So, thanks to the magic of Starbucks and the fine makers of Mountain Dew, I find myself once again in Arizona, a state where -- even in the middle of the night -- the temperatures reach over 100 degrees. Tell me again why I participate in this organized masochism? Oh right... I'm the dutiful son who visits his parents. I've come to the unfortunate conclusion that a good portion of the state of Arizona -- namely anything outside of the metro areas -- smells like manure. I swear, the entire way here, I kept getting the faint whiff of manure through the car vent. And it wasn't that I stepped in it somewhere or that I ran over it and it was sticking to my tire, because I checked my shoes and I could also smell it when I got out of the car and walked far, far away to go into the convenience store or the gas station. The air in the state just... smells like manure. And now, to sleep, perchance to dream... but not about manure. Or that dream where I see myself standing in sort of sun-god robes on a pyramid with a thousand naked women screaming and throwing little pickles at me.