made sense that I chase ‘em down and wrestle them to the dirt. Half way through the chase, the bull mounted a cow and did his thing. For fear of impending death, he must’ve felt the need to propagate the species.

Tonight’s Mass was so beautiful. Sunday nights are why I live here in Phoenix. Experiencing such a spiritual high each Sunday night, whatever else that week deals me doesn’t really matter.

I like how rap music isn’t as boxed in as it used to be in the early 90′s. The whole West Coast/East Coast brawl had its moments, but the negativity, violence, and gangster stuff got old. New York and Los Angeles give the backdrop that shapes fluid emcees, but rap isn’t just about NY and LA. I always knew Atlanta rappers had talent and a unique flow and big labels polishing that talent has done so much for rap.

Busta Rhymes continues to keep hip-hop on the edge. I can’t agree with his lyrical content, or much of any rapper’s content for that matter, but his style is unparalleled. He is so flamboyant and epic, far from big jeans and top-buttoned flannels of Dre Day.

White rappers are finally getting a chance. Robbing hip-hop innovation just because the color of someone’s skin color is as racist as anything. White people have just as much right to rap as black people do to rock. Each genre was born from a culture, but that culture can’t keep it as a trophy. Dre helped the whole rap biz when he raised whitey Eminem.

Every time I hear a new Outkast song, I dig how loony they are getting.

I really don’t care about rap that much. Rap is the bastard child of hip-hop, and has done nothing for the other elements. But, creative expression and inventive design always gets me giggly.

Being in a car is kind of like having your own room in the big outdoors. I am outside but not.

Monsignor Dale’s sermon tonight spoke about letting God love us. As hard as it seems to love ourselves, God still loves us so much. He challenged us to walk outside in this crisp night and in the silence, let God love us.

Arizona rain smells so good.

A windy storm thumped us this evening, bending trees hammering windows. The traffic was slow and annoying. The rain edging away but the traffic wasn’t. I looked to my left and saw a huge, beautiful arching rainbow. From one end to another, the rainbow must’ve been ten miles long. The rainbow vaulted over the whole city.
Creativity. In creating, we connect with our Creator. But no matter how big and beautiful our creations may be, I don’t know anyone who could make a rainbow. All art mimics the life around us. Our beauty is only the echo of God’s creation.

On a free Saturday, I like to hop from one thrift store to another, looking for anything fun or slick. It’s nice b/c it is only old women and I flipping through the stuff. I usually don’t buy anything, but it’s fun to look. Today I picked up a dinner table that I’ll use in our living room as a desk. I was thinking I was cool b/c I needed two filing cabinets and an old door to make a desk. Well, that’s $20 for the cabinets and $50 for the door–and that’s far from thrifty.

Carlos, Josh, and I just watched “Best in Show.” It is a movie about several people competing for the Mayflower Dog Show. It was such a quirky movie. The characters are believable, not something made up and untouchable. It was funny b/c I swear I’ve met each of them at some time in my life.

I got a nice new-hawk haircut. I am really growing to love this cut.

The guys are playing video games and I am typing another journal. Matt is playing at a place downtown, so we’ll probably head out in a little bit. It will be several weekends coming up that I’ll be out of town, so it is nice to be here in my apartment.

I found a trail that took me to the top of the mountain. I was stressed and needed some exercise, so I scrambled up the mountain, a race to beat the sun from setting. The sunset was so beautiful; I felt like I was inside a postcard. Mountains in Georgia were covered with trees, so you search to find a nice view. But here in the southwest, the mountains are huge piles of rock and cactus. Every step of the hike I could savor the view.Why would anyone run from beauty? The world is so huge and there is such beauty in every corner. The music on the radio on my ride home, would the world be a better place if we listened to that every morning? Why do people fill their ears with such trash? I think about how beautiful making love will be. And people go and pervert sex into such horrid things. Why do we abuse God’s gifts to us? Why would you slap a baby when you can kiss her instead?

Why do people run from God? He is the most beautiful part of my life. Yes, the kind of beauty that makes you tingle, smile, and want more. I wish I could figure this out before I am finished typing. I don’t have an answer. I just don’t know.

I told myself I wouldn’t be a fan again…but who cares? The Dbacks beat the greatest team in the world, and I have a year to celebrate. Man, this series is going down in history. I called Mom and woke her up. She didn’t mind. She remembers that night ten years ago when the Braves lost, and she enjoyed celebrating with her little boy who finally won.

So I am experiencing something new in life: having a real job. (What makes it a “real” job?) While the governments of the world are shaking and slamming, I am expected to go to work. It is a good feeling, knowing that I am needed, that I am contributing to peace in the world. As the Webmaster of LIFETEEN.com, I write articles, design graphics, and orchestrate the online community of young people. It is so rewarding to have my talents put to good use.

So what they said was true: you will work for the rest of your life. This isn’t bad, as many students assume. It is a lot like school when you are a teen: you go to school because that is what your friends do. Staying at home away from school/work is boring because that’s where all the action is, where all your friends are. In high school your job market is pretty slim. Future Engineers flip burgers next to future used car salesmen. Working is understood as “doing what you have to do buy stuff you want.” I never wanted to bus tables or bag groceries, but I had to do it to get a car, clothes, and fun money. For some people, they carry this mentality through college and into the workforce. Working could mean swinging a hammer or pushing a pen, all so you can go home and enjoy the crap you bought. But working can mean letting your gifts bring about creation and goodness. The best part of this is we get to choose which path we take. I love my job.

It is actually a strange predicament I am in. I do all the fun stuff in the daytime, all the stuff I would normally do when I had free time on the weekend. When I get home, I don’t know what to do. Like when I was a kid, I would play with Legos in my free time. Well, now I play with Legos all day at a place I call “work”, then I get home, and I don’t want to play with Legos anymore. All the longings to produce and create are exhausted out of me.

Intimacy is something I am missing though. I live in this huge apartment with cozy funky furniture and soft carpet and pillows. It even smells nice and I keep my closet organized. There is nothing I would love more than to have a woman to share my day with after work. It’s like the stage is set, and I am waiting to bump into her, and let our lives become one.

I’m not sitting around waiting for that to happen. Sure, I think (and write) about this longing all the time, but I try to make the most out of being a bachelor. The book is my focus now. I could get the whole book done instead of looking for a woman. I just hope I don’t win a Pulitzer Prize before I get my first date.

I was raised on a hobby farm with goats, rabbits, pigs, and minnows. Maybe I got my fix of animals as a child, because as a young adult, I don’t particularly like them. I won’t refuse to pet a happy dog with fresh breathe, but I never say to someone: “I like animals, do you?”

I am disappointed in myself because animals are beautiful creations of God. But don’t let your dog do my leg. I mean, this has been a struggle of mine. Especially because St. Francis of Assisi loved animals. He would talk to the birds and yell at wolves that ate the goats. To him, they were Brother Sparrow and Sister Squirrel.

I think God is softening me up to animals through humor. A few times a day, I will step outside and stroll through the prayer garden just outside the studio. I can escape frustrations of work and give ten minutes in prayer. I startle the desert critters as I walk through the garden. A couple desert chipmunks will bolt out from under a rock and sprint away from me. Their tail is stiff and pulled over their back, proudly exposing their butthole. It just cracks me up to see these dumb little animals running around, proudly showing the world their crack.

Then there are these tiny birds that hop around. They like to look at me, then keep hopping. The other bird I see a lot I think is a quail. They have this stupid feather sprouting out of their forehead and dangling in front of their eyes. When I scare them out of the brush, they’ll run out thinking “Run towards the feather!” They are such dorks. These animals are my little friends sent to make me laugh. I step into the studio giggling and people ask, “Why are you in such a good mood.” I enjoy telling them.

You know God has to have such a sense of humor. I mean, have you seen the duck-billed platypus?

Unpacking from New York and packing for Arizona was a test. That which I didn’t bring from Atlanta to New York earlier this summer Mom and Dad tucked away in the dark of their basement. I pulled the string, the light flickered on to my wall of stuff next to the canning jars, Christmas decorations, and retired luggage. I don’t know what is in these boxes. How about I just throw it all away and save some time and trouble? I filled Paul’s truck bed with bags of good stuff to give away. I wrapped books, art, furniture, and computers to be shipped to my new life in Phoenix.

I burned my college notes, old love letters, and pictures of people I don’t care about anymore. I pulled the rungs of each binder, unfolded each note, and toppled stacks of picture into the blaze. I dropped page after page into the fire and watched the black chase the white until all that’s left was ash–what a strange rite of passage. Not an act of anger or revenge, the bonfire was a time to be decisive and serious about my new life. It is good to simplify my life.

Yes I am avoiding writing about my romantic relationships. It is wrong to talk about college notes and my college romance in the same way. But it is leaving this behind–or should I say leaving this in my past?–that my life is now more simple. Unlike my boxes of notes and knickknacks, I do miss her.

My new apartment is only furnished with two beds, one for me and one for my roommate. Our living room is vaulted and carpeted and has a slick fireplace, but there is no coffee table, couch, or recliner. Our refrigerator is a shelf for Chinese food to-go boxes and bottled water. Our walls are white and blank. The simplicity of my apartment is therapeutic.

I open my eyes and smile at my empty room, drenched with the morning sun. I stretch, proud of my queen-size bed, snuggle into my sheets, and press my face against my blue satin pillows. The pillow cases, handmaid for me, a gift on our first Christmas together.

Another morning in my new life.