"If ten people told you your house was on fire, you would call the fire department. You wouldn’t really care whether some of them thought that the place would be incinerated in an hour and some of them thought it would take a whole day."

--Elizabeth Kolbert, author of the aforesaid incredibly distressing article on climate change, on the conflicting views on man's role in climate change, in The New Yorker online

Ah, nothing like 97 degree weather at 10 o'clock at night.

Yes, 10 pm.

I hear it's going to be over a hundred tomorrow. But really, it's only a difference of three degrees.

There's nothing like reading an article on global warming when it's 97 degrees outside. You can really feel the noose of catastrophic, irreversible climate change tightening around your neck as you read.

Fortunately, I'm moving to California on Tuesday, so I'll be able to ignore it like everybody else.

You know how the Native Americans in Alaska supposedly have, like, fifty words for snow?

Well, you'd think the inhabitants of Phoenix (I refuse to call the Phoenicians; it sounds too historically important) would have achieved a similar innovation.

But then, they are inhabitants of Phoenix.

But I mean, the heat is too much of a varied and ubiquitous element of life in the PHX to confine to just one word.

Every single gradation of heat should have its own word to describe not only the physical experience of the heat but the human connotations and emotional resonance as well!

There should be a word for cold (60 to 70 degrees), which implies both the gleeful sense of superiority PHXans feel when they think about how cold it is in Michigan and New York City and Boston, as well as an ever so slight impatience for warmer weather.

Then there should be a word for spring weather (70 to 82 degrees), which should suggest its brevity but also its perfection. But it should also have a certain careless disregard, because, hey, the weather's always perfect in PHX, so what's the big deal? Now if you'll excuse me I'm going to go shopping. (Wait, we have weather?)

And there should be a word for the getting-up-there heat (83 to 95 degrees) that conveys a sense of apprehension and a sense of enjoyment that may just be a little forced.

Then there should be a word for 96 to 99 degrees that conveys a certain impatience - ok already, I get the point. I live in the desert. How long does summer last? Til October you say?

And finally there should be a word for really fucking hot (over 100 degrees). Perhaps "reallyfuckinghot" would do. Not that 96 - 99 isn't really fucking hot, but really, a distinction must be made between reallyfuckinghot and just hot. After you've lived in PHX for a while, just plain hot begins to feel pretty refreshing.

Fortunately, the weather the past few days has been gettingupthere to justplainhot, but I hear tomorrow it's going to be reallyfuckinghot.

I hate this state.

Do this! It'll tell you where you are in the political spectrum! Weren't you dying to know? Weren't you?

It's crazy how they can identify me so precisely with only twenty questions:

Most (62%) identify themselves as liberal. Predominantly white (83%), most highly educated group (49% have a college degree or more), and youngest group after Bystanders. Least religious group in typology: 43% report they seldom or never attend religious services; nearly a quarter (22%) are seculars. More than one-third never married (36%). Largest group residing in urban areas (42%) and in the western half the country (34%). Wealthiest Democratic group (41% earn at least $75,000).

Damn, aside from the income, it's dead on.

Identify as liberal? Check. White? Rather pasty actually. Educated? Ivy League, baby. Young? You better believe it. Religious? Listening to religious radio once as I was driving home is about the extent. Secular? Pretty much. Married? Nope. Plans? Nope. Will boyfriend ever settle down? Nope. ... Urban? Eugh. I suppose PHX could be considered urban. As in sprawl. Western? Soon to be coastal, baby! Wealthy? Ha. Ha. Yeah right. They missed the boat on that one: We liberals come from well-to-do backgrounds, so we feel empowered to follow our passion, which usually doesn't pay sh*t. But maybe we come to our senses and go into consulting eventually and I just haven't gotten there yet.

Seriously though. There is nothing I like less than being part of an identifiable group. It's like someone is saying, HEY YOU, YOU'RE NOT UNIQUE! AT ALL! THERE ARE A HUNDRED THOUSAND OTHER PEOPLE JUST LIKE YOU WHO PROBABLY OBSSESS OVER THEIR BANGS AND DRIVE COROLLAS AND EAT A TUB OF MERENGUES FROM TRADERS JOES EVERY THREE DAYS TOO! GET OVER YOURSELF!

I hate feeling un-unique.

In fact, that is why I am anti-PHX. I just put my finger on it today! The problem with Phoenix is that it is general. And I want specifics. PHX would be perfect for me if what I liked best in the world was shopping, eating at Applebee's, spending the weekend at the pool and going out to clubs that think they can charge New York prices. See, that's general. Every goddamn town in America has a mall, an Applebee's, a pool and a hipper-than-thou bar. But, see, I'm UNIQUE. It actually matters to me what part of the globe I'm located on because I ascribe to the quaint notion that different places should be different.

Unfortunately, I seem to be in the minority. But while there still is some identifiable Southern Californian culture left, I'd like to cling to it, thank you very much. I like surf style, a bit of funky artsiness, a dash of intellectual culture, a hint of environmentalism, and an ethic of thinness. Ok, finding intellectual culture in California might be pushing it. But compared to Arizona, the state is a population of geniuses.

You see, California has a definable feel to it: It is what it is. It doesn't play off what it is. It just is that. The only culture in Arizona, on the other hand, is fake Southwestern bullshit that has been manufactured by decorators so they can have a decor theme for the golf course club house. Seriously! Any authentic culture in Arizona has surely gone extinct. Or it's too repugnant to embrace. I mean, I suppose it does maintain a certain "Old West" ethic. There are shootings every day. Tumbleweeds blow through downtown. Its borders are guarded by vigilantes. They're passing a law to permit concealed weapons in public places. People are afraid of outsiders. And they brazenly take the law into their own hands when they step behind the wheel... If there's one thing Arizona has taught me, it's that life is an uncertain gift and you should value every moment of it. You really come to appreciate it when you know you might be accidentally run over by a souped-up F350 on your way to work. (Yes, F350 has become part of my vocabulary. What, you're not conversant in monstrously-oversized-truck-ese?) But as I was saying, a culture of gun racks and Wal-Mart is not my kinda culture.

See, I need to be in a place where I fit in better! Where I share values with my fellow citizens! Where everyone is like me! Where I am like everyone els--

Wait a second.

"Infotainment has reached a new level of ubiquity in an era in which 'reality' television and reality have become so blurred that it's hard to know if ABC News's special investigating 'American Idol' last week was real journalism about a fake show or fake journalism about a real show or whether anyone knows the difference - or cares."

--Frank Rich in "Laura Bush's Mission Accomplished" in The New York Times, May 8, 2005

Thank god for free New York Times online. Otherwise how would I procrastinate when I have to write 2,000 words about the World's Boringest Topic, online registration and attendee management.

Why, yes, I do have the cutest doggy ever!

Snap, snap, snap:

"[Abolitionist John] Brown was devoted to fund-raising and recruiting for his Southern invasion plan, which soon centered on the Federal Arsenal at Harpers Ferry. The plan was hardly well concealed; at some point, it was placed in the hands, through an anonymous letter, of the Secretary of War, John B. Floyd, who, in the great tradition of American counter-terrorism, shrugged and threw it aside."

--Adam Gopnik, in "John Brown's Body," The New Yorker, April 25, 2005