Phoenix Points of Pride
Sarah and Jess Visit the Shit out of Arizona

I'm not going to pretend that I know anything about webpages. Well, okay, I'm going to pretend it for my job, but there's no reason to bullshit here: I know dick-all about web design. But I wanted to write up the Phoenix trip, so here it is, in the simplest possible form. See if you can guess how many html tags I actually know. (Hint: You can probably count them on two hands.)

On to the exposition. I'll start it off with:

Saturday, December 28

The ugliest man in the Baltimore-Washington International Airport bar has a big belly, a grizzly beard, long ratty hair, big shades, and a LOT of competition. Some of his fellow ugly white guys gave us a free pack of cigarettes, but it didn't make them any less ugly. I drank most of Sarah's Mai Tai in addition to my own, and that didn't make them any less ugly either. It was a lot of ugly to handle.

Our flight was delayed a bit, so we touched down in Phoenix at about 9:30 pm. Once there, we discovered an important axiom: Just because you lived in a place for several months doesn't mean it's easy to find when it's dark and you've taken a Dramamine and you haven't been there in a year. We finally made it to Sarah's parents' house in Cave Creek (north of Scottsdale) at around midnight. Technically I took these later, but they're relevant now, so here's a photo of the house from the outside:

And the inside:

By the time we made it to the house, I guess the Dramamine had worn off, because we were about ready to head back out. Of course, we were in Cave Creek, Arizona, so there weren't many places to head except the friendly neighborhood cowboy bar.

A cowboy bar is kind of like a goth club, but with more cow skulls and fewer human ones. It's wannabe cowboys instead of wannabe vampires, cowboy hats instead of Aquanet, cowboy boots instead of New Rocks, plaid instead of velvet, but other than that it's about the same. Well, except that at a goth club I know what kind of beer to order. I didn't want a Coors or a Bud, because, well, they suck, but that was all the signs there were in the bar, so I got a Smirnoff Ice and sat there feeling drained of all butchness. The band played "Sweet Home Alabama," which was about as enjoyable as it was predictable, which is to say very. A man in a black cowboy hat and emo glasses asked me what my "story" was, so I told him I was the founder of Jeet Kun Do and had fled to this country from Hong Kong after killing a man. That's Bruce Lee's story, really, but he didn't know that, and when I tried to tell him I don't think he heard me over the band.

No, my conscience does not bother me -- does your conscience bother you? Tell me true.

Sunday -->