Photoblogging: Hell Beast, Antique Mall, Bisbee

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Aborted Travelogue: Trip to Arizona Part 2

OMG you guys, I don't know what it was, but I just could NOT finish the post below. I'd go back to it and be, like, "Ugh, that was weeks ago." And then I'd want to post something else, but I'd think, "No, I have to finish that post about my trip to Tucson."

So, finally, I'm just going to admit that I'll never finish this post, so here's as far as I got. Postus Interruptus, I guess. But if I don't just burn this one off now, this blog will be dead forever, so sorry about that:

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One thing which was funny was that I brought lovely, beautiful and tasteful gifts for my three sisters and my mother, and for my brother... the disturbing vintage plush toy seen above.

The weather was stunning the whole time I was there. Here is the view from my parents' backyard on a perfect Spring day:

Next up, a trip to Bisbee! First, though, a trip to famous BK Tacos for one of their justifiably celebrated "Sonora Style" hot dogs. This guy made sure you felt welcome:

Bisbee is a fair distance from Tucson, in the southeastern corner of Arizona. You pass through miles of scrubby valleys filled with joshua trees, ironwood, mesquite, creosote, etc.

The surrounding mountains are gorgeous (sorry, lousy shots from the car window):

 

Bisbee, Arizona is an old mining town which never completely died, but instead transitioned into an undeniably quaint yet almost unbearably cutesy tourist. Mid Atlantic residents will know what I mean when I say, "It's like Harper's Ferry meets Breaking Bad."

Anyway, that's it. I don't really have trenchant observations about Bisbee after all.

Onward!

Travelogue: Tucson Via Dallas With Bonus Bisbee, Part 1

I traveled back home to Tucson last week for a very special occasion: my father's 90th birthday party! A good time was had by all, and it was a gorgeous, perfect springtime in southern Arizona.

But first, I had a five-hour layover in the Dallas airport:

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I had a nice travel outfit, which always makes flying seem fancier to me. Remember when flying really seemed fancy? Now you have to make it fancy yourself:

(Gray jersey sport coat by Gant, white cotton shirt by Theory, vintage Hermès silk tie.)

I had hours and hours to kill in the Dallas airport, so I decided to "dine" at TGI Friday's, where I enjoyed a comically large novelty margarita and something which seemed to be chicken-like and suspended in a bubbling ooze of salty, viscous petroleum products. This would prove to be the saddest yet most conceptually successful eating experience of the trip.

(It's like a Slurpee, but kind of with booze, and certainly created in vats.)

Also available in the Dallas airport: makeup vending machines. This brought to mind endless "Walk on the Wild Side" possibilities for my journey back home:

Finally I got to Tucson and was picked up at the airport by good ol' Dad on the eve of his 90th birthday! Way to go, Dad! Hope it's the genes!

In the evening, we headed to a great Mexican restaurant where my mother and father and I were joined by my brother (whose contributions to this blog you may remember), my three sisters, my niece and two nephews. I was thrilled with my niece, who is a perfect tween, brimming with eye rolls and never less than a minute away from Snapchatting. So good. And I was astonished to discover that my nephews Thomas and James, 17 and 14, once irritating enough that I expected to tolerate them at best, have matured into healthily obsessive horror/exploitation movie fans! So we had LOTS to talk about ("I'll send you DVDs of Pink Flamingos and Female Trouble, but DON'T watch them with your parents, OK?")

My photographic project this time around was "Arizona Kitsch", but that quickly fell by the wayside as I got subsumed into a family tornado. I did manage to get this shot at the restaurant, though, which basically says everything you need to know about Southwest design:



Next: trip to Bisbee!

Trip To Tucson!

Just had a wonderful trip to Tucson to celebrate my father's 90th (!!!) birthday with the ENTIRE family. It was fun! More pics to come, but here is a lovely desert mallow plant which grows everywhere like a weed:

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And a great RV I saw on the road to Bisbee:

More pics and stories to come!

Audioblogging: "Snobs" Live Performance, 1985, Tucson

This recording is of the PS Bingo four-piece (plus guests) playing live at Nino's Steakhouse in Tucson, Arizona, in 1985. Like "The Lightning Tape" posted last week, it features me on vocals and percussion, Joe Humble on guitar and bass, Diane Griffin on vocals and bass (and, memorably, on recorder on "Pathetica"*), and Dave Perry on drums and percussion.

The last tape I uploaded here went down like a lead balloon, which was expected since, after all, I did warn you that it was a 45-minute noise drone. This one is very different, a more-or-less rock show that does get noisy, but remains mostly traditional in instrumentation (despite the electric toy piano on one song).

The title of this show comes from an audience member shouting "Snobs!" at us at a previous engagement. This is because, honestly, it was kind of true. We didn't dress cute, we didn't pander to the audience, and we played oddball noise-rock without a care in the world that it wasn't commercial or, really, terribly likeable, and had a mustachioed jazz drummer who looked like an accountant. Oh well! As I said previously, we weren't trying to be rock stars.

Some song notes: this performance shows off the songwriting skills of Pony Pal Diane, who wrote three of the songs and the lyrics for a fourth. "Pathetica" was meant to be a tribute to Martin Denny and Les Baxter, so it has a somewhat "exotic" sound without sounding much like either of those artists. "2507" is named for the address of the venue; we hated Nino's, but they were one of the few bars that would let us play, albeit safely restricted to Monday evenings when we could do the least damage. I'd say we were definitely the staff's least favorite band. "Prayer Thing", "Space Mountain", and "Conspicuous Consumption" feature both Joe and Diane playing bass. "Nothing Is" is a cover of an earlier Tucson band, Les Seldoms, and features their lead singer on vocals.

If you want to listen to just the highlights, skip to "Pathetica", "Space Mountain", "Prayer Thing", and "Grey". The latter is one of Joe Humble's loveliest guitar compositions (and features me gamely giving it a go behind the drum kit).

Again, this stuff is awkward. My performance is probably my least favorite thing about it, but I was only 20, so whatever, I'm over it.

The 48mb zip archive is downloadable here.

*I remember at the time that Diane really didn't like playing recorder on "Pathetica", but later came to realize that it sounded great.

Arizonan Plays Pocket Pool In Statuary Hall

(Photo: Mark Henle/The Republic)

Why is this man smirking?  

Because he's about to become Arizona's latest (and second) contribution to the U.S. Capitol's Statuary Hall. It's a Barry Goldwater revival!

I always feel sorry for modern sculptors who have to make men in glasses and business suits look artistic. That said, I think the sculptor, Deborah Copenhaver-Fellows, did a very good job. She's livened up the pose by putting one of Barry's hands in his pocket, the other gesticulating as if making a point, and rather than standing stock-still, the figure's weight is shifted to the left leg, with the right leg stepped almost casually forward. It's a nice contrapposto. 

And believe it or not, I'm giving a thumbs-up to the bolo tie. It's a specifically Arizonan detail (it's the official state neckwear). And what is the bolo design? It appears to be a variation of a Native American thunderbird. Perfect choice for the hoary old warmonger.

Interesting that Arizona would choose a figure who was soft on abortion and gay rights, and antagonistic towards the religious right, but who else have they got? Somehow I can't picture Mo Udall making the cut in today's Arizona.

This Arizonan Heartily Endorses Steven Seagal As GOP Gubernatorial Candidate

Obviously I'm not saying I endorse Steven Seagal to be the next governor of Arizona, but I love this story about him "considering" a run for the job. It's a little scary, but I like the idea of Seagal winning the Republican nomination because then it would force the citizens of Arizona to really look in the mirror and ask themselves what kind of state they've become, or are becoming. Most of my family still live there, so I (and, I'm sure, they) would like to know the answer to this question.

However, I'm afraid it seems highly unlikely that this ridiculous turn of events will actually come to pass. Seagal's background is so sketchy, so littered with sleaze and damning, well-reported gossip, that it's difficult to imagine him exposing himself to the level of scrutiny a run for a major office would bring. We can all hope, though!

Amy's Baking Company: A Modest Proposal

Has everybody else been enjoying the ongoing saga of Amy's Baking Company, the otherwise unimportant restaurant which blew up the internet last week, what with the Twitters, the Facebooks, the Yelps, and whatnot? I don't know why I find the whole thing so terribly entertaining. Is it partly because it's an Arizona story?

Anyway, after their brutal encounter with the Steisand Effect, the bistro is trying to clean up its act and save itself. They'll try to not steal so much from their staff, to serve decent, edible pizzas, to not hurl obscenities at their customers, etc.

But here's the thing: I think they should do the exact opposite!

See, it's never going to be any great shakes as a restaurant. It's just one of those cutesy places that inevitably pops up across the street from a movie theater. Even calling it a "restaurant" is a bit of a misnomer; it's more of a "food vendor" than anything.

So why not play up their bad reputation? They should immediately alter the name to be "Crazy Amy's Baking Company" and turn it into a theme restaurant. So not only should they not try to be nice to their customers, they should promise to be horrible.  It's not unprecedented; after all, the awful frat boy chain Dick's Last Resort takes pride in its rude service. Amy's should take a similar path. After all, the only reason to go there right now is in the hope that the owners will freak out and pop off, so why not give the people what they want?

It wouldn't be that hard: Amy and Sammy should stage several screaming arguments each night to amuse their patrons. They could play amplified tapes of more arguments and crashing pans, etc., from the kitchen. They could stagger the staff's hours so that each employee's shift ends with a tearful "firing" by a manic Amy in full view of the dining room. They'd never again have to worry about the "quality" of the food*. It could be like "Bad Restaurant Theater."

It would be such a huge hit.

*In fact, they could do away with the food altogether: after 90 minutes, Amy or Sammy approach the customer and ask if they've gotten their meals. When the customer replies, "No," the owners would fly into a rage, scream, "Oh, I suppose you're going to BASH US ON YELP now!" and then kick them out (obviously, this would require an up-front cover charge. Details, details.). 

Fashion Victim: Heterosexual Sports Fans Don Their Princess Sparkle Pony Apparel

Ha, ha, what you're seeing above is a group of straight men (like, probably with wives and, ew, kids and even, like, pets), members of a "fantasy football league" (first and last appearance of that phrase on this blog, I bet) brandishing citrus fruit and holding a sign that says Lemon Party. If you don't know why that's funny, and you decide to Google that phrase, be prepared to see explicit pictures of naked men in their eighties having sex, OK? God, jokes lose all their sizzle when you have to explain them.

But what's this? What's that on their shirts? Why, it's my caricature of Rob Halford, nelly overlord of Judas Priest. How on earth did that end up there?

No, no, don't get righteous-indignationy. It just so happens that one of the guys in the photo above contacted me and asked if they could use the image, something very few people who "re-purpose" my artwork bother to do. He explained that Rob Halford was, in fact, the patron saint of their team, so how could I refuse? I happily prepared a nice greyscale png file with a transparent background for "Serious Business" to use, and provided it to them with the sole proviso that I had to, had to, had to see a photograph of them wearing the shirts to believe that it was real.

I'm happy because I have a soft spot for that drawing. I originally did it as part of a cover design for Genetic Disorder magazine in 2002. Later, I rejiggered it for a post here. It never garnered any response at all, and I was miffed, because I'm terrible at caricatures and I thought that, for once, I had gotten one right. So the 9-year delayed rave review was thrilling.

I have a funny Rob Halford story! And it's a funny Arizona story, too! I was in the Phoenix area in about 1992-3, presenting the Festival of Animation at the wonderful Valley Art Theater in Tempe. One night I was relaxing with some locals at a hairdresser watering hole when a very familiar-looking man walked by. I turned to my companions and the following conversation took place:

Me: OMG!
Persons A and B: What? What?
Me: Wasn't that... Judas Priest guy? Rob Halford?
Person A: Oh, her?
Person B: Yeah, she's here all the time. She lives here.
Person A: Honey, she's a tired old queen!

So anyway, four glittery hooves way, WAY up to "Serious Business" for having the courtesy to ask my permission to use my design (flattery will get you everywhere) and for making good on their promise to model the results.

The system works! Looking good, fellas!

Was I Bullied In School For Being Gay? Sort Of. OK, Yes.

(Here they are, identifiable by the ballpoint pen devil horns I drew on them in my yearbook. Fashion historians note the preponderance of rugby shirts, a huge fad that year.)

Bullying is so hot right now, I guess it's time to tell my bullying story. I was an easily identifiable oddball as a child in the 70s and early 80s, so of course I have a bullying story. How could I not?

I was not, however, bullied in high school at all. I can't think of a single instance. High school was my savior in a similar way that college is often a savior to kids who have bad high school experiences. Junior high, however, was a different matter, specifically seventh grade.

I became aware of "reject" kids early on in my education. I'm not talking about garden-variety misfits or "different" kids, but the really tragic rejects, the untouchables. They fascinated me, both for their intrinsic oddness and air of tragedy, but also for the way they were magnets for all of the worst behavior of my classmates. I never participated in the mocking or abusing of these unfortunates, but I didn't look away, either, or do anything to help them. I was never a reject, thank goodness. I was just an oddball kid, geeky and weird. I was unathletic but funny, and made friends easily. All was well at Sunrise Drive Elementary (1-4 grade) and Murphy Elementary (5-6 grade) in Tucson's Catalina Foothills district.

In 1977, however, I entered 7th grade at Orange Grove Middle School, and that is where my troubles began. I guess by that time I had gotten a little weirder, and my somewhat effeminate mannerisms and lack of interest in "guy things" raised red flags with some of the 8th graders, the typical alpha-jocks who dominated the school (shown above). I didn't like these guys right from the start; the way they swaggered around the school acting like they owned the place while picking on the rejects sickened me. And then, kind of suddenly, they decided, apparently en masse, that I was the new target. Lucky me. It wasn't really all that much, nothing physical, but it got to be relentless for a few months there: name calling, locker damage, etc. Eventually I started to suffer from migraines, and I think the school officials knew that it was because the teasing was reaching unacceptable levels, and I believe they more-or-less put a stop to it (I'm a little hazy on the details).

The one incident that really sticks in my mind happened in art class. I was off to the side by myself trying to glue together some nuts and bolts to make a sculpture, when one of the alpha-dicks, Tom (that's him with the biggest horns up top) wandered over to my table as his gang looked on. "Can I ask you a question?" he said in a seemingly friendly way.

"Sure," I answered.

"We were all wondering... are you gay?"

"No!" I answered with conviction. And at the time, that was an honest answer. I didn't know yet. I didn't even suspect it yet! I was, after all, only twelve, and not sexually precocious. I was only barely aware of the existence of homosexuals. The question shocked me; I wasn't expecting it at all. "Is that it?" I wondered. "Is that why they pick on me, because they think I'm gay? Why would they think that?" I pondered the question. I hated sports, was into art and theater, and hung around mostly with girls. Was that it?

I didn't change my behavior or manner to "cover up" these transgressions, and I dismissed the guys as assholes. But still, that question... it kind of became a little hot coal in my brain, always there to some extent, and occasionally flaring up.

I knew I would only have to deal with those boys a little longer. Shortly they'd graduate to high school, and they wouldn't be around for my eighth grade year, and I knew I was headed to a different high school than the one they attended.

So, really, not that big of a deal. Compared to other kids like me, I got off easy, but I don't think it "built character" or anything positive like that. And that question! It burned. It smoldered for years, maybe even decades, maybe even still. That question made something clear: "Gay" was bad. "Gay" was something to be mocked, something which set you apart from others, something which caused migraines, something to be avoided.

And, of course, as the years progressed, I realized that "gay" was something I was (they were right!), and something which, as it became increasingly evident, should be obscured, denied, and hidden (thank goodness for punk rock, the perfect camouflage). This persisted for years and years, and I ended up "coming out" long after I was already actively participating in homosexuality, which caused a lot of internal conflict and a lot more migraines. I know I would have come out sooner if I didn't have that little "gay=bad" coal tangled so effectively in my neurons.

So anyway, that's my bullying story. My story is mild –very mild– compared to what others endured, and fairly brief, only a few months. But those few months really packed a wallop in my developing mind. I got over it, but it took a long time. I can't say for sure that I ever got over it completely, as the profusion of words above demonstrates.

I did achieve a wonderful closure of sorts with one of the guys. One day during my senior year of high school, I was sitting at home when I saw somebody approaching our house. It was Tom, and he rang our doorbell. I hadn't seen him in years. "Who's that?" my mother asked. "That's Tom Hodgson, the ringleader of the guys who used to make fun of me in junior high," I answered. "Do you want me to answer the door?" she asked. "No, I'm curious," I assured her. See, by this time I was a full-on punk rocker. I was "different" in a cool way, and I felt confident. So I answered the door and ushered the hated Tom into our living room. Our meeting went something like this:

"So what do you want?" I asked.
"Well, uh... so word is that you're way into the punk scene," he said (keep in mind Tom and all his pals went to a different high school than me).
"Yeah, so?"
"So do you know people in bands?"
"Yes, almost all of my friends are in bands."
"And you go to places like Tumbleweeds?"
"Yes, almost every weekend."
"How do you get in?"
"What do you mean?"
"Well, some friends of mine tried to get into Tumbleweeds, but they wouldn't let us in because we're underage. How do you get in? Do you have a fake ID?"
"No, they let us in because we're punk rockers and we're friends with the bands*. They probably didn't let you in because you don't look the part. You probably just looked like jocks out to cause trouble."

Tom started to look mortified.

"So..." he stammered, his nervousness evident, "can you get us in?"
"What?"
"You know, introduce us to people there, vouch for us?"

I couldn't believe what I was hearing.

"Yeah, I'm sure I could," I answered (somewhat dishonestly). Tom looked hopeful. "But why should I?"
 "Well, you know, uh... I mean, you seem cool and, uh..."
" Oh, so NOW I'm cool," I said, finally raising my voice. "NOW you want to be my friend."
"Uh... uh... uh..."
"You were such a dick to me in junior high! And now you want me to do you a favor?" I was almost shouting at that point.
"Uh... um...."
"Why would I want to help you get into Tumbleweeds? Why would I even want to see you there? Sorry, I won't help you."

Tom seemed dejected but resigned as I led him to the door. "Well, you can't blame me for trying," he said.
"You've really got a lot of nerve," I told him. "And if I ever see you at Tumbleweeds or anywhere else, I'll make sure everyone there knows what a dick you were to me back then. Because you know what? All those scary punk guys with the tattoos and mohawks used to be just like I was, picked on by assholes like you. Have a nice day!"

After shutting the door, I turned around to see my mother with the most shocked look on her face. "That," she said, "must have felt really good."

It did.

*Actually, half the time they wouldn't let us in, so we'd go around to the back and climb over the patio wall.

Random Arizona Memory

(Tucson High School "Troubadours" vocal ensemble, 1983, at the Temple of Music and Art. The following year, my teen prank garage band played at the same location.)

I was a "choir kid" in high school (see above). It wasn't like Glee or anything; we just stood there in our sweaters and sang (although we did put on a musical every year, a painful ordeal for all involved).

Anybody who was ever involved in anything in high school knows all about field trips to other parts of the state for various reasons, and choir was no different: there were competitions, all-state events, regional meet-ups, etc. Since the major cities of Arizona are far apart (it's a big state!), multiple day happenings always involved staying with host families arranged through the local schools participating in the events.

Now keep in mind that I'm from Tucson, and also keep in mind this unscientific, totally unfair yet basically accurate infographic about Arizona:

Every time we headed north, and particularly when we made trips to Flagstaff or Mesa, there was a certain detail about our staying with host families that had to be discussed, the fact that Mormon households were especially enthusiastic about signing up to be hosts. "Many of you," we were told, "will be staying [dramatic pause] with LDS families." Those who had been through the ordeal groaned, while the newbies looked puzzled. "Be prepared."

Be prepared for what? To be worked.  If you stayed with an LDS host family, you were treated to a non-stop festival of Mormonism, abounding with special "youth activities" which just happened to be scheduled while you were visiting. Meanwhile, the rest of us were attending totally fantastic teen keg parties. The ones I went to in Flagstaff, huge raucous bonfires in the woods, were the best parties I went to in high school. 

The next day, the lucky ones were bleary-eyed, partied-out, and bursting with gossip as we recounted our nights and compared injuries.

"How was your night?" we'd taunt our less fortunate mates as they struggled with their armloads of LDS pamphlets and cassettes, and they would invariably erupt in a kind of post-traumatic, un-Mormon Tourette's syndrome. "Fuck! Shit! Asshole! Fuck! Fuck!" they would shriek while desperately chugging forbidden Coca Cola and unbuttoning their blouses. Then, offended, any nearby Mormon teens would stand up en masse and silently move away from our corruptive vulgarity.

Good times!

I was never parked with a Mormon family. I have a sneaking suspicion that event organizers probably arranged for that. I was, after all, an outspoken atheist and a punk rocker with a penchant for Flock of Seagulls hairdos and garish parodies of resort wear. I also think I was one of those kids who everybody knew was a hairdresser before I did (right?). So I guess in those cases, that worked to my advantage!

So anyway, call me a bigot if you must, because I've heard that it's now chic to pretend that the Church of Latter Day Saints® is not a singularly obnoxious, frequently ludicrous mutation of Christianity, which is obnoxious and ludicrous enough to begin with, but that's my mean-spirited Mormon story of the day.

How Much Right-Wing Generated Revulsion Can Arizona Produce?

(Photo via the New Times)

I haven't lived in what I still admit to being my home state for quite some time, but it really says something about Arizona politics that, upon hearing that a neo-Nazi shot up a house full of people there, my first thought was, "Wouldn't it be wild if it turned out to be that guy who Russell Pearce always palled around with and denied palling around with?"

And, of course, it did turn out to be that guy.

Arizona Voters, Against All Odds, Make Admirable Decision

What a pleasant surprise! I was totally expecting voters in my home state to keep tacky idiot (see above) Russell Pearce around. Nobody thought this recall would work... but it did! Incredible. I am officially amazed. It turns out that Arizonans care about things other than Mexicans and guns.

Object Of Breathtaking Beauty

(Click for much bigger, your new desktop picture)

Pony Pal™/coworker Barbara recently went on a trip to my home state. Before she went, I requested a box of my favorite confection, prickly pear fruit candy. Just look at this gorgeous box design, the upper 4/5 of which hasn't changed since 1969! You don't have to go all the way to an Arizona airport to get it. It's expensive, but so good: a subtly flavored square jelly candy dusted in sugar, with a flavor almost like plum with a dash of lemon. Mmmm.

Prickly pear fruit really is good. I grew up in an area dominated by prickly pears. My mom made prickly pear jelly several times, and it was delicious. They can also be served simply skinned and chilled as a refreshing novelty side. My father even tried to make prickly pear wine once, and the result was... interesting, more like a cognac or sherry. Speaking of which, sometimes if it gets super hot when the prickly pears are ripe, whole flocks of birds will get totally drunk on the fermented fruit and crash comically into all the suburban windows and sliding glass doors. Funny!

The wonderful cartoon on the cactus candy box with its excellent hand-drawn lettering is signed by "McGinnis", an artist about whom I can find no information whatsoever. Pity, because that cute cactus with its Nancy-hair-like spines has a lot of potential:

Arizona Photoblogging: A Day At The Stable, Bonus Cake

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Arizona was lovely, a great time. I spent Saturday at the stable with Sparklesibling Marilyn and her adorable horse and our adorable niece. So cute. The stable, next to the Rillito, is so charming, utterly unpretentious, the real deal. And not without its mysterious touches:

What the heck is this bizarre, oversized novelty plastic spinal column? Actually, it's pretty simple. You'd think I'd be more attuned to specialty pony products, but this one had me stumped at the time. A few more pics:

And, finally, a birthday cake for Sparklemom:

So cute. A good time was had by all!

Off To The Land Of Birther Bills, Gun Nuts, And The War Against The Mud People

This is the first time I've been back since Arizona's craziness kicked into overdrive, but heck, Sparklemom's 80th birthday isn't going to celebrate itself. Leave some best wishes for her in the comments! See you Tuesday!

UPDATE: Arizona Lawmakers Nothing If Not Predictable

Last May I congratulated Arizona Republicans for waging a successful war against the Mexicans they hate so much. "The obvious next step," I wrote, "is "English-only" legislation (again). It's only a matter of time. Jan Brewer's pen is poised and waiting!" Was I just trying to be funny? No, that was a prediction, one given with utmost confidence. A prediction which has now come true.

You Can Take The Man Out Of Arizona...

Proof positive that after all these years, I'm still an Arizonan at heart: I was late for work this morning because I messed up the STUPID TIME CHANGE. It's nice to have at least this one single example to show that Arizona (and Hawaii) can be more sensible than the rest of the country.

Did Sarah Palin Snub Jan Brewer? [UPDATED]

(AP Photo, 02-27-11)

By now, Jan Brewer is back in Arizona. I'm assuming there was a massive ticker-tape parade upon her return. But what happened to her plans to meet with the Sarah Palin? Granted, the news reports which mentioned the scheduled meeting were a little hazy, and Brewer herself never said she was going to meet with Palin,  but as far as I can tell, it didn't happen.

Maybe it did happen and nobody said anything about it? Unlikely. If Jan had basked in Sarah's presence, you can bet the photos would have been up on her Facething fence (wall? Whatever the kids call it) within seconds.

Maybe it was never supposed to happen and people just assumed that the two would meet because why else would Brewer go to Alaska?

Or maybe it was supposed to happen and Sarah had one of her many "Oops, did I schedule that?" moments, only to realize that there she was, off shooting dinner while Jan waited patiently and fruitlessly with her photographer?

I prefer the last scenario, of course. I love the idea of Jan Brewer traveling all the way to Alaska for the sole purpose of getting a photo-op with Sarah Palin, and all she got was some lousy t-shirt.

These questions, of course, will dominate my week. Speaking of questions, go ahead and stare at the photo at the top of this post and contemplate –really contemplate– Jan's hair.

UPDATE: It looks like Jan did briefly enter the orbit of the Todd Palin while "enjoying" the Iditarod. That's close, but no banana.

UPDATE: Interesting that in a blog post at the Arizona Republic about Sarah Palin's choice of Arizona as a possible base for her campaign,  there is the following vagueness:

Arizona Gov. Jan Brewer, who spent the weekend vacationing in Alaska, said she didn't have any conversations with Palin about a possible Senate run while she was in town and that the topic never came up.

Note that the statements above imply that Brewer talked to Palin this weekend without actually stating it. If Brewer didn't meet Palin, the above statements would still be true. Clever! I still find it impossible to believe a Palin/Brewer meeting without photo-ops.

The Way Tucson Works

(Downtown Tucson seen from the SW. Photo via)

I confess that in all the writing I've been doing about Arizona over the last year or so, I have perhaps given the impression that my hometown, Tucson, is somehow above it all, a shining liberal oasis in the midst of an otherwise hopeless (but gorgeous!) state. Tucson, it seems, simply isn't plagued by the idiocy so lovingly embraced by the rest of the Grand Canyon State™.

This is, of course, absolutely false.

When I was growing up, I remember my parents and other liberal adults forever griping about The Developers, meaning the real estate developers. They were to blame for everything. They had the city government in their pockets and over a barrel (Tucson: mixed metaphor city!), it seemed, And the Pima County Board of Supervisors, the real power in the area? Even worse. By the time I got to high school, I came to the realization that The Developers, to be sure, were a fairly evil lot, forever meddling in municipal affairs and sparking ghastly, wasteful boondoggles. On the other hand, I got a little jaded to the constant carping about The Developers, as it seemed like they had become too lazy and easy a boogieman for the University of Arizona set. It seemed to me that the real problem was the politicians: they were ALL financed by and large by the real estate industry, basically the only industry in town, and all too eager to do its bidding.

And that, Pony Pals™, is basically how Tucson works.

Or doesn't work, in the following case. I spotted this excellent article in the Arizona Daily Star yesterday which brought all those memories of The Developers and their double-ouroboros-like relationship with Tucson politicians flooding back to me. Gaze in wonder at the profound ineptness with which the local pols handled what should have been a simple Downtown building project, and gasp in awe at what The Developer gets away with! Truly it is a thing of beauty:

Struggling downtown developer Gadsden Co. hasn't delivered much of anything on our West Side dust bowl. Failing to meet deadlines. Failing to pay $53,000 in property taxes through January. Failing to build what it promised the city.

And yet, the city keeps promising a pot of gold at the end of the downtown rainbow (bridge). The city keeps moving ahead with a big flip that will reward Gadsden with not only some extra cash, but the rights to even more city property.

Gadsden's Adam Weinstein and Jerry Dixon better hustle. Deals like this are hard to pass up.

The city will sell Gadsden property at the edge of downtown for $250,000, and Gadsden will immediately sell the land to another developer for $1.43 million. Then Gadsden will take some of that money and put it back into the property for utility work and site improvements - although Gadsden was supposed to do that kind of work in the first place, and with its own money. The rest of the money, about $500,000, is Gadsden's.

All that and they didn't have to erect a single building! For three years. Good work if you can get it!