Peaches

Life in the desert continues to work majestic wonders. Occasionally I look outside my window to remind myself that the world does, in fact, still exist and then I go on with my tepid ways. I often return to the window looking for something that usually isn't there. I don't know if I expect a long column of smoke to loom over the horizon, but I'd certainly like it to be there. Damned if I'm going to wait the equivalent of forty years for something to happen. Perhaps some kind deity will open the sky and drop down to me a nice convertible, preferably with a manual transmission and a back seat loaded with beautiful, buxom, bikini-clad babes, but both you and I know that we'll have a democrat majority in the government before that happens. I freely admit that this prison is of my own doing, and chanced that I could have seen what would happen, I would have played my hand differently, but the flop is on the table and the bowls are cash.

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The problem with this desert mecca is that there is no redeemable public transportation. I was talking to a new friend the other day and she told me that a subway system was voted down in a referendum. I immediately launched into a tirade worthy of a filibuster meeting. What kind of ass-backward, stopped-up colon of a city would vote down a subway system, especially one like Phoenix, where the highways are filled with the mad clangle of snow birds, immigrants, and escapees of vicious northern states? Phoenix is exploding with people and the roads cannot handle the flow. I understand that people are attached to their cars, but can't they be attached to their cars long enough to board a nice subway system? Hell, all the good cities have underground public transportation. Look at the nice, pretty roster: Chicago (mon ami), Los Angeles, New York, Washington D.C., San Francisco, Tokyo, London, Paris, and any other bangle of buildings bandying about the name "metropolis." What's Phoenix got against progress, or at least cleaner air and easier A-to-Bness?

My mother did tell me that the city at least passed a light rail bill. We'll have a MUNI, but no BART.

Baby steps. Ta-dinka-dink.

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I had a nice chunk of skin lopped off the other day. A mole went whacky on me and we have sent it and its infested soul to some bio lab to see if I'm infected with melanoma. The doctor tried to smear me with euphemisms, but everyone in the room was held with a bit of concern. It's generally not right for someone of my age to have nodules sliced off and fretted over. Then again, I've always been advanced for my age and a bit ahead of the game when the board's laid out to play. I'll find out if I have cancer some time next week. In the mean time, I have six new stitches to play with and a vivid memory of something that looked like scooped out peach flesh floating in a plastic vial.

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I need to find something positive or at least viable to write about. I'm getting tired of mewling about how shitty things are going. Give me another day and I'll be bound to bitch about something other than myself. I mean, the world's sailing along splendidly enough. I suppose I could find some words to attach to its rudder.

Spike Magnets. My sister made me buy some for her. I'm going to call him Mr. Cheekbones because that's all the man has. He (James Mar...something) doesn't really have a face. He has cheekbones with some eyes attached and a permanent scowl dangling somewhere near the cheekbone point through which he breathes.