And I have never been so lost in my entire life.

There was very little English — and I didn’t know what was what. It was merely guess work. But I enjoyed this. I got to look around and explore, but I could only capture glimpses of new things and then move on — lingering was not permitted in this environment, for we were a consistently moving herd of people who never took the time to stop and count calories.

I grabbed some Asian noodles — the kind that I think I liked, yoinked from the shelf because they had the characteristics of the noodles I like at AzN Vietnameese Diner (yes I know Vietnameese noodles should probably not be mixed with Japanese sushi, but what are you going to do when its the son of an Irish immigrant making the meal?).

I then grabbed powdered wasabi, a jar of pickled ginger, and remembered that I already had the brown rice, rice vinegar, carrots, cucumber, avacado and crab sticks at home. I also stood, rather lost, in front of the large selection of nori — those green-black, dried out pieces of seaweed that are used to give shape to the roll. A kind gentleman in a bamboo hat recommended his favorite nori. A trip down the adjacent isle for a bamboo rolling mat and chopsticks, then to the fish counter. I had to stand in quite the line.

There was a language barrier.

After a probably-too-lengthy-then-it-needed-to-be discussion I was handed sushi grade salmon and tuna. It wasn’t marked sushi grade?

“Is this okay to eat raw? Sushi?”

“Yes, yes.” They were smiling.

I got home, and Justin eyed the contents of my grocery bags and uttered an expletive. “Do you want to join me for sushi?”

“Have you done this before?”

“No.”

“It doesn’t say sushi grade.”

“I know.”

“You might die.”

“Possibly. That’s all the reason that we shall drink that much more vodka tonight.”

“I suddenly like the idea of you making sushi.”

“Because I might die?”

“Or drink more.”

An hour and a half later, I had my meal of a California Roll topped with salmon, and salmon sashimi. I had a bite of the raw tuna (I was going to cut it into tuna sashimi) but it was too fishy and I knew that sushi should never taste or smell like raw fish. And the nori had a pungent odor, and made the whole roll something somewhat disappetizing.

But the salmon sashimi, that my friend, was the best I had ever had. I sat on top of my laundry in the plush brown chairs that once sat at the old Gilbert & Baseline Starbucks, and consumed two servings of salmon sashimi dipped rather generously in a wasabi-soy mixture. Justin sat across from me, quietly and curiously observing, wearing the bright red “Coca-Cola” in Hebrew shirt that I brought him from Jerusalem. “That is the grossest thing I’ve ever seen you eat, Will.”

The cat then left his side and sat next to me. She understood me.

There’s also a piece of the Trade Center down there as well.

I won’t be going, but if you do, be sure to save your money for the $25 souvenir t-shirts and $10 souvenir postcards.

As one east coast friend exclaimed to me earlier today, most New Yorkers in the Trade Center on 9-11 would probably puke both at the level of self-masturbatory, obligated regalia that we have attributed to this event and the commercialism thereof.

Be sad, never forget, love, hold one another … but continue on with life at the same time. What happened was terrible and tragic, and perhaps we should take a drive down to the lake to remember, but let us know that those who actually lost their live that day probably wouldn’t want it as such. You have an advantage. You were not there. Take advantage of freedom and liberty, until the scare tactics employed on us are removed due to the events of that day, in the name of security.

In the very most, visit Tempe. In the very least, stay home and do not embrace those (i.e. CNN Pipeline) who like to use this occurance to point to themselves rather then the lessons learned that day. The best tribute you can give these people, if you feel one needs to be given yet again, is to live life and embrace it for what you have.

You have an advantage. You were not there.

I’ll admit, it caught me off gaurd. And my windshield wipers still don’t work. But hey, it was only the I-10. What’s the worst that could happen?

In downtown we bummed around Roosevelt and ventured into the galleries — including the one that the City of Phoenix condemned half of last month, and the other ones that closed early now — 8pm — because city fire code recently reemed the owners for exceeding maximum occupency every First Friday (so long Eye Lounge and The Modified). We crossed Roosevelt and watched two young, semi-nude college students dance in a window with Samurai swords to pounding Japanese music until a cop came by and warned them of indecent exposure laws.

An hour hour later we searched up and down Garfield, Central, and Roosevelt for the ravers, the flame throwers, the sword-swallowers, the bands-in-the-back-of-pickups and the Goth magician who would contort his body out of 400 pounds of steel chains. We searched for the First Fridays that we knew of last summer. We didn’t find a single one — but we did find plenty of officers to check the contents of any styrofoam cups we might be carrying (nevermind our flasks of vodka poured into a cherry icee), and every other car that passed down the main drag behind Westward Ho was a patrol car.

Oh — at last! — at last! — c’mon — a crowd has gathered! A street performer! We spent twenty minutes watching a man walk on glass and break out handcuffs, perform tricks of physical skill and entertain the crowd with quick quips. But then three police cars pulled up and six cops in riot gear flooded out and surrounded us on the dirt lot of Roosevelt & 1st Street with our Goth makeup, as one officer approached the magician and asked to see his performance permit, which he was without. We were then commanded by the fine folks of Phoenix Police to remain where we were, and that we were all to be cited for our disorderly gathering. The men in riot gear then huddled, and many of us slipped back onto the quiet and over-regulated city sidewalks while scenes from “V for Vendetta” and the government’s most recent faux “Oh Look! Terror Thwarted! Aren’t You Lucky You’re Protected? Oh By the Way, No More Toothpaste on Airplanes” played in our heads.

But then we were all freed and our lemon drop martinis consumed and we could be free to gather around and fucking dance. And talk. Within the confines of Tranzylvania, we watched as the clock struck midnight and the red-and-black decor gave way to Underworld Goth, and the vocals of Trent Reznor were followed by the chords of Tool and the warning pleas of an over-governmentalized society were sung by Marilyn Manson; and the warnings fell on anything but deaf ears.

We drove to Val Vista & Baseline instead, knowing it has the best sushi closest to our house, and we picked up rainbow rolls, tuna shashimi, unagi, and salmon wrapped atop a spicy tuna roll, and we also chipped in for a Japanese vodka, made from rice, that taste of saki. Back home and the Smirnoff is set aside, our homosexual drinking tendencies having graduated to the more expensive vodka and Patrone tequila.

The next morning I step out at 6am and am continually fascinated by the Arizona sky. Every sight line is a different hue, and the rain is out over Ahwatukee and the clouds seem to settle on the Supersitions. Beems of light, the sun peeking through, are still visible from the east but the clouds continue to roll in from the west.

Two hours later I walk along 32nd Street with Sirena, and we discuss the latest events at Transylvania and Club Hell in Phoenix, and she tells me of her latest experiences go-go dancing for the Phoenix goths. She tells me more stories about parking in a lot and walking past Amsterdam’s in her go-go outfit and all the gay bois out on the street telling her how gorgeous she looks.

We stop and each take a deep breath of the Phoenix air, and it no longer taste of jet fuel from Sky Harbor, but rather the warm, salty essence of a storm rolled in from the west coast. She says “Fisherman’s Wharf” at the same time that I say “SOMA” (South of Market), and we both agree the air taste of San Francisco.

And I enjoy the Phoenix storm, the lightning in the morning and the salty air, and we walk back into our building and continue our work, waiting for the next opprotunity to ditch the indoors and go skipping in puddles of water, down the street as the trucks roar pass and the airplanes come overhead.

My hatefullness of the heat has gently decomposed into an apathy and I no longer dislike Arizona but instead find myself quite happy, even though in the back of my mind I briefly take trips to the east coast, and decide that I’ll explore there next as the west coast has grown old to me, for now. I put The Wallflowers on the outdoor speakers, and watch the sun finish its rise above the Superstitions, and the haze comes through the pathwork clouds gently, although it is only a few steps away from the gray glare that might require sunglasses.

An hour later I am speeding down the US 60, on my way to south central Phoenix for four or five hours of overtime to make the money that is needed to buy bread and eggs, but with a short stop planned at my lover’s place of employment to say hello and add iced coffee to my veins. A mile before my exit, a piece of silver — something — is kicked out from the car in front of me and I cannot avoid, lest making friends with a concrete wall or an eighteen-wheeler. A split second later my car jerks to one side and my already broken mirror scrapes the beige wall of the freeway, and I almost overcorrect with a sharp jerk to the left as my fender briefly comes under the cargo to my side, before a happy medium is found. Pieces of my tire rattle then shoot out from underneath my car and I see them in the rearview.

My spare is flat and the tow truck on the way, and I call my friend in Los Angeles to kill time, and he is quiet. He tells me that the night before last, his friend, Dave, fought to make his torso free from the burden of life by laying his head on the railroad tracks heading out from the ship docks in Long Beach. My friend went to drive to the spot but only got as far as the bridge of the 710 going over the channel, and I tell him I know the place. The bridge I am now standing under at Gilbert Road doesn’t seem as threatening anymore, and my problems not as bad, but that is the typical response.

I don’t want to understand his pain in the City, but I don’t tell him that five years past now I still can’t stop and walk past the apartment complex at Gilbert & Brown and not think about those who didn’t have the choice to live, who had to die by another’s hands because it was dictated. You killed once but robbed more and they eventually caught you in Los Angeles, at the same crackhouse hotel where I had a knife held to my own throat once, pressed against a wall, but you befriended here in Mesa and took from others what you could not earn for yourself, and stabbed and bled the one whom you took it from. And it seems to be a yearly tradition, again, five years now, that every autumn or winter I run into your dad at Wal-Mart and he pretends it’s all okay. Todd, I can’t bring myself to tell him that it’s all okay, because you and I both know it never was.

“You lived down here?”

“For a month.”

“What happened?”

“Kicked out.”

“By whom?”

“The others.”

“Oh.”

We split and we dine on a 42nd Street, a hot sandwich made with breaded chicken and pastrami, and the ecletric of Tempe and the Polo Shirts of our company and other companies filter in and out. Across from us sits IT technicians, and they have the faded sleeve tattoos and facial piercings surrounded by middle-aged fat that betell of a past self that would have probably commited suicide if they could see themselves now.

We eat and leave, we make a quick stop at Hardy, and Vo and I stand in line at a counter-service Starbucks, and the misters only help to make it more humid. A bicyclist gets hit as a car comes to a halt and ruber is inhaled, and an old woman screams. The man fancies himself an Armstrong and gets up in his tight blue racing suit and runs off, no one knows to where. The bike is in his tow. I am glad he wasn’t hurt more seriously, as I would have felt an obligation to help, but would not have.

A Springsteen song comes over the outdoor speakers at Starbucks, and I recognize it as a favorite of my east coast lover who captured my west coast heart. With Devils & Dust we grab our drinks, Vo her macchiato and I my iced quad venti vanilla latte, and we walk past the Israeli diner we ate at two days before.

“You ever eaten there, Will?” Vo points to the Ethiopian restaurant on the same corner.

“Once.”

“Good?”

I don’t have the heart to tell her that there is a reason that the Ethiopians starve.