Ahwatukee gets the shaft
I attended a meeting June 17, wherein Sal DiCiccio, a Phoenix councilman that is running for re-election spoke to us. The councilman spoke of his plan to open up Loop 202 as possibly a "parkway," and said it would be similar to Chandler Boulevard! No kidding, and he is going to get this done ASAP, and he said that ADOT has the money!
This was quite an announcement coming from someone whom is supposed to be representative of Ahwatukee interests, which he has ignored for Laveen's benefit. Isn't it amazing that he wants us to vote for him, he is going to ram 202 down our neighborhood without any desired benefit to Ahwatukee, but with plenty of detriment. A listener in the audience pointed out to the councilman that her home value will now fall much more than it already has.
If the residents of Ahwatukee support this candidate in the election we will insure we get a huge share of truck traffic and air and noise pollution. Laveen will get the gold mine, Ahwatukee gets the shaft
Joe D. Campbell
Everything got dim, then...
On Monday, about noon, I was pouring another half-glass of Tropicana orange juice, lots of pulp, when I noticed the kitchen lights becoming dim. In semi-darkness, I wandered to the patio glass doors and noticed the sun was dimming, too. Then the thought struck me that maybe it was me that was dimming.
Fortunately, I was standing next to the over-stuffed sanctuary chair, and with no known effort on my part, collapsed into it, synapses suggesting that any minute my lights may permanently go out. My final wish is that Vicki could hold my hands to give me courage, as she has done for 44 years, and that Sydney, my little love, and Cole, my cave dog, were there, too. Vicki was at work.
I had my cellphone on my belt and, oddly, the battery was not dead, and the thought occurred to call Vicki, but the dogs were with me, and why interrupt her day. Thanks to plugged arteries, I have had an adventure with death, yes dead, once, and I saw no heaven, no hell, no bright lights, not even blackness. A critic said that was because I hadn't been dead long enough. Either that or neither wanted me. Jane K., star employee at Bashes', later suggested that I may have been in purgatory. Well, HOA rules make ideal substitutes for purgatories. Worse is ARC, the Ahwatukee Recreational Center, which gouges you $400-plus annually, even when you don't use the facilities, and no escape. I find the principles of the masters of ARC repulsive. Forgive me for the diversion.
Anyway, although I imbibe only at dinner, I remembered that I had a half-bottle of Dos Equis, along with a fresh 12-pack of Sam Adams Boston Lager in the refrigerator and, despite laying face down on an arm of the chair, I saw the dimness diminishing slowly. I raised my head to see Sydney, the reactor, and Cole, the thinker, both appearing momentarily yellow-green, due to pills I am taking, staring at me in helplessness. Or maybe curiosity. Sydney jumped on me, reminding me that it was time for her chewy treat. I leaned back in the chair and drank my orange juice. Orange juice never tasted better.