Every time I cross the border into Arizona, my homestate starts crying out for me. Coming into Phoenix, I feel a great emptiness.
I hate it here. I want to go back.
Some might be surprised to hear that. Miss California? That state I so strongly condemned, going so far as to wishing it would be capsized in the Pacific? Wasn’t I happy here in Arizona?
Any comparison will have to be limited. While I’ve been to about half the states in the country, spending a few weeks or more in a handful of them, these two southwestern states have occupied most of my years. And when I say “Arizona,” I really intend to make the same mistake as others, referring to the county which houses almost 70 percent of the population – Maricopa, the fourth largest county in America. It’s often called “Greater Phoenix.” That’s my home, although I dread admitting that as much as I did with California.
Only recently did it occur to me as to how little this place has to offer, almost like I’ve been lying to myself for three years. For all that time, my reasoning was: “At least it’s not Pyrite State.” I think a switch got flipped in my brain last summer, a circuit that got fried in the homicidal weather.
But it’s not merely the intolerable heat. It’s more than that, for this must be the only part of the country whereby I can drive for miles and miles – that endless urban sprawl – and see absolutely nothing that catches my attention. The landscape fails to draw me in. “What an awful place,” I’ve concluded.
Wanting comfort that I was not alone in this feeling, I searched online for critiques of Phoenix. They weren’t hard to find. The comedian Tim Dillon claims that Arizona is the “worst state in the union,” saying that its residents live in a “giant litterbox in hell.”
As soon as I saw those clips, I understood what he meant. Rock, dirt, and cacti: these don’t bother you right away, but eventually it becomes a strain on the eyes. The vegetation always looks like it’s dead and dying – which it is, because that summertime heat pulverizes the landscape. Now I feel that, all my life growing up in California, I was taking advantage of green trees and grass – something not appreciated until you no longer see it every day.
Here, all the fields are yellow, making it look like straw. This is the perfect companion for the wispy, skeletal trees, which almost appear white. It figures that if the foliage looks like this, the rest of the energy has also been sucked dry. If you ever appreciate the sight of a misty green hillside, don’t expect to see it Maricopa.
“It's a desert!” they’ll yell.
Yes, but it’s also a metropolitan area (whoever the fool who decided to build a city here) and we’d hope there to be water to nourish some greenery.
Not so.
Our water crisis is a source of constant anxiety. We’re in a perpetual draught, with some claiming that Phoenix will one day become the world’s largest ghost town. The continued influx of people, plus the record lows of rainfall, will soon spell doom. That’s when we’ll read headlines about Arizonans who see drops coming out of their facets. Until then, only the most expensive properties can maintain the smallest patch of green grass, and when you see it, it’s so vibrant and striking that you almost feel the urge to get out of the car, stand on it, take a picture, and send it to a friend. Any such picture would certainly be more impressive than all those “it’s a dry heat” postcards you see at every Walmart and gift store.
The roads are another eyesore. While the freeways might be less congested than California’s, the street traffic is almost comparable. Worse, and more insanely, the city planners like to start road projects and then sit on them for months, if not years. They block off entire lanes, forcing drivers into the other side of the street. You’ll be driving down the street and suddenly realize that you’re inside of a maze of orange cones. Driving the same street the next day, you’ll notice that you’re now on the opposite side, wondering if you had obeyed all the small “stay in this lane” signs, and hoping that another car doesn’t smash into yours. It’s no wonder there’s so many more accidents in this area.
Then you’ll search in vain for any sign of work or construction, and if you do, it’ll be one or two orange vested men lounging on the sidewalk, staring into their phones.
This you’ll do for block after block, and mile after mile; black concrete and beige everything else; cactus and dead trees upon the dirt; strip mall – then another Circle K.
The residences give off a similar identicalness. The only variety comes in the form of the gated communities, which are interspersed throughout; inside, you’ll witness the simulacra of a green suburb, complete with fountains, clean sidewalks, and fake grass. Everywhere else outside, the homes either look cookie-cutter, or something like rundown shacks.
In short, the area looks like a giant strip mall superimposed upon the desert. Bridges and buildings which would impel a second glance cannot be found.
To my mind, the whole place appears soulless, sterile, and flat.
And for all the trouble of traversing through this sprawl, mazelike with the cones and cars, the sameness of it all, there’s scant little in means of entertainment. I don’t need rollercoasters every day – one needs an admission ticket to get inside my car – but there’s simply not much to do.
Where would I take my much-needed long walks? Where are the parks featuring nicely paved pathways alongside grass and water? Why did it never occur to me that this place is sorely lacking in these niceties? The best we have is Tempe Lake, with a lengthy path that supposedly takes one all the way into downtown Phoenix. This is nice-enough, but from where I live, it’s a 20-minute drive on the freeway.
The rest of the place is dotted with those tiny so-called “green belts,” which can be found every few blocks tucked within any decent sized residential neighborhood. That’s no kind of equivalent. We walkaholics find ourselves without options, and must make do with the dusty sidewalks, which often end abruptly, taking us into the rocks and thorns.
This would explain why I see so few walkers. Where are my fellow Arizonans? The implication is not one of underpopulation. Phoenix continues to get more bodies and more cars. The people are just…not here. This is the most awkward, insular, and grumpy population that I’ve ever lived amongst or encountered. I saw one Redditor say that it was as if everyone here is in the Witness Protection Program. Everyone is so withdrawn. I’m not saying that everyone here is meanspirited or seething. They’re just aloof, emotionless, and impersonal.
How come? We can find plenty of studies spanning a small number of decades in which it is found that Arizonans are generally a dumb and uneducated lot. Other studies say that Phoenix has some of the rudest people in the country.
There could be another reason. If community can be given a definition that implies family roots, then here, beneath the rocky earth, we again come up short. “Everyone is a transplant,” goes the line.
However, I’ve chatted with a few native-born Arizonans, albeit most of them seemed younger. I’m wondering if that means others had fled, managing to save up enough to move out of their homestate, leaving them with a nasty chip on their shoulder that will be brandished anytime someone mentions the “48th State.” Remaining are those of us who’ve realized, far too late, that we were sold a dream that is really a nightmare.
If none of these criticisms are satisfactory, I can offer theories about even more sinister plans unfolding in my state. Because if there is a technocratic elite – and I think there is – then it would appear as if they’ve set up shop in Greater Phoenix, as it’s filling up with those “advancements” that we should warn against. For one thing, Phoenix is one of the main cities for driverless cars; secondly, I’ve come across small robots doing security rounds in Tempe; there’s an abundance of high-tech radio towers; all this road work – surely some kind of “road diet”; and, last but not least, Elon’s Neuralink trials taking place at the Barrow Neurological Institute. If America is ever to have “15 Minute Cities,” Arizonans will be the first to get them. The dumb and apathetic populace will make the best guinea pigs.
Hunter S. Thompson once said that if there was a hell, it would look a lot like Phoenix:
“a clean, well-lighted place full of sunshine and bromides and fast cars where almost everybody seems vaguely happy, except those who know in their hearts what is missing.”
While the good doctor has a point, I’m not even vaguely happy.
In fact, I’ve grown so hateful of this place that the only time I can actually tolerate being here is when I’m out Door Dashing in the middle of the night. Unlike California’s streets, which, no matter the hour, always have a few cars on then, the streets here are completely empty come sundown. Even better, the towns get pitch dark. In other words, I only like Greater Phoenix when I don’t have to see it.
Moving quickly across the cracked concrete streets, with the barren trees and flashing cones whisking by, all while dropping off fast food in these lonesome hours, I imagine myself inside world 3 of the original Super Mario Bros game. I acknowledge this as an attempt to further disconnect from my area, anything to make it slightly more bearable.
Anything I can do to take my mind elsewhere.
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Otherwise, check out one of my publications from Stairway Press:
Staying ON During the Great Reset
Indictments from the Convicted
