It’s the kind of town with carefully cultivated, self-satisfied weird, with houses tipping off the sides of the hill and streets named Tombstone Canyon. Roosters crowing in tiny yards fenced with old colorful bottles. A colorful bedroom theatre set on a random gravel lot.


Three road-scarred guys with grey beards and the black bandanas they wear instead of helmets in Arizona stand over their custom Harleys. The one in the middle, with the thin cigar planted in the corner of his mouth, slathers on sunscreen, the same brand I have. Sport, SPF 30, blue bottle. It’s 9am. “Opening the bar?” he shouts down the street.


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