Shorespirit's Journal: sunny arizona

I flew this weekend to Tucson, where one of my more freckled cousins was to be marking his bar mitsva. Here I'll take the opportunity to make a plug for Southwest for being on time and having friendly employees; I was going to add something about roomy flights, but my return flight, a very sardine-packing operation, prevents me.

Family's a strange thing. People I haven't ever said twenty words to gush somewhat ignorantly about my marriage prospects, urge me to visit whenever I have a chance. I would be poorer without family though: how else would I have met my aunt's sweetheart, who just built a flashing eight-foot humanoid out of used headlights, or his dad, a retired salesman and stand-up comedian with goggle shades and a Dalí moustache who's having the time of his life compiling a CD of songs about motorcycle life?! Not to mention the gossip about those who weren't there...

The air in Tucson had an amazing dry freshness, like it was bubbled over ice. The plants and the houses were colonists, tattered-looking landmarks in the sea of dust. We drove miles between restaurants in dense traffic; plenty to eat, air-conditioning galore, souvenirs and heirloom seeds. The locals all seemed to be in the process of finding the perfect little house in a few acres of grounds eighteen miles away at the very border of a national monument. Something was wrong, but what, exactly?

On with lunch and graphs.