I'm so proud of our Grand Canyon State. Yes, proud!

Seems we have more to boast about than uncontrolled growth and friendly retirement. According to a series of maps on Wired Magazine, we are now a great place for Lucifer to retire—or we must be a vacation destination for him when it's just too hot below.

Evidently when it comes to the Seven Deadly Sins, we're up there in Greed, Pride and Envy, with only a dash of Wrath. I was particularly disappointed in our devilish standing on Lust—we're just a little pink in that sin. The Lust numbers came from STD statistics, and, according to the map, the northeast area of our state needs a Trojan air drop immediately.

Despite some French folks beating the drums of freedom for Roman Polanski, including the country's own president, not every French national is wearing a Free Polanski badge this week.

Polanski has citizenship in Poland and France—but it was interesting to read that his fellow French citizens, according to this piece in today's New York Times, still think it unwise to rush to defend a celebrity who raped a 13-year-old girl (even if that rape occurred in the early 1970s). Perhaps a campaign would be better waged in Spain, where the age of consent is reportedly 13.

C'est la vie!

This is a great opportunity for Weekly World Central to change the blog category "Weird Stuff" to "Holy Shit!"

If you didn't feel comfortable at the HocoFest at Congress last weekend, perhaps you need to make plans to travel to the beeeuutiful town of Tonopah, Ariz., on Saturday, Oct. 24 for Oi Fest II 2009 (see promo above for last year's festivities). Hey, every town in Arizona has something wonderful and magical to offer, and Tonopah is no slouch.

I'd like to think this could be a great idea for a Pepe Le Pew festival. We'd all travel there on Vespas wearing black T-shirts with white stripes down our backs. Sadly, no, this is a rather special festival for those who don't mind being called Neo-Nazis. This is a Neo-Nazi music fest featuring the bands White Knuckle Driver, Slaghammer, Storm Troop 16, White Wash, Max Resist and according to white supremacist Website for Stormfront, there will be more.

If you're interested in tickets ... never visit this blog again.

That other alternative weekly in the city-that-must-not-be-named has a great take on Oi here.

News flash: Levi Johnston, father of Sarah Palin's first grandchild, is going to pose for Playgirl. Read the story here on Gawker.

Unfortunately—or perhaps this is good news—Johnston won't pose showing his privates. What's the point of being in Playgirl? He doesn't seem ripped enough to make other photos worth the newsstand price? This is as disappointing as the HBO series Hung, about a male escort. Female frontal nudity? Yes. Male frontal nudity? No. The guy is supposed to be hung, but

Take a good look at Tom Horne's face. This is the man elected to advocate for public education in Arizona, but it always seems he's more eager to screw public education that advocate for it when it comes to vouchers and legislators.
But after reading two articles recently on school-tuition organizations, it feels like the hounds have been let loose on them—and that feels pretty good.

First the article from the East Valley Tribune, then the Arizona Republic shared more insight into the underbelly of school tax credits—but it was Blog for Arizona's David Safier that brought it all home here. Safier deserves a lot of credit for his blogs on education. Thanks David.

After interviewing Tucson mom Jenifer Darland about the paper trail she uncovered that pointed out major ethics violations of Rep. Steve Yarbrough, it made it seem like the entire school-tuition-organization system is a circus. While I keep cringing at what the two Phoenix papers brought to light—that tax credits are paying for the tuition of rich white kids—I've cringed even more thinking about our Tom Horne. He's been a huge supporter of vouchers - saying this STO system makes public schools stronger.

Wow, how foolish we've been folks.

East Valley Tribune lead:

Only God and the health of loved ones rank higher with Beth and Doug Fitch than an elite education for their two boys.

The $20,000-a-year cost is exorbitant, Beth said, even though the Fitches are both personal injury attorneys and own an Awatere Foothills home valued at a half-million dollars, Maricopa County property records show. But the Fitches haven't had to worry about the bill.

Arizona has paid the price.

You know it's a new world when Tampax introduces a new spokes"person" for its feminine hygiene products. Meet Zack and learn all about this 16-year-old through here.

Evidently, Zack's world, and the world of Tampax, changed when he woke up one day with girl parts and grew an appreciation for those born with girl parts. Zack is 16. I keep thinking about this 1970s show I remember watching during a time we didn't think much about boys waking up with girl parts - James at 16. Imagine an episode in which James wakes up one morning with girl parts. Maybe it would be better for an episode of Three's Company (Jack or Mr. Roper?). Or James and Zack talking to mom and dad about how they always wanted girl parts.

But Zack isn't this new marketing figure invented to discuss gender issues - he's some new 16-year-old cutie made up to sell tampons to 16-year-old girls. Wow. We've come such a long way.

I couldn't let the week go by without props to Anna Mirocha, who delivers an awesome Police Dispatch. I thought last week hit new heights with the "shed fucker," but she topped it with this latest pig caper:

The victim gave sheriff's deputies an envelope containing what appeared to be a typed ransom letter for the stolen winged swine. The letter had been left on the windshield of her car that day, she said. Attached to the letter was a photograph of the ornament, with a newspaper behind it boasting the date of June 7, 2009. The victim thought that may have been the date the pig was stolen.

The ransom letter read: "I have the pig. The one with wings. Yeah, that one. You think you're so smart. Well, so am I. ... Oh yeah, and the pig is really quiet so I can't call you so you can hear its voice. You know, to make sure it's OK. No matter how much I ask it to speak, it just won't talk. So, trust that the pig is OK. Once I know what I want, well, it will be on ... on like Donkey Kong."

It gets weirder.

I was the last real draftsman. Now they all do CAD, a lewd acronym for "computer-aided design." I never learned CAD; refused to learn CAD. I know this attitude ruined my life, but I don't care. I've watched CAD remove the soul from buildings, replace flesh-and-blood people with scale figures, and reduce neighborhoods to parking lots. CAD has destroyed much, much more than I ever have. They should throw CAD in jail, instead of me!

I bet this stinking prison cell was done on CAD! Width of shoulders to be greater than width of windows; surfaces to be continuous; click and drag; click and drag. Believe me, this prison cell is NOT conducive to rehabilitation.

The first time I drove a burning vehicle into a shopping mall, I made a couple of minor mistakes. 1.) I lit the fire in the trunk, instead of out front with the heavy, facade-penetrating part of the car. 2.) I used my own car.

I corrected those errors the next time, and then, too, the last time. In all three cases, the targets of my fiery assaults were CAD-designed shopping mall storefronts. Garish, stupid, stucco things built only, and precisely, to corral gaggles of mindless shoppers to their financial doom! Who wouldn't want to drive a flaming car into that?

Why couldn't my boss just let me keep drafting manually? "There's no time for this type of drawing anymore," she said. "It's hard to put these on disc," she said. "How's Planning supposed to red-line these?" she said. So, I was sent out to shopping mall sites where I measured sprinklers and fire escapes. To be perfectly honest, I suppose that experience did make me a better arsonist.

In my last two mall attacks, the fires spread to other stores. I try to be good at whatever I do. I try to improve; that's just how I am. A local paper reported that my third fire damaged fifteen stores. Gay GAP, Christian Book Censors, and Chinese Plastic Shiny! were total losses, which made it a hate-crime. I'll be in here for a while.

My old, oak drafting table is now collecting mold in a musty basement. My former tools - pens, pencils, triangles, compasses, rulers - are thrift store ephemera. My blueprints must be yellowed and brittle. But, my ideas? They haven't changed. Not at all.

For example, the other day I traded a favor for a box of matches. What did I do with the matches? Did I burn my cellmate's disgusting mattress? I did not. Instead, I cut the soles of my shoes into strips, burned the strips into charred ashes, and rolled the ashes into little snakes using thin leaves from the prison yard. In short, I made my own charcoal sticks, and I've been using them to draft the front and side elevations of Notre Dame Cathedral - from memory! - onto my cell wall.

Believe me, architecture isn't what it used to be.