Ukulele Catfish Keith playing kazoo and ukulele in Tucson (click the link on the left to watch the video) at the 4th Avenue Winter Street Fair. That’s where we found ourselves this weekend to escape the ever-present global warming condition of boredom that has overtaken Phoenix. Maybe with excessive heat and dry summers where monsoons no longer find enjoyment in dropping their rain on the curmudgeonly people of America’s fifth-largest city, the folks that live in the northern desert have had the love of life baked out of their ever-shrinking raisiny minds?

From the size of the crowd and the conversations eavesdropped, it was obvious that many a Phoenician had the same plan of action we did – get out. Just two hours south and funk has been put back on the map. Where has all my conformity gone? Why have they allowed these old shops to remain open with independent owners trying to sell their inferior American-made crafts and services that went out of style so long ago? We people from the north cannot even remember if a product of this type really ever existed. We strode for hours through these crowds without a single chain store in sight; it was Depravity Day in Tucson.

What, hippies? Long hairs playing instruments in the fashion of buskers on the street making music? What’s next, Tucson, love-ins, marijuana, art movies, CULTURE??? I saw no less than a few policemen walk right by this guy without even pausing to throw him the evil eye. Well, trust me here, and believe me later, in my mind’s eye, I spit on this girly man with the fake mustache. People from Phoenix would never stand for this kind of decadence. I think it’s high time we slice off the good state of Arizona south of Casa Grande and give it to Mexico.

Ok, I think I’m starting to get into the vibe as the day got later, but as evidenced by this photo, I am starting to believe that there must be LSD in the water because not only did we not drive right home, but even the photos I was taking began to disembody themselves from my view of reality. What was Tucson doing to me? Could it have been that girthy wiener of considerable heft that Joe and I had gladly stuffed between our lips earlier – each our own, mind you, as I wouldn’t be caught dead sharing a wiener with Joe, or any other man for that matter? That must have been it; we’d been drugged by an evil $8 wiener laced with god knows what. How else could someone justify charging that much for a dog?

And then it comes on hard. The world blurs out, and trails radiate in pulses with cascades of flowing color. The human form shifts and goes all monsterish. Rainy’s teeth elongate before her clothes morph into a latex body wrap that starts doing its own thing that is better left untold due to its rather exotic nature that should only happen in the world of dreams.

No, Joe, not the eye of the crab. I don’t want to know what comes next. White light has already started flowing from his left ear and cheek; his one good eye is talking to me in silent acknowledgment that in seconds, what is about to come next will “Belie Urgency’s Known Arcanely as Kata-Eugenics,” loosely translated as “he who gives false impression of the need of man to exercise the rituals of improving the hereditary qualities of his breed through coming to grips with the crab claw of life-giving waters” – who comes up with this stuff? I scream, dude, I’m not into your modern primitive, pierced, and tattooed culture just let me go.

Next thing I know we must be on the elevator to hell because this journey to Tucson shows no mercy in where it is taking me. Into the bowels of Satan’s lair, we descend. For this brief moment prior to what will likely be considerable pain and discomfort, life feels normal. The stainless steel box is plain. There are no adornments or weirdos here with us. But unlike in Phoenix, where, if we were going to hell, I would think would be warming up, it is strangely cool, pleasant even.

The doors open to a retro black-and-white world Joe and Rainy seem familiar with; they call it the Surly Wench. Music blares from the past; is that Siouxsie and the Banshees? No one listens to Siouxsie and the Banshees anymore. Oh my god, the Clash??? The walls are painted black, there are no energy drinks, and people are drinking beer. I think we even passed a jukebox – WHAT IS THIS PLACE?

Walking outside helps, not a squat; it may have made matters worse. Joe is playing pool, and so is Rainy, since when does my wife play pool? Sure, she has a crap form, but my nerdy knitter has given up the needles, which would make for poor cue sticks, and has firmly grasped the shaft and butt and is aiming the tip at the cue ball. We don’t play pool, what’s next, World of Warcraft?

I think the worst of being in Tucson might be approaching an end; tater-tots, hot and greasy, have been delivered. Who knew that those little tater-tots could taste so good? Better order a second basket. The music hasn’t improved a bit; nostalgia is not my cup of tea, and the devil must know it. Is this Peter Murphy we’re listening to?

I stopped to take Caroline’s and my photo. If this is not truly hell but a reversal of time where nostalgia travels into what was painted in black and white, maybe in the photograph, I will see that I am getting younger and thinner. Strange, I look happy down here, but am certainly not younger, not thinner, and not only is the hair still gray so is the rest of me. Except for those red glittery shoes, I suddenly become aware of down on my feet under the table as I begin to tap them…

We are teleported back to reality, where we don’t find ourselves in Kansas but at The Loft Cinema. Stepping inside, we buy tickets to the next movie about to play, which just so happens to be Duke Mitchell’s Gone With The Pope from 1976. Far-out movie for a far-out day if you ask me. OK, wtf, is it legal to laugh at this stuff? Whose crazy idea was it to drag this movie out of the toilet of nostalgia? Grindhouse Releasing must be Tarantino. Nope, this masterpiece of exploitation was resurrected by Sage Stallone and Bob Murawski – that’s right, the same famous Bob Murawski who edited Spider-Man 1, 2, and 3. I’d like to tell you about the scene that references Brillo pads or the one where our hero is going to take vengeance for Nazi atrocities, but those guilty laughs are better experienced by the intrepid moviegoer who isn’t standing in line for the midnight opener of Twilight. Not bad for our first day in Tucson.