On a not-so-recent run to Tucson—my favorite Arizona city—I ducked into another favorite, Antigone. There on the shelf, face out for maximum marketing, was Pig by Sam Sax. Gotta love when they face-out a book of poems! And yeah, I know: only suckers judge books by their covers. But whoever designed Sax’s cover deserves a gold medal pinned to their chest. It made me grab it. Heads up: these poems aren’t for everyone. Take “Pig Bttm Looking for Now”—raw, unflinching, and exactly the kind of poem that makes me lean in instead of looking away. I grabbed Pig for its cover, but Sax’s poems made me buy it.
While scouring my usual places for interesting pictures to post on Instagram, I stumbled on a Man Ray portrait. The subject? Someone I didn’t know: Erik Satie. Turns out he was a French composer—and a full-on oddball in the best way, which is right up my alley. Satie wandered Paris in velvet suits, carried a small hammer just in case (no one ever pinned down what, exactly, “just in case” meant), and kept seven identical grey suits so he could always look like a “priest of boredom.” He collected umbrellas, ate only white foods (eggs, sugar, grated bones, animal fat, veal, salt, coconuts, rice, turnips, pastry dough, and certain cheeses), and scribbled musical directions like to be played like a nightingale with a toothache. And yup, Satie’s streaming everywhere. Even Bandcamp. Right now. On my player.
I’ve talked about Flagstaff before. It sits at 7,000 feet in northern Arizona, tucked into ponderosa pine forests at the base of the San Francisco Peaks. Once a railroad and lumber town, today it’s a mix of college energy, mountain-town super funk, and gateway-to-the-parks tourism. With four seasons—snow in winter, wildflowers in summer—it feels like a different world from the desert where I dwell just two hours south. Back in March I spent 48 hours here. Well—I’m back again now, winding down my week-long road trip. Not many bookshops to duck into; I drink my coffee at Macy’s; and I take my doggo Molly for a walk in Wheeler Park. I could never spend the rest of my life here, and certainly no more than a few days during the winter. But the summer? Just point me toward a cabin within walking distance of my coffee spot and Molly’s park, and I’ll sign the 6-month lease.
Go ahead and think I’m crazy, but yeah—a friend and I brought up Gay Nazis in a conversation today. Specifically, the Brownshirts (SA), Hitler’s original street thugs in the ’20s and ’30s. They wore brown uniforms, roughed up opponents, and helped pave Hitler’s rise to power. Their leader, Ernst Röhm, was openly gay—unusual in Nazi ranks. Plenty of the SA followed suit. For a while Hitler and Röhm were very close. Röhm was useful. And when he wasn’t, you probably know the end of that story. So when a reporter asked The President how he was holding up after Charlie Kirk’s death—and the flippant answer “I think very good” before pivoting to brag about a new White House ballroom? No, the President didn’t have Charlie killed. But of course that’s an absurd response concerning someone who most likely got him to the place he is right now. Which somehow feels like it came straight out of history’s darker chapters. Just like a lot of other things happening right now. So yeah. Gay Nazis.
Thing 5: Pro Wrestling as Modern Folk Theater
The night before I left on this road trip, I shot the 7th anniversary show for Phoenix Championship Wrestling. Sure, we all know people love to mock wrestling as fake and stupid and just guys in tights pretending. But what they miss is the higher thing: pro wrestling as modern folk theater. Oh sure, you’re laughing. But hear me out—it’s a morality play in spandex, storytelling to scream back at (or laugh at), complete with heroes, villains, betrayal, and redemption—all unfolding in a ring that doubles as a stage. Like commedia dell’arte or old morality plays, the characters are archetypes: the cheating heel, the babyface who won’t quit, the crowd deciding in real time who deserves the win. It’s not about suspension of disbelief—it’s about collective belief. And there’s nothing like watching it in person. Of course everyone knows it’s scripted, but for a couple of hours, why not agree to play along? In that shared performance, wrestling feels as old as theater itself.
Leave it to a wrestling-nerd-cum-intellectual-book-nerd to critically think about wrasslin’.
