“Sedona is definitely becoming a place for the haves, not the have-nots”

Well for piss-christ‘ sake, name me one (scenic) place that isn’t.

Maybe in the flyover states. Bye, down there. Not compelling. We’re going to the coast, to buy up every inch of coastline, every single slice of view. To the Southwest as well; if it’s dramatic and we can build—we’re there!

When I first moved to backwoods Sonoma County, the squash lady still sold zucchini from her open trunk. The husband came out from the shade of the Tip Top (a bar) to handle their infrequent transactions. She remained in their ’53 Chevy, with the curb doors open all day. She and her chihuahua. A chihuahua was pretty much de rigueur for old ladies—understandably, every other source of love having dried up and blown away. Nothing ridiculous about it, then—not so terribly long ago—for this was before Irony, and its evil twin Cool, crept out from the city, infecting minds and personalities just as surely as creeping bunch rot infected the old vines.

By the time I left, a runway for private jets was being bulldozed up near the dam, the dark strips of turned earth—although I cannot believe people really understood it—like signals to the heavens, Come. Take our way of life.

And I must say, with all ramshackleness wiped away, the valley did look good. Prenaturally so. That seamless perfection that only real money brings, the wall-to-wall chic that reassures the rich, leaves them undisturbed in their dreams. Pretending that life is like this—as so it must seem, when all you do is alight. From jets, from limos, from Lexus SUVs. It must seem as though the plaints of the poor and disenfranchised are somehow … made up. Unreal, and rather annoying. What’s more, you yourself are rather special, hence quite deserving of the hypnotic stream of goods and places money buys.

Such is—or should be—the stuff of revolution. One way or another, so it will.

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