The northern half of Arizona is not a place you want to be at the moment, as large chunks of it have been reduced to a pile of smouldering ashes. To be specific, as of this morning’s scorecard in the (slightly singed at the metaphorical edges) newspaper, an area about the size of Los Angeles is ablaze, 32,000 people have had to leave their homes, and none of it is being contained. You could even see the smoke from downtown Phoenix – not because it was particularly close (despite the note from a British friend, solicitous of our wellbeing, unaware that Arizona is bigger than the entire UK!), just because there was so much of it.

No-one is really too surprised, given the extreme drought conditions in the state this year. Here in Phoenix, we’ve had no rain at all in almost two months, and less than 0.2″ for the year so far. I appreciate that to wet, cold British people (Wimbledon’s on – by logical inference, it must be raining) this would seem like paradise, and indeed it is nice to have reliable weather, where barbecues are no longer a lottery. It does have drawbacks though, such as having to take the car to get washed, rather than relying on a good downpour of acid rain to do the job.

Anyway, the equation goes something like:
           Drought + Timber + Psychopathic Forest Ranger + Conservationists = Inferno.
Some of this may require explanation. One of the biggest fires this year, in the next door state of Colorado, was allegedly started by the forest ranger who claimed to have discovered it. She was apparently burning a letter from her ex-husband. She didn’t do this in the sink, like any sensible person. She did it in a forest. In the middle of summer. Why do I sense there may be more to this story?

As for the environmentalists, accusations have been flying, right the way up to the Governor who suggested, more or less, that if the Forest Service had been allowed to clear out some of these damn trees without hippies setting up home in their branches and holding hands round the trunks, we wouldn’t get such conflagrations. And where’s your goddamn spotted owl now, tree-huggers?

It also gives us another reason to be glad we live in civilization, having recently been toying with idea of buying some land up North, in order to escape the 45C heat. Needless to say, that idea has gone onto the, er, back burner. As indeed probably has the land itself. We appreciate the joys of urban life, such as a working fire service, instead of having to rely on water dropped from a safe height by a passing helicopter.

Besides, any fire here in Phoenix would only get about 100 yards or so, before coming across a fire break cunningly disguised as a car-park. These have approximately one tree per square mile – with four cars clustered around it like camels at an oasis, all looking for the tiniest piece of shade. Still, compared to what’s happening elsewhere in the state, I think we should chalk up yet another reason to pave paradise and put up a parking lot.

You may have noticed the lack of updates here recently – we’ve slipped from once a week to once a fortnight, and we went through the whole month of May without a new editorial at all. There are a multitude of reasons for this – work, other projects, travel and planning for the upcoming wedding – and I should probably warn you that none of them are likely to get better for the next couple of months. Updates will remain sporadic, probably until around the end of August, when we come back from the honeymoon and deal with everything that has accumulated in the meantime.

Such things are an inevitable result of possessing a life, and I amn’t complaining. Well, only some of the time, anyway, when trashcity.com is so busy that the day runs get up, process orders, pack orders, eat, sleep. But then, I’m never satisfied, and we could just as well be teetering on the edge of starvation, with Chris and I having to comtemplate a return to wage slavery. Besides, how many jobs let you work in your underwear, watch Jerry Springer and take five minutes out to go paddling in the pool?

Other projects are twofold. girlswithguns.org, home to a slew of female action heroine pieces, is coming along steadily, with about 30 short reviews and a dozen lengthier pieces. The estimate for its arrival on the Net is around the start of September, though a beta-version may seep out before we go away. I’m also in the process of writing a book on conspiracy theory: it was originally intended to be something like Conspiracies for Idiots, but there ain’t no such animal. Having done the UFO chapter, I’m now looking into Freemasonry. It’s all very interesting, but boy, does it make your head spin.

Travel. Had a five-day trip up the west coast of California, driving up from Los Angeles to Santa Clara for the Conspiracy Con, peeking briefly into Oakland (six baseball stadiums visited, 24 to go). Highway 1 has to be the twistiest, trickiest piece of road I’ve ever been on, largely because Americans are clearly not used to a single lane in each direction with no median. This explains why I had my first experience of coming round a corner to find a psychopath attempting an overtaking move coming rapidly towards me. Two miles later, I had my second experience thereof. I’m sticking to interstate highways from now on.

And, of course, next month I’m getting married. Next month. Blimey. Puts a whole exclamation point on things, doesn’t it? Though it’s both simultaneously an irrelevance, and the most important event of my life. It’s not as if it’s going to make any difference to things, though it will mean I get a green card and become a permanent resident, rather than only getting to stay because I’m an employee of Trash City. Otherwise, it’s actual impact will be negligible; Chris will take slightly longer to sign her cheques, since she’s swapping a four-letter name for an eight-letter one.

And yet…it also acts as me planting a stake in the ground and saying, “This is my life, and it is what I want.” It’s an affirmation of confidence in the way things are; you can walk away from a job or a home, but not a marriage. Chris keeps asking me if I’m sure I want to go ahead, but every day makes me more certain that it makes sense on every level. Mind you, I’ll also be quite glad when it’s all over, but that’s another story! Till then, hope you understand if new stuff here is not quite as regular as it might be… 🙂

If you’ve just clicked over from our review of Jason X, you might be wondering if this is another piece of film criticism. But, no – this is indeed the new editorial, inspired by stepson Robert’s departure earlier this evening for his school prom. This is his first effort at such things – the junior version is really a dress-rehearsal, since he’ll get another in 2003, his senior year, allowing him to make all the screw-ups now, without them really mattering. This is why he is going to the prom with two girls…neither of whom are his actual girlfriend (it’s a long story), and is also why Chris was frantically driving round town at 4pm this afternoon, trying to find flowers.

There was a certain amusement value to be had from assisting Robert – a guy whose idea of dressing up is closer to “clean T-shirt” than “tux ‘n’ tails” – as he struggled with the intricacies of cufflinks, bow-tie and buttonhole. Not that I was much help, having worn a tie of any sort precisely once, I think, since coming out here, and cufflinks are solely part of some obscure genetic memory. I possess a lovely pair of TC cufflinks which Chris had made for me, but unfortunately, possess precisely no shirts with which I can use them. Still, we made it in the end, sending him out into the world looking the picture of elegance – albeit somewhat uncomfortable elegance, running a finger round his collar in an effort to breathe more easily.

The whole prom night thing is terribly un-British, much like the concept of ‘graduating’ from high school – we just tend to walk out and not look back, usually with a thought best summarised as “thank god that’s all over”. I’m a little concerned about Robert, as both graduation day and prom night tend to be associated in my media-influenced mind with some kind of disaster. For example, we have the local mayor turning into a giant snake and eating the pupils (Buffy), a peeved telekinetic wreaking havoc (Carrie) or an upset student coming back to her old school for revenge (Hello Mary Lou: Prom Night 2). In light of events yesterday in Germany, the last plotline seems particularly ominous…

I’m sure no such misadventures will befall Robert, however. Chris would be very upset – not least since we went out and bought a new closet organiser for him this evening. If he gets eaten by a giant snake, she’ll have wasted her time and energy (not to mention a wide selection of colourful expletives) in making it. I hope he appreciates her effort. I confess to feeling guilt at not being in there with her, assisting in the assembly. But her repertoire of curses is far superior to mine, since she possesses an entire second language-worth. So I can see it all going horribly wrong, and even causing a temporary-but-severe fracture in our relationship, which is not something you want when there are power tools about.

Besides, it’s not called “do it yourself” for nothing… 🙂

Until the weekend, I was under the impression that I’d largely managed to sneak under the radar as far as American officialdom was concerned. Sure, I’d had a million and one hoops to jump through to GET here, but now they’d finally let me in, I intended to live a quiet, monastic life. I wouldn’t bother the government, and the government wouldn’t bother me. Unfortunately, someone forgot to tell the court system in Maricopa County, which is why I received a summons for jury service on Saturday morning.

They were clearly keen to have me, and even included a bus-ticket – one-way! – so that not even mechanical failure could prevent me attending. And they were prepared to pay me too: the princely sum of $12 for each day, an entirely appropriate sum given the extent of my legal knowledge is two years spent sharing a flat with a law student.

I have to say, though – my first reaction was “Cool!”. I guess I’d always harboured secret dreams of being involved in a pivotal trial that would change the very fabric of life forever. Of course, the reality would probably involve something very mundane and tedious, involving the theft of a bicycle. But even so, you still hold someone’s reputation in your grasp; would I have the moral fibre to weigh the evidence, make up my mind regardless of external pressures, and live with myself afterwards?

Unfortunately, we’ll never know. Reading the small print, to my disappointment, it stated that all jurors had to be citizens of the United States. Dammit. What about the right to be judged by your peers? Shouldn’t we immigrants be able to face our fellow newcomers, who can understand the pressures and struggle of life in a foreign land? Admittedly, here in Phoenix, this would probably mean a jury composed of six Marias and five Joses, trying to communicate with a very confused Scotsman whose knowledge of Spanish is limited to “dos cervezas, por favor”, but there you go.

Suspect it’s probably a good thing; the risk of getting lumbered with a long trial, at $12/day, was just too much, and I can see why Chris was pleased it was me rather than her that got the call-up. Little wonder the justice system in America is universally regarded as broken; you pay peanuts to jurors, you’ll get a bunch of monkeys. Though it would probably prove quite easy to limit your tour of duty to a single day. Simply adopt the sort of mannerisms which would bring any defence attorney to their feet in an instant, objecting to your very presence in the court building on the grounds it would prejudice things against their client.

Subtlety is not necessary here; indeed, the more you act like a total loony (preferably from the “Kill ’em all, let God sort ’em out” brigade), the better your chances. Talking fervently into space is probably good, maybe with the odd half-heard profanity. Acquire a nervous tic. Address everyone as “your honour”. Carry a Bible. Hey, just use your imagination here – you’ll be home in plenty of time for tea, bus-ticket or no bus-ticket.

The temperature here in Phoenix is rising – 34C yesterday again. The swamp-cooler is going full blast. An ice-cream truck has just gone past, chimes blaring – or maybe these mobile phone rings are really getting out of control. The shorts have been broken out, and all black T-shirts will shortly be put at the back of the closet. What better time to start growing a beard?

Er, or perhaps not. The experiment with facial hair has officially ended, and I have returned to my usual, moderately clean-shaven self. It all began out of sheer laziness, really, simply by not bothering to shave at all. I’ve done this before, but never for long enough to make much of a difference. Most of my facial hair is blond, so it took about a week’s concerted razor avoidance before anyone at all noticed, usually with a quizzical “Didn’t you shave this morning?”.

The sole exception to this is my top lip which, for some reason or other, is dark. So, to actually reach proper bearded status, I had to go through the “slug lurking above my mouth” phase, which was so horrific I never managed it before. But now, being self-employed and working from home, I no longer have to bear the sarcastic slings and arrows of outrageous co-workers – just the stepkids Robert and Emily, and as usual, I just ignore them…

The only person whose opinion really mattered was Chris, my beloved. She was unconcerned by it all, despite her own relentless pursuit of smoothness which goes far beyond mine – need I say any more than “wax” here? – and stood by me through the aforementioned slug stage, till my actual beard became visible to the naked eye. Despite commenting that the photo at left looks like Tom Green, she thought it made me look “mature”, which I felt kinda ambivalent about, since this might be a polite way of saying “old”. Besides, I revel in my immaturity…

There were also more practical problems to be faced. The basic point of not shaving was to save time and effort, but short of letting it all go, I still had to tame the fiddly bits on my cheeks and neck. Given I shave in the shower, without the benefit of my contact lenses or a mirror, it was really one of those disasters waiting to happen. It was surely only a matter of time before a careless slice destroyed the work in progress, and forced me to begin again from scratch.

There was also the problem of food. I really don’t know how bearded people manage to avoid leaving half their portion entangled below their mouths. Maybe this is why there are so many bearded real ale enthusiasts – it’s the only form of nourishment they are physically able to consume. Curry, pasta, virtually all my favourite foods seemed to pose insufferable difficulties, and we’ll draw a veil over the whole Cinnamon Bun Incident, if you don’t mind.

In the end, it was all too much of a cross to bear, and though she professed neutrality, if the truth be told, I think Chris secretly preferred the smoother me. So it came off, and I’m now back to my normal range, between clean-shaven and medium stubbly. And me, I’m looking forward to a LARGE bowl of pasta.