After an unmemorable dinner of salad and pasta at Oregano’s (wasn’t bad, wasn’t impressive), we put the top down and cruised through the streets of Tempe and Scottsdale.

The temperature had dropped down to 95, but with the sun gone and the air blowing through the car it felt like a warm summer night. The feeling didn’t last long – after about ten minutes we had to turn on the air conditioning – although the experience did make me think back to when I was in Texas (Fort Worth) about two years ago. We rode in a convertible then, too, on a hot summer night in a place I’d never been before. Lots of memories of that trip have resurfaced since – pretty cool.

The towns of Tempe and Scottsdale are neat – tons of places to eat and drink, with MLB spring training facilities and Arizona State University right there. There’s a lot going on – and I wish I had more time to check it out – but my time was limited and I was honestly too tired after dinner to venture out for the evening (given the 7:30 a.m. flight this morning).

It was great to see my friend, though, to see her doing well and enjoying the town she lives in. She told me about hiking Camelback mountain and about the 8 months of beautiful weather, and I thought that the Phoenician looked beautiful from the street.

I am definitely going to have to plan another trip down – perhaps a Grand Canyon combo trip.

This morning, I talked with a man in the terminal, and he told me about how he sat next to Gary Payton’s wife on a recent flight to Vegas.

Tell you what – the National Enquirer would kill for the information I now have about Gary and his wife’s relationship.

Not that I would ever sell it to them – in grad school I got in a semi-confrontation with the then editor (no idea if he is still in that position). He came to speak to the class about the work he does, how it’s real journalism, how dangerous the job is. He told a story about when he was hovering over a celebrity wedding in a helicopter, snapping photos of the celebration, and someone open fired on him from the ground.

We were supposed to feel bad for him – shocked even – but instead I told him that perhaps it was an indication of how invasive and disgusting his work is, and how I didn’t think he could hold a candle to any of the writers in the room.

He did not like me very much after that.