Tonight I return to school.
Josh and I dropped Jonah at Kindergarten and slowly, slowly got back in the car.
“Are we going home?” he asked.
It was a beautiful morning. An actual beautiful morning, residual rainstorm air and dappled sun. As we drove west, back into the Tucson mountains, I waved my arms at the glow of Starr Pass ahead of us.
“How green was my valley, Josh. Let’s drive up A mountain.”
We both desperately needed more coffee. But, it was a go. Turns out, you can’t actually go up A mountain until 9 am, and I had to make a uturn at the barricade. It was 8:45.
“No, wanna eat.”
But, let’s be clear, I basically never want to go home. So, I decided to turn down one of the residential streets with pretty and funky old houses. I have always wondered about them. Often when we are out and about, we point to houses that we need to live in. We found six or eight of them this morning. But, then, at the end of Panarama St. or whatever it is, at a little dead end called Lazy Pl., I found my house.
“Oh god, there it is.”
Panarama St is on the side of A mountain and looks down at the city. The houses there remind me of Hawaii and look like they were mostly built in the late sixties by interesting people. Some are tasteful, like the whitewashed adobe one with exposed beams and a perfect garden. Others are puzzling: a purple trapezoid or a neverending mass of iron gates with ceramic dolphins. My house is the weirdest of them all.
The first thing I noticed were the accent windows on the front. A cluster of rectangles each outlined in bubblegum pink wood. Then, the roof. Also pink and jagged. Somehow we both agreed later that the house brought to mind The Brady Bunch, The Flinstones AND The Jetsons. All of them. Pictures to follow. I think I’ll be going there a lot.
“Do you see the fence? It has metal Aztec warriors on it.”
Josh pointed out on our way back that there had been a van parked there with a dog grooming logo on it.
“What can we do so that we can live there?”
My only idea ever is “art commune”.
“Not really a commercial venture,” he pointed out.
Oh world, what can we do so that we can live in the JetsonsBrady house of Lazy Pl.?
Driving back into our own neighborhood, Josh said “These houses are such slums of the imagination.”
They were houses, on Greasewood, that we used to like.
“Did you say we had pot roast at home?”
No, it’s premade roast beef hash.”
“I was just thinking last night that everything would be better if I had pot roast. I’m glad we have some.”
“It’s not pot roast.”
As we made breakfast and I, once again, fucked up the eggs because I left them in the pan on the burner, we talked about Anthony Bourdain. Why? Who knows?
This is an honest question: Is there anyone in America that doesn’t like Anthony Bourdain? Is he the all-American hero?
In my family, we all worship him. But, as I think about it, I can’t think of anyone ever who has maintained that he is a hack or a jackass or boring or anything like that.
Josh told me that Andrew Zimmern had been a homeless drug addict. I told him that both he and Anthony Bourdain are cancers. This caused him to frown down into the frying pan that he was standing over.
“Why do you know that? Why do you know everyone’s sign? Andrew Zimmern? Really?”
This caused a spate of wikipedia-ing. I was right. We found out that Anthony Bourdain’s “desert island” album is The Stooge’s Fun House.
“Oh!” I jumped up excitedly. “I could live on a desert island with Anthony Bourdain. Especially because I don’t want to have sex with him.”
This leads to the second question of the day. It’s not “why is it a ‘desert island’ and are there such things?”. We covered that. We think people are dropping the ‘ed’ in ‘deserted’.
The question is: “Is it better to be stuck on an island with someone you do want to have sex with or someone you don’t?”
We both voted for the abstinent relationship. It’s easier to imagine being stuck in eternity with someone like Bourdain — sometimes getting together to listen to Fun House, sometimes talking the night away over a fire, remembering our favorite places in the world, sometimes happily inhabiting totally separate parts of the island — than the alternative which would be some sort of hurt feelings/ running up a tree / pelting the other person with coconuts scenario that never ends.