My Mother's Car

We put the top down at the stoplight before we get to the highway, since "What's the point of driving a convertible if you're not going to use it?" as Katie says.

But once we're on the highway, the romance wears off fast as the wind whips our hair (especially Katie's long, thick hair) into rat's nests and furious knots. Plus you can really feel the speed at which you're barrelling down the road when you're actually able to clock the windspeed on your face.

Then there's the people driving even faster than you, the speed demons screaming down the left lane beside you, the whine of their motors and the reeeeen of their tires as they shriek past calling out "death, death, death," right next to your head in your low slung convertible, barely something to notice before they're here, there, gone.
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One year ago: I'm Only Six Four, Tops
Two years ago: We Know Our Own
Three years ago: Tempus Fugit
Four years ago: Maybe I'M The Problem.
Ten years ago: She'll Be Coming Round the Mountain

Tadpole Ln and Crystal Stream

After driving in what I'm pretty sure is the right direction for about a half-mile, I realize I have no idea where I'm going, so I pull over into a driveway blocked by a gate with signs that read "DANGER - HIGH VOLTAGE" all over it. I need to think.

Getting to the smoothie place was easy, but it was only when I was on my way back that I realize that driving to "Current Location" to get back to my parents' house isn't going to work, since my "Current Location" is currently the smoothie place, and I have no idea of my parents' actual address.

I start to panic, until my brain coughs up the names of the cross streets, names unusual for being so water related in a land so void of moisture of almost any kind, as if they were less descriptive than aspirational.
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One year ago: Don't Look Away
Two years ago: That's On Me
Three years ago: Who Knows How She Knows
Four years ago: Comments On The Bukowski Documentary
Ten years ago: We Gotta Get Out Of This Place

Shooting Script

"I'm a New York liberal shooting a gun for the first time," I tell the gun range monitor as I return the target to him at the office, "and I just wanted to say thanks for taking care of us."

"Well, I'm a Nevada conservative who voted for Trump out here every day," he replies without a hint of a smile, "and you're quite welcome."

We drive out of the clustered dirt berms separating the lanes where people come to shoot, and back to the highway where we drive back to Vegas surrounded by creosote and scrub brush beneath a dusty blue southwestern sky.

"This looks exactly like where they shot 'Tremors,'" Katie says, gazing out the window.
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One year ago: Shower Talk
Two years ago: Back to the Grind
Three years ago: Innocent in Dreams
Ten years ago: Hell is Other People (Booking Your Air Travel)

That Cold Thing

While Katie goes inside with the dogs, I get out of my parents' hot tub and stand on the flagstones of their back patio, staring up at what stars I can see.

The desert air is cold, all the day's heat having dissipated up into the sky, and my skin steams like my breath as I find Sirius, Betelgeuse, the Pleiades, all my favorite stars and constellations. The chlorine from the water tightens my skin and stings my eyes.

I stand stoically for a while, pleased with everything while the hot tub burbles happily to itself, but when Katie comes back out, she says, "Are you doing your cold thing in your parents backyard?"
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One year ago: Turbulence
Two years ago: An Ill (-ish) Wind, Pt. 2
Three years ago: I Am Known
Four years ago: Home
Ten years ago: Mexi-can or Mexi-can't?

Revolver

Before dinner, each of us takes turns holding my brother-in-law's gun, a new .357 Magnum. It is a clean, heavy piece of mechanical technology, and its burnished steel parts move smoothly and quietly, like a well-made steam engine: both anachronistic and beautiful.

As I pass it to Katie, I'm reminded of a conversation we had many years ago with my mom about gun ownership. Katie spins the cylinder, which blurs silently, then, with a flip of her wrist, snaps it back into the body of a gun, where it settles with a satisfying click, and then she gives a big smile.

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One year ago: Lazy

Two years ago: If Someone Tells You They're Crazy, Believe Them

Three years ago: Teach Me To Just Shove Things In My Face

Four years ago: What Else Are You Gonna Do In Sun City?

Ten years ago: Absolution

Psychos With Touchscreens

Katie motions me to look between the seats to the video screen of the person sitting in front of us on our flight to Vegas. "This woman has only looked at ten seconds of, like, forty different movies for the last three hours," she says with a look of horror.

"I'm not sure what I think is cooler. That she did it, or that you paid attention to it long enough to figure out what was going on," I say, laughing.
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One year ago: No Sidewalks
Two years ago: The Holidays Bring Up Feelings
Three years ago: Smart Dog
Ten years ago: Melancholy Christmas

Soup

"Mushroom barley soup saved my life," I tell Katie, ladling the stuff into a paper cup. It's three PM and we're at Whole Foods by Union Square, looking for food, since I haven't eaten anything since late last night.

"I was starting to get sick at work," I continue, "and I ate some mushroom barley soup and I instantly felt better on, like, a cellular level."

A little later, she's standing at the window, taking a panorama photo of the park where we've spent every single day for the last month, and she slowly moves her phone from left to right over the landscape where thousands of shoppers buy last minute gifts for the holidays.
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One year ago: Flying Home
Two years ago: What, 'cause She's Black?
Three years ago: An Antidote for Smells and Bells
Four years ago: A Gnostic Christmas