Say Anything in Tucson

Tucson is quiet. Outside of the hotel, while I was looking at the landscape and the clouds meander across the sky, there were a few occasions that all I could hear was my own breathing. It felt like a rare and peaceful time.
Then, I wondered if I was a heavy breather. Is it normal to be able to hear yourself breathing? Damn, Tucson has great clouds.

As soon as I walked out of the plane, I felt as though I'd never set foot in Tucson again. That's a weird feeling. It's like how I've changed my reading habits over the years -- one book to multiple books at a time to dropping books if i'm not interested but only after I've felt I've given them enough of a chance. I used to read everything I started. Time is faster and more limited now. I only have a prescribed number of heartbeats in my lifetime and I can't waste any more of them reading about How Stella Got Her Groove Back. I'm happy for her. But it has nothing to do with me.

That feeling made me anxious to check out some sites before I got back on the plane again in a few days. Unfortunately, I went to Tucson for work and I didn’t have enough time during the day to check out meaningful things.

Does this mean that I'll have to go back against my will?

The taxi driver, on the way to the hotel, was telling me about the Desert Museum. It seemed cool. A zoo/botanical garden/museum run jointly by the American and Mexican government. Also, Tucson has a Titan II Intercontinental Ballistic Missile at their air museum. They also have a lot of pick-up trucks and good salsa. But alas, too much job-related small talk to perform.

I've been to a few conferences this year. Women from the South have sick winks. They do it so naturally. I was talking with a woman that worked for limited brands. She kept on as if I should know what that represented. She told me that limited brands represents the limited, express, and victoria's secret. Before I could drop my factoid about knowing the secret, Victoria's secret , her co-worker came over and started to alpha me. This past year, I've been getting this behavior a lot. Don't quite understand it because I'm not like that.

I'll readily admit that I'm a hypocrite. But, at least, I know I'm capable of hypocrisy, which has to account for something in life. Maybe total consciousness at death?

Anyway, when I got to the resort, i was tired and quickly got tired of people calling me sir. I saw that it was a golf resort which annoyed me even more thinking about the water that's used to maintain a golf course in this secluded desert location. Shaking my head, I went to my room. I peeked into the bathroom and immediately got pumped at the idea of taking a long hot bath. I am an environmentalist only when it comes to boojy sports such as golf and polo and when it doesn't inconvenience me.

So Sunday night, although tired from the day, I decided to rally and get away from the resort. I would make something of Tucson so I wouldn't have to come back. I asked the concierge to recommend something interesting and fun to do. He told me about a half-deserted mall with an In-n-Out and a nice movie theater with stadium seating. I perked up at the thought of In-n-Out but there was no way I was going to go to a half-empty mall.

So I asked the young porters where to go. "4th Avenue is guaranteed fun. Lots of bars and tons of people cruising around," they assured me. That didn't sound that great but it was better than the concierge's suggestion.

4th Avenue was a ghost town. The first bar I went into was a big stupid irish bar chain with a name like Maloney's. I stuck around for a drink and then I started walking.

It was a bit late but this guy stopped me and asked if I wanted to see some art. He managed a community center that rented space to local artists and had concerts occasionally. He was a nice guy. But he had done too many drugs.

There were a strings of these bandannas around. They are found bandannas from border crossings. He pointed to one with dollar bills printed on the fabric. "This one always makes me tear up." It was the exact same print as another one hanging on another string. I didn't press him for clarification. He had done a lot of drugs in his life. That was good enough for me.

As obnoxiously fratty as this street was, there were cool spots like this art center. There also seemed to be some cool thrift stores. The one below had hot armless mannequins.

After walking for a while, I finally found a decent bar. There was live music and a really chill vibe. As if that wasn't enough, there were also a huge pair of lips hanging on the wall.While I was making out with the wall fixture, I heard the band abruptly stop. Looking up, confused, I started to process the fact that everyone was looking at me. I looked down and gave myself a not-so-subtle zipper check. I shrugged, wiped my mouth along the sleeve of my shirt, and asked the bouncer where I could get some food because I was starting to get tipsy.

She pointed to another bar. I left and went the opposite way.

I finally came across a coffee shop. The desserts looked great but I wanted something savory.
Enter large iced tea, wild mushroom soup, and chicken salad sandwich on whole wheat focaccia, and a bag of local jalapeno chips.

The guy behind the counter had something tattooed in huge letters around his neck. I tried not to stare. It was like ordering from a large-breasted woman except instead of trying to avoid staring at mammaries, I was trying to avert my eyes from the "Fuck the World" emblazoned on his neck. That's a scary place to put a tattoo.

The bathroom had a number of stencils. There were two of Frida Kahlo. The one above was the younger version of her. I'd been thinking for a while of dressing up as her for Halloween. Being tipsy and seeing her in a random coffee shop bathroom like this seemed like an omen.

My problem with people that dress in drag for the sake of dressing in drag on halloween is that there is no reason beside shock value. Frida Kahlo would be someone admirable to emulate and , she would work as a costume because of her distinguishing characteristic - those burly eyebrows. But, the thought of having to explain myself all night is tiresome.

Frida, halloween omen, maybe. But then, again, there was an elementary school-aged version of either Charlie Chaplin or Hitler playing the violin as well.