The Agenda:

Testing the Premise: Are Gays a Threat to Our Children?

What the "Dutch Study" Really Says About Gay Couples

Federal Hate Crime Statistics: Why The Numbers Don't Add Up

Refuting Christianity Today

  Favorites:

Still Life At Sunset

Anderson Cooper and Scooter

Wandering, Wondering

The Aperture of Memory

Easter's Birthday

The First Time I Cussed

  Photo Essays:

The Anasazi Ruins of Chaco Canyon, New Mexico

Monsoons of 2004

Miracle Mile

Now Showing / Reflection on Hayden, Arizona

Olympic Flame
Monday, August 30, 2004

So the Olympics are over. There were thrills all around and a lot of exciting competition in so many venues. I even think the television coverage has improved a great deal this year.

There was much more coverage of actual sporting events, with mercifully far fewer insipid "up close and personal" profiles which had been deployed in past games. They usually involved the death of a spouse, a personal crisis brought on by a career-threatening injury, or a horrible automobile accident. The worst ones had all three. You just had a feeling some of those producers were having a field day when they drew one of those. (Hooray! His wife died of leukemia, he fought his way back from a broken back and his mentor died in an auto accident! It's a trifecta!)

But this time, thankfully, the focus was much more concentrated on the sport events themselves. The only distractions were the occasional judging controversy, and of course, Bob Costas' yammering on and on during the opening and closing ceremonies. Jeezusaichchrist gawdamighty I know the man is paid to talk, but do they have to pay him by the word? Maybe they're just hoping that someday, someday, he'll have something useful to say.

Anyway, speaking of distractions (and on the bright side) there was some very good eye candy along the way, including my own personal favorites: American swimmer Aaron Peirsol, and Romanian gymnast Marian Dragulescu. Especially Marian, who did not get nearly enough airtime on television, if you ask me.

But even I would have to admit that there were times when things seemed to get just a little bit out of hand.

On the other hand, words cannot describe my excitement on discovering American pole vaulter Toby "Crash" Stevenson. He is proof that there is indeed such a thing as a nerdy athlete. Thank God.
 

I dunno. I bet he still got picked on in high school.

The Olympics this year opened a world of discoveries beyond the existence of geek athletes. For example, it also appears they managed to sneak in a new Olympics event that I hadn't heard about: the 7 meter fairy springboard.
 

Mark Humphey/AP

My Brush with Fame (Continued)
Friday, August 27, 2004

Here it is, all three-and-a-half seconds of it from ABC Television's In The Jury Room. This is me in my best attentive-juror don't-show-any-reaction poker face.

© LookingForSam / Jim Burroway

This is when I turn to Chris and say, "You know, television adds fifteen pounds."

"No, Jim. Eating my cooking and not going to the gym adds fifteen pounds."

My Brush with Fame
Tuesday, August 24, 2004

Watch this show tonight on ABC television. I was this close to being on it. I might still be – depending on what they show – but probably not. Watch it anyway, just in case.

In The Jury Room, a seven-part ABC News documentary series, [in which] public defenders and defense attorneys allowed ABC News to go inside the confidential lawyer-client relationship as they work to establish their defense. And cameras were allowed to observe juries evaluating the evidence and trying to come to a consensus in what often proves to be a contentious process. With the defendants' futures hanging in the balance, the stakes couldn't be higher.

Wednesday, Aug. 25, 10 pm Eastern, 9 pm Central / Mountain / Pacific: Arizona v. Wendy Sue Anderson. Driving in her car one evening, Wendy Anderson was making a turn when she crashed into a motorcycle carrying a father and son. The father was badly injured, but survived. His 18-year-old son did not. Anderson, a single mom with no criminal record, had been drinking that night, but tests also showed that the motorcycle riders had evidence of marijuana in their systems. Public Defender Suzanne Crawford will argue that even though Anderson was intoxicated, she was not at fault for the accident. Prosecutor Mark Diebolt must convince the jurors that the victim is not on trial in this case, and the crash was entirely Anderson's fault. The jury will have to decide if this was a tragic accident or manslaughter.

I was on that jury. Well, sort of. Not quite. Here’s the story.

I was called to Jury duty April of 2003. I arrived at the Pima County courthouse’ jury reception room and was given a packet of papers to fill out. I had done this before in Dallas, having served on a jury trial that lasted for three days concerning a drunk driver. I recognized similar questions in this packet about attitudes towards drinking, and I surmised that I was being considered for another DUI case of some sort. But then, added to the back of the packet there was an unusual set of papers that I had not seen before.

These extra pages were a release form from ABC television. It explained that the trial was to be videotaped and possibly aired for a documentary that ABC News was working on. Ah, I thought, some sort of run-of-the-mill Court TV-type production, maybe about DUI’s or something. But then I read further. The information in the release went on to say that cameras and microphones would not only be in the courtroom, but hidden cameras would be installed in the jury room to record our deliberations.

I was shocked. I didn’t think it was legal. I continued reading, and the informational packet went on to say that the judge, defendant and prosecutor all approved of the arrangement, as did the Arizona Supreme Court.

The packet continued with another series of questions for me to answer: would the presence of the cameras and microphones prevent me from delivering a fair verdict? Would being on television be a motivation for my wanting to be on the jury (and thus possibly tainting the verdict)? Did I object be being recorded?

I thought about this for a while. The jury room is one of those secret places where nobody really knows what goes on. This secrecy is one of the hallmarks of America’s trial-by-jury system. It is true that jurors can talk about whatever they want after the trail is over, but even then all you have is the jurors’ word for what happened. For the first time, here would be actual videotaped evidence of what happens during deliberations.

Having been on a jury before, and having been impressed with the responsible performance that jury delivered, I decided it probably would be okay. As long as the defendant, prosecutor and judge went along with it, I felt that it was okay. After all, it was their necks on the line.

I answered the questions and signed the release consent for ABC News. I was ready to go.

We went into the courtroom and sat down in the spectator’s section. We were asked several questions about our attitudes towards alcohol in general, drinking and driving, presumption of innocence – all the usual questions one would expect at a DUI trial, except this one wasn’t just a DUI. The charge was manslaughter. So there were more questions about violent crime, were any of us victims of a violent crime? Were any of our friends or relatives killed?

At one point, I was asked to explain my participation as a juror in a DUI lawsuit about ten years earlier. The judge seemed satisfied with my answers.

Then we were asked several questions about the television coverage. The judge pointed out the cameras in the courtroom and reminded us that the jury room would be wired with hidden cameras and microphones, but nobody would be physically in the room during the deliberations except us.

During the course of the questioning, several potential jurors were dismissed. Out of the seventy or so people in the pool who completed that hurdle, I ended up on the jury. We were sworn in just before noon, and then the judge announced a lunch break. The bailiff  ushered us to the jury room, which was located off to the side of the courtroom behind the jury box. We waited there until the courtroom and hallways were cleared so we could leave for lunch.

I looked around the room. It was rather small and plain looking, with a huge conference table which took up most the room. It was hard to walk around it. There were four large ugly light sconces on the wall which were partly disassembled, and blazing fluorescent lights overhead. The room looked pretty ordinary, even banal.

As we waited, we sat and talked for a little while, getting to know each other. I mentioned that I had been on a jury trial before. Most of the other jurors had never been on a jury and didn’t know what to expect. I filled them in on some of the procedural aspects of what I experienced the first time around. Then the nice bailiff lady came in and said we were free to go to lunch.

When we returned to the jury room after lunch, I noticed several things were different. The “light sconces” were reassembled and had dark glass bubbles hanging from them – like the dark glass bubbles concealing security cameras in department stores. There were also two sets of wire baskets on the conference table loaded with notepads, pencils, and other office supplies. These baskets were the sort of baskets used as desktop inboxes, sized for 8½x11 paper.

But I also noticed that the baskets were arranged in an unusual way. One basket was covered with black cloth and placed upside down on the table. It served as a sort of a short stand on top of which the other basket was placed, loaded with supplies. There was another set of baskets identically arranged towards the other end of the table. This looked like an odd arrangement. Why would anybody need to elevate a basket of office supplies like that?

We jurors soon started a guessing game of where the cameras were hidden. We quickly noted the repaired “light sconces” and agreed they were actually security camera housings. Some jurors hadn’t noticed them and echoed, “Oh yeah… that’s exactly what they look like!” The four sconces were rather well placed to provide good views of the room if indeed they contained hidden cameras. We couldn’t find any other places where cameras could be hidden.

Then someone asked where the microphones were. That’s when I realized why the baskets were arranged the way they were. I got up and lifted the upside-down wire basket covered in black cloth nearest to me, revealing a wireless microphone with a green light that blinked to the cadence of my voice. We all laughed about that, and the other jurors were impressed with my discovery. We put everything back before the bailiff had a chance to come in and catch us.

Soon, the bailiff returned from lunch and came into the jury room. We sat obediently in our seats, like high school students who quickly suspended their paper wad fights as soon as the teacher entered the classroom. We innocently asked her where the cameras and microphones were. She pointed to the sconces and baskets, and we were very proud of ourselves for having figured them out. Then she pointed to the ceiling right above her in the corner. Sticking out of the ceiling was a pencil-thin microphone, unhidden, completely out in the open. We were embarrassed. We completely missed the one piece of equipment that was in plain view. If only we had looked up!

Soon, we were called into the courtroom and the judge called the trial to order. The prosecutor gave a thorough opening statement that laid out the broad arguments against the defendant, with a timeline of events leading up the 18-year-old motorcyclist’s death.

After the prosecutor gave his opening statement, it was the defense counsel’s turn. She started to recount the defendant’s side of the story, when suddenly we heard a older man’s voice from the audience, softly at first, but getting stronger, louder, and more persistent.

“No! No! No! That’s not what happened! No! She’s lying! No! I will not be quiet!”

I couldn’t see where the voice was coming from. There was a short partition between the end of the jury box and the audience and I sat in the second row, one or two seats from the end of the jury box closest to the audience. While I could see most of the courtroom, the partition blocked my view of where this man was sitting. The judge quickly called a recess and we were rushed out of the courtroom.

The trial had barely been underway maybe thirty minutes or so, and we were already dealing with an outburst from the audience. I grumbled, “The judge is going to have to grab control of this situation pretty quickly” as we sat down. I had visions of things getting out of hand and our having to go into recesses several times a day, Or worse, the whole thing generating into an O.J. Simpson-style circus.

Suddenly I remembered the cameras and microphones. Shit! I thought. That comment was picked up. We were being watched by someone. And everything we said and did could be picked apart and second-guessed before a national audience.

My mind raced. The judge gave instructions that we were not to discuss the trial with our fellow jurors until deliberations started. Did I break that instruction with my comment? I didn’t say anything about any witnesses or evidences or even the lawyers. It was a simple observation born of a moment of consternation. Was my comment out of bounds? Did the microphone pick it up? Of course it did. Whenever there is a microphone present, you always have to assume the microphone is on. How many politicians have gotten in trouble by saying something candid near a microphone, forgetting that it is there or thinking it is not on? Shit! I forgot all about the microphones!

This realization had a huge impact on me. I would have to make sure that I not only did my part to render a fair verdict, but I also wanted to be sure not to say or do anything that could get me in trouble later. I made a mental note to hold my tongue from now on.

The other jurors were quiet. We just sat and waited. I grabbed a newspaper and started reading it to get my mind off of what was happening. Soon, I calmed down. The judge, after all, had probably had hundreds of cases under his belt. I was sure he’d straighten everything out, lay down the law, or do whatever needed to be done so we could continue. After all, he was as much in the limelight as the rest of us, and I was sure he wouldn’t want to be remembered as another Lance Ito.

Before long, we were called back into the courtroom. As soon as we sat down in the jury box, the judge turned to us and announced that he was declaring a mistrial. He thanked us for our service and we were dismissed. It was all over, just like that.

I was stunned. I thought the judge sold us short. I didn’t see how this one outburst tainted anything. That outburst was nothing compared to what was probably in store for us if the father testified. Certainly the father would be called to testify – he was there! He would probably have to take the stand to talk about his own son’s death. It doesn’t get any more emotional than that.

I didn’t see how getting a different jury to deal with this emotional trial would be an improvement. They were going to have to do the same thing we were called to do, and that was to put emotion aside and render a decision based solely on the evidence.

But we weren’t given a chance. The bailiff led us back into the jury room and we sat down again, in stunned silence at first, then in animated conversation over what just happened.

We were insulted that the judge deemed us incapable of rendering a fair verdict based on that relatively minor outburst. If that was all it took to declare a mistrial, I didn’t see how this case was ever going to get to a verdict. And yes, a few jurors expressed some disappointment over not participating in the documentary – I expressed my own disappointment as well – but I think the overriding feeling was of leaving a job undone. We were prepared to do our part, and we were angry at the judge for discounting our abilities and reducing our efforts to a simple waste of time. We were disappointed all around.

When the bailiff came in and said we could go, we got up and left the jury room. We grabbed an elevator, and as we were riding it down to the courthouse lobby, three of the women jurors turned to me and said, “… and we were going to elect you foreman!” That’s when I really felt gypped.

□■□■□

A new trail was conducted last fall with a new jury. That trail will be shown this evening. I don’t know if there will be any footage of the earlier mistrial or not. I’ll be watching to find out.

You can read more about it in the Arizona Daily Star. I’ll share more of my thoughts on this whole idea of televising jury deliberations soon. But to tip my hand a bit, I’ll offer a short synopsis which consists of these two related points: the act of observing disturbs the observed, and television changes everything.

Introducing Joe Day
Saturday, August 21, 2004

By today's guest blogger: Chris.

So there was this annoyingly obsequious and cloyingly ambitious Mexican lady in my hometown who owned one of the longest operated and most patronized restaurants in all of West Texas. The food was good, the air-conditioning reliable, and the owner in question rode a relentless rough-shod over her kids, her parents, and her bewildered husband who had the mixed fortune of staffing the place while she greeted every patron at the door with a burst of “love-ya, mean it” sorority sister enthusiasm. As soon as every arriving best-friend-forever was seated in the packed dining room, this crafty banshee would turn to the nearest unsuspecting employee/relative and indignantly shriek some humiliating command. Her favorite currency was making each customer feel that no familial bond of her own was as sacred as that particular customer’s gastronomic welfare.

The Gang of Four, 1978 L-R: Danny, Chris, Jeff, and Joe	Courtesy of Chris G.

My best friend in High School was a brilliant, discerning, and slightly mean red-head named Joe who was always at hand when it was time to hatch a plot and one night he and I smoked-up a humdinger. We were living away at college and it was during one of our short holiday meet-ups back in the old home town that we made a startling discovery. It seems that Doña Comida, fine pillar of the community she was clawing to be, had over-spent and under-tasted her way to the best kind of status money can buy and campesinos can comprende. She had built herself and indentured family a gran palacio, a mucho monstroso casa feo. A huge, ham-handed, over-wrought house in a neighborhood full of prominent local-yocals (and yessir, in Texas when not followed by the word Latino the word prominent is a euphemism for powerful gringo).

Anyhow, she poured so many dollars into this old world Spanish fantasy cum rich white folk suburban ranch house that Joe and I would fall into stitches every time we drove past the pile. For the next few years of college holidays Joe and I made quite a ritual of driving by shaking our heads, clucking our tongues, and lamenting that someone could spend so much money to so little avail. The home looked sublimely pretentious, and we noted the only thing missing was painted statuary like the Kuwaitis in Houston were so fond of in the 70’s. We used to pack groups of friends into a car for the pilgrimage and I remember one night someone musing on the galling Estilo Rico Nuevo of the restauranteur’s residence and wryly dubbing it The House That Tacos Built.

Now the point of this blog is to tell you about the last Christmas holiday Joe and I spent in our hometown as a team. We had decided to slip past T.H.T.T.B. and enjoy a good laugh for old time’s sake. Gracias a Maria were we ever rewarded.

The place was surrounded by a sprawling Christmas crèche of garishly illuminated plastic Saints and taxidermied Chihuahuan desert wildlife. There was a softly glowing sun-crackled hepatitic looking baby Jesus swaddling in the center manger and all around him mangy worn out looking white-tailed deer lowed in place of cattle, a Great Horned Owl, disintegrating and dusty, teetered from it’s perch in a knot of bailing wire, and a half-dozen or so medium sized wild Javelina pigs came slowly unstuffed in the night breeze.

We sat speechless in Joe’s immense old hand-me-down Buick Electra while our headlights lit up every piece of exposed straw stuffing and every beady black glass eye. The feeling of sheer exasperation and dislocation from society we each felt at that moment is indescribable. Certainly my own proclivity for predisappointment in my fellow men had reached it zenith. This indignity demanded action, but what? Here’s the crux of the biscuit, my friend Joe delivered the goods.

I took the wheel of Joe’s Slow Loris behemoth used luxury car and circled the block. Joe had given strict instructions that I should turn the corner slowly with my headlights off, be prepared for anything, and be prepared to drive away fast.

As I turned the corner and vigilantly cruised the creepy Christmas crèche there was no sign of Joe at all and I felt a pang of fear. Just then from the darkness behind me there was a loud thumping on the car and I slammed down the brake. The rear passenger door flew open and there was Joe heaving a massive bundle into the car and diving in fully horizontal across the rear seats. “Go, go! Drive! Drive! Drive! Drive!” I peeled away into the suburban calm, while in the back seat darkness Joe laughed harder and more genuinely than I have ever heard anyone laugh.

I couldn’t see anything in the dark and Joe absolutely could not compose himself long enough to answer my repeated asking, “What the hell is that?” When the car began to fill with a surreally weird odor I started to laugh uncontrollably too, just because. A safe distance away, I couldn’t stand it anymore. I pulled over the car threw open the door to let in some air and turned to see what the dome light was illuminating.

Joe was lying across the deep back seat of his once top-of-the-line Buick caressing a huge prickly haired decomposing taxidermied feral pig. Rusty steel wire poked out of the fur shell just below the thing’s knees and came to sharp little points making four reliable all-weather legs. Its fangs were permanently bared into a ferocious snarl and in the dim overhead light I could see fraying leather stitches that held the upper lip tightly against the nose to create the effect.

A wreath of intertwined aluminum Christmas tree balls and dusty fake leaves was around the animal’s neck and one of its glass eyes had fallen out. Disturbed insects of all varieties poured out of the creature’s badly sewn openings and looked frantically for cover. Joe had wrapped it in a blanket when he snatched it and all I could think to say through my hysterical laughter was, “Isn’t that the Baby Jesus’ blanket?” We laughed and laughed and laughed.

Now then folks, I have just exploited a guest blog-op on my boyfriend’s website to introduce you our friend Joe. He’s much, much older, wiser, and politically sensitive today, and has just decided to enter the world of blogging. He’s a married straight guy, but if he ends up with a gay following, his blog will be all the more chic.

Here’s to you, Joe. You will find his blog at: joeday.blogspot.com.

Breaking Through the Fog
Friday, August 20, 2004

Chris is home from the hospital and resting comfortably. I brought him home Thursday morning and went to work that afternoon. Twister provided him with lots of love and comfort, but Chris is moving a bit slow and is still in considerable pain. So on my way home, I stopped by the pharmacy to pick up his pain medication and some fruit juices. When I got home, Chris opened the bag and got the pills out. Taking a deep breath, he exclaimed, "Ahhh... There's nothing like the smell of a fresh batch of Percoset."

My boyfriend is Karen Walker. Fortunately he'll be back to his old self by the end of the weekend.

Meanwhile I wonder if maybe he's not the only one clouded by medication. We had a new guy join the group today at work. He moved his stuff into the building, and has everything ready to start work except for a network login I.D. to get onto the Local Area Network. So he went to the I.T. department to fill out the forms and get set up.

"Where's the form I need to fill out to get access to the L.A.N.?", he asked.

The I.T. Guy spun excitedly around in his chair and said, "Oh, we've gone electronic now! All you gotta do is go onto the homepage, click on 'Tools and Forms', select 'Network Access Request', fill it out, hit send, and it gets routed automatically to everyone who needs to set you up."

New Guy looked at him with a puzzled look on his face. "But I don't have access to the network..."

"I know. That's why you need to go to the homepage and fill out the Network Access Request. As soon as you do that, we'll get you set up right away."

New Guy looked at I.T. Guy, raising his voice just a little bit, replied, "No. You don't understand. Let me be clear: I. Don't. Have. Access. To. The. Network!"

I.T. Guy quickly answered, "Yeah, I heard you. Like I said. You gotta go to the homepage..."

Suddenly he stopped. Silence ensued. Time and eternity intersected. Civilizations rose and fell. The crickets sang their plaintive song. The dark clouds  parted and a beam of sunlight broke through the clouds and illuminated the dark cortexes of I.T. Guy's cerebellum. Finally, I.T. Guy drew a deep breath and spoke from a posture of deep enlightenment:

"Oh..."

Distractions
Wednesday, August 18, 2004

Entries will be light this week for the following reasons, in no particular order:
 

I’m obsessed with redesigning my website. Who knows when I’ll actually be finished.

Rusty Kennedy / AP

The Olympics are on and it’s been heavy on the gymnastics and swimming. Need I say more?

Cancer Research UK

Chris is going into the hospital for gall bladder surgery this afternoon.

Cartoon Network

Chris needs to get one of those punch cards like what you get at the coffee shop. After so many surgeries, the next one’s free. He was in the hospital about this time last year for an appendectomy. Tomorrow it will be Gall Bladder removal (gallectony?).  Then there’s back surgery sometime on the not-too-distant horizon.

I’m thinking maybe instead of sewing him back up, we should just install a service access door, like Rosie the Robot from the Jetson’s.

We'll keep you posted.

The Three Invisible Powers
Monday, August 16, 2004

From a mural in Superior, Arizona

Intelligence, Thought, Breath – the three invisible powers. And in some circles these are still regarded as being the three most subversive and dangerous powers of all.

The Monsoons of 2004
Saturday, August 14, 2004

Chris and I took the dog to a nearby park Friday, where we met up with some of our neighbors and fellow dog owners. The topic of conversation soon turned to the weather, as it often does this time of year. It all started when I commented, "Boy, the monsoons sure have been a bust this year."

Marie agreed. "They started out strong but we haven't had much of anything the past several weeks. It's been really disappointing this year."

Rob joined in. "We haven't had a really good monsoon season since 2000."

"Last year was pretty nice," Chris responded. He moved to Tucson in October of 2002, and last summer was his first monsoon season.

"Yeah, it wasn't too bad last year," I said. Everyone else agreed that it was much better last year.

"But yeah, 2000 was my first monsoon season," I continued, "and I remember it was pretty nice then too. Of course I was living in Oro Valley at the time and they get quite a bit more rain over there."

It's true. Oro Valley gets a lot more rain, mostly because it is on the west side of the Catalinas. So does far eastern Tucson near Reddington Pass. That area is on the west end of the Rincon Mountains. The west face of mountain ranges always get more rain because of the typical movement of the storms.

"Well the drought has really put a damper on the monsoons lately. Two years ago it was really bad too," Marie remembered.

"Oh yeah I remember that," I said. "And the year before that too, when my house was under construction. We got some rain, but it didn't seem like a whole lot. I remember that because I was looking forward to monsoon watching from my back porch."

Chris turned to Marie, who lives two doors down from us. "Do you sit under your porch and watch the lightning during the storms?"

"Sometimes, yeah. Or we'll stay by the back windows and watch the storms." Marie lives two doors down from us and we share the same great view of the Catalinas from our back yards. Mountain ranges like the Catalinas are an essential component to the formation of monsoons. We can sit safely in our back yards and watch the monsoons sweep across Oro Valley safely in the distance.

Monsoon watching is very popular in Tucson. Many people, myself included, either build or buy our houses based on what kind of views we can enjoy during Monsoon season. I think if you took a poll, you'd find that monsoon season is everyone's favorite time of year, and I think you'd also find widespread disappointment at this year's activity.

Rob rejoined the conversation. "It's nothing like it was in the early seventies. I remember we had some really good monsoons back then."

Tucsonans talk about monsoons the way Ohioans talk about blizzards.

But it was unusually muggy that morning, and there was a good sized cloud over the Catalinas. Maybe today would be a good day for rain, we all agreed. Or at least we hoped and prayed.

□■□■□

Three ingredients are needed for monsoons: moisture from the Gulf of Mexico sweeping up through Mexico to Arizona; a high pressure system over the Four Corners to propel the moisture into Arizona; and mountains. You can't have monsoons without the mountains.

As the morning temperatures rise on the desert floor, the hot air expands and rushes up the slopes of the mountains, carrying moisture with it from the desert floor. As the humid air is carried up the mountain slopes, it cools and forms clouds above the mountains. Throughout the day, the winds from the desert continue to gather great amounts of moisture above the mountains, where it cools and starts to form rain clouds. Then as the sun goes down, the temperature drops and the cooler air can no longer hold the moisture. The clouds collapse into cataclysmic monsoon thunderstorms which drift from above the mountains and flood the valley floor with the much-needed rain. Flash flooding is very common during monsoons.

□■□■□

It turns out that we were right. Yesterday, all of the key ingredients came together just like it should and it turned out to be a spectacular day for monsoons. The lightning danced across the sky in spectacular patterns accompanied with great crashes of thunder, and we were drenched with rain. It was a welcome relief, and a spectacular show that lasted most of the afternoon and well into the evening. It was difficult to decide what to watch: the lingering lightning after the storms had ended, or the Olympics opening ceremony.

□■□■□

© LookingForSam / Jim Burroway

It's still cloudy this morning, probably too cloudy for it to rain today. It's ironic, but when it's cloudy in the morning, the desert floor doesn't get a chance to heat up, and the moisture doesn't get carried up to the mountaintops. Hundred-degree heat (40° C) is essential for monsoons to form. This morning it's very humid but cool, so it will probably be quiet today.

And now that it is mid-August, the window for more storms is about to close, and we will be back to our hot, dry sunny days again. Who knows? Last night's storms may have been our last spectacular blowout of the season. If so, here's hoping for a better season next year. We really need the rain.

LINK ::

Miracle Mile
Thursday, August 12, 2004

At the dawn of the Automobile Age, America’s wanderlust took on a new form. Instead of pioneers pulling up roots and traveling over rutted trails in Conestoga wagons, families piled their suitcases and ice chests into the family station wagon and headed out across the asphalt highways which were starting to crisscross the continent.

At first, travelers simply camped on the side of the road when night fell, but soon some enterprising gas station owners constructed “tourist cabins” which could be rented for the night. Furnished with simple beds and sheets, they offered the weary traveler a good night’s sleep. These tourist cabins soon gave way to “auto courts”, and eventually motels.

Tucson’s main highway from Phoenix, dubbed Miracle Mile, attracted many of these motels on its approach to Tucson's northern city limits in the early 1930's. These motels were simple and clean, and they flourished through the decades catering to the traveling families and businessmen. As more automobiles traveled this stretch of highway, Miracle Mile quickly became not only the tourist strip in Tucson, but the entertainment district as well. Hollywood and radio stars could be found among the swank restaurants and nightclubs. Businessmen, developers and gangsters plotted their fortunes and cavorted with the fairer sex in the bars. Artists held court – Georgia O’Keefe even designed the sign for her favorite stopover, the Ghost Ranch Lodge.

The motels offered a nice cool respite from the desert heat via evaporative cooling (also known as swamp coolers by the locals), It was simple, really. A mechanism allowed water to drip down a fibrous pad and a fan blew the cold evaporative air into the room. Many homes in Tucson still use this very cheap and effective means of cooling. It is amazing how cold a room can get with evaporative cooling, thanks to the insanely dry desert air – except during monsoon season in July and August. Then the high humidity renders swamp coolers utterly ineffective, and travelers languished on the hot muggy nights.

But as newer motels sprang up along the old highway, some started offering a new type of air conditioning. Even today, a of these motels still sport marquees which brag about being “air conditioned by refrigeration”. This was the ultimate in traveling comfort.

Miracle Mile reached its heyday in the 1950’s serving bedraggled vacationers and businessmen as they drove across the hot desert. The optimistic energy of the post-war period gave birth to a new impetus of travel, and the motels continued to flourish through the 1950’s and into the early 1960’s. But that same optimism for a better future gave birth to the Interstate Highway System. These modern expressways made travel much easier and safer, but nobody understood that their very strengths in providing easy travel between cities would be the seed to widespread devastation within the cities and small towns all over the country. The speeding traffic had no time to slow down along the way, and family-run motels which hugged the slower-moving and more scenic highways and byways were decimated. Travelers stayed close to the Interstate highways, preferring the faceless but reliable chain hotels which crowded the exists.

The starkest example of Miracle Mile’s decline as a result of being bypassed by I-10 is the Tropicana Motel. It had been one of the nicer refuges on Miracle Mile, but it fell on hard times along with many of its neighbors. Traveling families started stayed at the new motel chains on the Interstate, and rarely ventured into the old tourist quarter. The old highway ceased to be the conduit of travelers into Tucson. The motel patrons on Miracle Mile were now a new breed of customer, no longer families on vacation or moneyed businessmen on expense accounts. More and more, couples weren’t interested in renting rooms for the night. They only wanted to rent a room for the hour.

The Tropicana Motel followed the clientele into the newer business model. Renting rooms by the hour, the Tropicana soon became a haven for prostitution, with many prostitutes setting up residence in its rooms. But before long, competition with neighboring motels for the sleazy trade heated up and the Tropicana had to find a new way to survive.

In 1975 the Tropicana's transformation was complete. It became an adult bookstore, but its downward slide didn’t end there. It became a magnet for prostitution, drugs, public sex, crime and other disturbances to the surrounding residential neighborhood. The Tropicana continued to decay over the next three decades as the owners apparently didn’t do much to keep the derelict property up to code. It was finally condemned as a health and fire hazard last March. It was torn down over the past weekend, and a piece of Tucson’s history and character came down with it.

They say you can't stop progress, although they seem be rather fuzzy on what "progress" means exactly. It seems to me that we are in the habit of stopping, and even reversing progress with blinding regularity. Ironically, we often do so in the name of progress itself.

Maybe you can stop progress, but you can't stop time. Time continues to march relentlessly on with its determined goosestep. And last weekend, Time exterminated yet another landmark which dared to stand in its path.

Superior, Arizona
Wednesday, August 11, 2004

When Eternity runs out of time...

The Blank Generation
Sunday, August 8, 2004

Greetings from the Promised Land.
Welcome, chosen few.
Anything for Everyman.
I know what let’s do:

Let’s say the clouds all go away.
Let’s say today’s a holiday.
The mirror broke into a million magazines – how do you like my hair?
Let’s stretch this fifteen minutes out.
Let’s call this whimper here a shout.
Let’s give the beggars some delicious recipes
and let them eat cake.

— Little Jack Melody and his Young Turks, On the Blank Generation

□■□■□

I saw this ad in a local magazine a few weeks ago for a real-estate development here in Tucson. It depicts “the heart of Tucson” as being very quaint and exotic, exuding old world charm. Tucson sits at the Mexican/American crossroads, and the few remaining barrios near the downtown area are quite charming. This ad evokes that feeling, and goes a step further. It invites me to experience the beauty of their development, and to imagine myself living somewhere which completely envelops me in that beauty and old-world charm. They want me to sample everything my heart desires. They want to make my dreams come true.

I’ve had the pleasure of living in just such an exotic place when I participated on a summer exchange in Orizaba, Mexico before my senior year in high school. It was very exciting to walk the narrow streets and gaze at the old buildings, some which were built when the British were still struggling to establish a beachhead in North America. I loved waking up early in the morning to the cries of the street vendors pushing their carts down the narrow lanes, hollering and yodeling their wares and services.

Oye-e-e-eh - - Leche!

Oye-e-e-eh - - Leche!.

The young milk boy’s voice rang out and echoed down the narrow street, the sound reflecting back and forth off the centuries-old houses which crowded the sidewalk. The housewives and maids opened their doors and hailed him with their metal pots and pans. The boy who sold fresh raw milk by the ladle was probably repeating the same cry of his father and his grandfather before him. The timelessness of it all was serene. What a great way to wake up!

Now I awake from that reverie to take another look at this ad. As I look at it again, I notice that there’s something not quite right about it. That street – where is it? I’ve lived in Tucson for only five years (and admittedly, some would still see me as a newcomer), but I think I know the city well enough to be suspicious of this photograph. I don’t recognize it anywhere. In fact, on further inspection it doesn’t look anything like Tucson. Is it Mexico? Perhaps. The photogenic charm of nearby Mexico is often evoked in painting an image of Tucson. But that’s not quite right either – it really doesn’t look like Mexico.

Wait a minute! Take a closer look at the ad. There’s a small clue near the middle of the photograph, the street sign on the right hand side of the arch.

Via della Porta

That’s Italian! It has nothing to do with Tucson whatsoever!

Greetings from the Promised Land.
 

□■□■□

My favorite movie is The Truman Show. It’s built on the premise of substituting reality with artifice, and presenting that artifice as reality. The Truman Show is compelling not because it is so outrageous, but because it is so very true. We live in a world of manufactured and consumer-tested reality.

Manipulating an artificial reality was not only central to the movie’s storyline, but it also had a strange parallel in its filming. The producers were thrilled to discover that they would not have to build a set on a back lot somewhere depicting an artificial utopian village. The real-life utopian development of Seaside, Florida was the perfect setting for the movie’s set-town of Seahaven.

Paramount Studios

Seaside is a twenty-four-year-old master-planned housing development built to look like a hundred-year-old seaside resort. Its brick streets and front porches were very carefully designed and market tested to resonate with our nostalgic yearning for a simpler time. I’ve been to Seaside, and I must admit that it all comes together very well. The carefully researched formula tugged at my heartstrings quite earnestly – exactly according to plan. I wanted to move to that idyllic village and run barefoot from my quaint clapboard house to the beach. I knew it was all artificial, but it was so well done that I was willing to forgive the artifice at the time. I’m now rather embarrassed to admit it.

But even while I was there, it only took a few hours for the veneer to wear thin. It was just too contrived, too sweet for my tastes. I left Seaside feeling a little dizzy, like I had just eaten too much cake and ice cream and washed it down with too much root beer. And then followed all of that with dessert.

Seaside’s residents are very proud to have been chosen as the site for the movie. But the irony of filming a movie about a too-perfect artificial reality in a real-life too-perfect town seems to be lost on them. They are largely blissful in their carefully calibrated environment, much like the characters in the movie.

The developers said, “Let them eat cake.” Thus Seaside was born and the town’s people rejoiced. Since everybody loves dessert, Seaside has been a smashing commercial success.

□■□■□

Let’s say the skies are always blue.
Let’s say that wishes do come true.
The magic mirror spawned a million magazines – how do you like my hair?
Let’s make our quarter hour shine.
Let’s toss a pearl toward the swine.
Let’s send the peasants some attractive napkin rings
and let them eat cake.

— Little Jack Melody and his Young Turks, On the Blank Generation

□■□■□

Everywhere I turn, I am confronted with an artificial presentation of reality, and I find myself searching desperately for something real. It’s part of the reason I enjoy road-trips. The very small towns are still somewhat preserved from the corporate touch. There isn’t enough of an economic incentive to make over these places into false places.

But I wonder how long they can hold out. After all, the economic incentive to make over real places into false places exists because the makeovers respond to our aspirations. It's a simple case of supply-and-demand. We want to live in exotic places. We want to live in big mansions in a city on a hill. But we cannot afford real mansions, so we buy fake mansions to soothe that aspiration. Schizophrenically, we also want to live in an English country house away from it all. We want everything, and our economic power makes it come to pass. So our cities stretch ever outward towards the quaint small towns in the countryside, and these towns are utterly unable to survive the onslaught.

My new car has wood trim on the dashboard and a wooden steering wheel. It makes me feel rich. And why not? The ads all tell me that I’ve worked hard and I deserve it. I’ve reached the summit and I’ve earned the right to own a piece of the mountaintop. Welcome, chosen few.

So I bought the wooden steering wheel. Now that their message worked, they will refine it so I can be induced to buy something else even more rich and beautiful, like maybe stone archways and pillars on my next home. The circle is complete and turns back over on itself. I am Truman.

But there are still a few things that aspirations cannot touch and the economic engine cannot make over. Ruins are the best example. One appeal that ghost towns have for me is that no one will ever make them over. They will continue to melt back into the soil, just as their inhabitants have done when their own lives have run their course. As will our current monuments to artificial reality when their economic worth is spent.

As the Catholic priest says on Ash Wednesday, “Dust you are, and to dust you shall return.” No truer words were ever spoken, and no amount of economic incentive will ever change it. The steadfastness of that truth is sublime when you confront it in abandoned ruins, which are the melting embodiments of a previous generation's aspirations. And yet to dust they shall return.
 

□■□■□

Many years ago, I went to a popular themed restaurant with piped-in street sounds meant to evoke a New York Italian neighborhood – complete with barking dogs, honking horns and crying babies. The only thing missing was a car alarm. The cacophony was so loud it was difficult to hold a conversation. I haven’t set foot inside that restaurant chain since then. I suppose there’s no need to go to New York when you have East Side Mario’s.

Every barbecue restaurant built in the past several years is designed to look like a run-down roadhouse. You are asked to pretend that you’re not really in an upscale retail area. The “roadhouse” is safe, family-friendly, squeaky-clean, and air-conditioned so nobody will sweat. Nobody will call you “hon” there either, unless it’s in the script.

Yes, many of these restaurants use scripts – I’m not making this up. Chris and I recently went to a theme restaurant that was experiencing a twenty-minute wait. The cute 18-year-old host’s script called for him to ask, “Would you care to join me in the bar?” I was taken aback. I know he didn’t mean for it to sound the way it did. He had to say it using those words because the corporate handbook dictated that he say it exactly that way. But in our situation the whole scenario was inappropriate, as it would be when he has to say this to two ladies - or worse yet, a single lady. I felt a little dirty at the idea of an 18-year-old boy asking me this. I said no.

□■□■□

I have a shameful secret to tell you. My brand-new southwestern adobe house is not adobe at all. It’s covered with a thin layer of stucco sprayed over chicken wire, just like Disneyland’s Magic Mountain. When you think about it, it’s not that different from many of the houses I used to see in Appalachia. But don’t say anything to my neighbors, even though their houses are exactly like mine. It’s our little secret.

How do you like my hair?

□■□■□

Let’s say the rainbow has been cleared.
Let’s say that Kansas disappeared.
Who needs a mirror in a land of magazines – how do you like my hair?
Let’s take our fifteen minute stance.
Let’s sing about the Queen of France.
Let’s treat the masses to imported charity.
A crust of bread? Try this instead: we’ll let you eat cake!

— Little Jack Melody and his Young Turks, On the Blank Generation

□■□■□

Let’s go back to that real-estate ad once again. When you follow the directions to The Villas at Rancho Valencia you will end up far from the heart of Tucson. It takes you to a freeway exit out by the airport. It looks like this (click on each thumbnail for a larger view):

When the artifice is stripped away, what’s left? Movie-set towns. Chicken wire behind the façade. People living scripted lives in a soulless housing development wedged between the end of a runway, an Interstate highway, and the city landfill.

□■□■□

This is reality, but we’ve let them construct our reality for us. If you ask me, they’ve done a lousy job. The profit motive doesn’t allow for much room for the soul to bounce around. It’s time we took back our reality and made it our own. If we do that, our world will be much, much better than anything they can create for us. Here are my suggestions:

Tonight, turn off television and go outside. Talk to your neighbors. Pound back a few beers with friends. Talk about ideas, stories, jokes, fears or hopes. Especially your hopes.

Get in the car and go out onto a dirt road. Find a place where you can see the incredible beauty of our country and remember how easy it is to love America.

Get out of the car and take a walk in a neighborhood that was built at a time when people walked.

Create a work of art, even if you’re not an artist. Especially if you’re not an artist.

Read a good book, one that doesn’t involve a television or movie character.

Turn off television again tomorrow, and the next day after that.

Ask “why?” five times. Ignore the first four answers.

Throw away  all clothing  with a visible logo.

Do something nice for no good reason.

Go somewhere you've never been.

Paint something bright red.

Admire a stunning view.

Stand in the cool rain.

Watch the moonrise.

Learn a new word.

Walk  barefoot.

Teach a child.

Be yourself.

Call home.

Find Sam.

Exhale.

And most importantly, throw away your magazines and tell them they can keep their cake.

Who Is Naming These Streets?
Friday, August 6, 2004

Seriously. I'm asking...

Micheladas Con Clamato
Thursday, August 5, 2004

The scene: Chris and I are seated at one of our favorite restaurants which specializes in "Mexico City Cuisine."

Waiter: "Would you care for something from the bar?"

Christopher (looking over menu): "hmmm... you don’t have micheladas on the menu..."

Handsome waiter: "Oh, that's no problem. We can get you a michelada from the bar. Would you like one?"

Christopher: "Yes. I'll have a michelada con Bohemia, please."

Very handsome young waiter: "Very good."

Christopher: "Oh! – and do you serve your micheladas with Clamato?"

Sexy Latin waiter: "You would like Clamato with that?" His beautiful smile accompanies a look of mild surprise. Anglos almost never order micheladas with Clamato, even though it is well known that a michelada isn’t a proper michelada without it.

Christopher: "Yes, please, if you have it."

The stunningly hot waiter offers a deep masculine chuckle. "We usually bring the Clamato in a separate glass because most people are too afraid to even try it."

Christopher: "Oh no, I love it with Clamato. It's just not right without it."

The handsome waiter winks, and his luscious lips part to reveal a brilliant smile. A row of dimples splay across his cheeks to frame his perfect white teeth. "And Tabasco, too?"

Christopher: "Of course!"

"Very good!" The waiter’s beautiful eyes, dark and sparkling like brilliantly polished obsidian, turn to yours truly: "And you sir?"

Jim: "Same for me please, with Negra Modelo."

Suave, impeccably-dressed waiter in the crisp white shirt, the whiteness of which dances against the luscious olive tone of his skin: "Excellent."

Christopher: "Can I ask you a question?"

Startlingly handsome waiter, whose well-fitted shirt hints at the contours of a tight, athletic body: "Sure."

Christopher: "Micheladas – they’re not considered a woman's drink in Mexico, are they?"

A look of mild shock alights on the hunk’s furrowed brow: "Oh no, of course not! Men order them all the time." His face melts into a very solicitous smile. In a reassuringly deep soft voice he says, "They’re not sissy drinks at all." Tucson’s hottest waiter laughs as his sensuous eyes dance in amusement

Jim: "Good. Micheladas are my favorite drink, especially with Clamato."

The waiter, upon whom all the gods of beauty have bestowed their richest gifts: "Very good. I’ll be right back with your order."

Christrodamus
Sunday, August 1, 2004

Christopher of Tucson (that's the seer, not the hair dresser!) offers the following predictions as of Saturday, July 31, 2004. Let it be written:

1. Dick Cheney will not be the vice-presidential candidate on the Republican ticket.

2. The vice-presidential candidate will be the popular New Jersey governor, Thomas Keane. He recently served as the head of the 9/11 Commission, where he furthered his reputation for fairness, moderation and bipartisanship. This will be done in a bid to soften the negatives in the Republican ticket.

While Chris is confident in offering these predictions in writing, publicly for all the world to see, I'm not sure that either of us have much of a clue as to what the future holds. Here's my evidence of that from the 1970's:
 

◄ July 2004
► September 2004

Here we are, living very different lives from today. And yet even back then they were strangely parallel.