If I do decide to move my tired, reluctantly yuppie ass right back to Arizona, there are a few things that I’m going to have to get used to that I largely take for granted while living in the polished, comfortable decadence of Newport Beach.

Mullets and general mulletudidness. Arizona is filled with people for whom the trip west has come to a premature end. These people are washed out and craggy, leathery and haggard and raspy from too many 120 degree days and too many Marlboro lights. They are the primer gray underbelly of the Camaro community. And frankly, they look like the heat has finally gotten to their brains. These are the people who work at the 7-11 a few blocks from Sky Harbor, and when you ask them where the onramp to the 202 begins, the first counter attendant has positively no idea, and the second wants to send you three miles and several turns in the wrong direction, when you find out after a quick peek around the corner that the exit is ON THAT VERY BLOCK less than ¼ mile away.

Mini-malls and chain restaurants as far as the eye can see. Like most “new” cities, Phoenix has with very few exceptions, lost its soul to the culture of consumer and the great stucco wasteland of suburbia. Better get used to beige.

The thousands upon thousands of people here who think that this and the brand new Outback Steak House is a good thing. My message to these people: An evening at The Olive Garden does not constitute a cultural experience.

May – September. 122 degrees? A dry heat? Really, at this point, does it really effing matter? Honestly now? At this temperature small dogs and bad toupees can just burst into flames.

Driving. Arizona is a community of Midwest transplants and retired snow-birds, mulleted drag racers and brain dead teenagers, and way, way, WAY too many soccer moms on cell phones in six-ton urban assault vehicles. Add to this that freeways are only a decade old phenomenon and the streets are completely devoid of anything that even resembles a hill or a curve and you have the ideal environment for both vehicular catastrophe and shrieking frustration for anyone who has pumped the gas through the simultaneously glorious and terrible asphalt arteries of Southern California.

I already did all I could to leave here. Almost seems like a step backward if I’m coming back. Psychologically I don’t know if I can take it.

Access. Sure, Arizona has more interesting topographies than nearly anywhere in America, and more individual desert environments than anywhere on Earth, and it does have that little hole in the ground up north, but honestly, between the beaches and the deserts and the Sierras, and the redwoods, and the hill country, and the granite and both the cultural and intellectual hubs of the western United States, it’s really hard to leave California. Add to that cheap flights to just about anywhere, the pelicans that soar inches above the water outside my bedroom balcony and the only place where you can surf, ski, ride, and party in the same day, and trading in that license will be a big, big step. In defense of Arizona, never once have I actually really wanted to surf, ski, ride, and party in a single day. Frankly, my already abused knees are not that young anymore.

Could we do something about the dirt? Seriously people. We have ten times the people and half the litter in California. Clean your goddam town.

Did I mention 122 degrees? I did? Good. It was 88 today and it’s March. March goddamit. March!

Right now I’m on the fence. But if I find the right place for the right price, someplace up in the hills near Pinnacle Peak, someplace where I can watch the celebration of life in the desert night and the sunsets with no peer, when even the sky throws a party after the onslaught of the day, then maybe I’ll find reason to grow out that mullet again and return to my deep and artificially irrigated roots.