Let’s imagine for a moment that you’re in the house of the owner of Arizona’s first Rolls Royce dealer, and after his 89-year-old wife has adequately prepared a bolognese, he wants help getting into his email, as Anthony skipped lunch.

My life is a fucking dichotomy at this point. I have rejected capitalism and am planning a commune, yet I have a soft spot for a multimillionaire who provided a chilled white from the Valais.

Oh, he’s also the honorary Swiss consul. Just another day at the office.

Returning to Arizona has always felt weird because I know why and how I was raised, but it simply isn’t me. Elsbeth asked some question about the artistic director of the Phoenix Boys Choir when I was the soprano soloist, and I ask if she knows Herbie is now running it. Max jumps in and asks what happened to the Austrian, and I’m like “Georg Stangelberger? He was a disaster for the choir.”

Because, you see, I am actually that guy.

I am back in Texas tonight, having negotiated Phoenix roads without actually thinking. I don’t drive in Austin on autopilot, but drop me in fucking Scottsdale and I can debate fine policy points while also knowing I need to be one lane to the left in 1,000 feet.

I don’t like that Paradise Valley is where I simply need no directions. It’s a terribly uppity place now, but it wasn’t when I was growing up.

A.J.'s was not A.J.'s in the '80s. It was A.J. Bayless, and simply a small grocery store, not the absurd monstrosity of expensive food it currently is.

But, you see, that’s where I grew up. It’s just home. It looks really high-end, but the Bentleys are in the garage.

When Elsbeth asked to see where we’d deposited Pop, we had to go up the road a bit to get her a decent view. Via the garage, where of course there’s a Volvo as the daily driver and two Bentleys and a Jag.

Because that’s who I was. And I fall back into it easily. But it’s not at all who I am now.