Ice-9...

A friend reports the following: About a year ago, he had taken his wife to a Phoenix emergency room. They were seated in the waiting room, watching the usual array of car crash victims on gurneys being wheeled through. (Side note: car crashes remain the leading news item for all local Tucson and Phoenix news stations. Sprawl has given rise to a new form of sport that often involves mini-vans hurtling into one another or semi's rolling over into oncoming 80-mph traffic.) In any event, it was not long before they noticed a police officer dressed in black leather jacket and black leather jack boots slowly perusing the waiting room, sizing up offenders everywhere. Black leather in a city where temperatures commonly reach 116 degrees — now that is impressive.

They also could not fail but note, when he turned around, the words "Ice-9" hand scrawled on the back of his helmet. Had he iced nine perps? Or was he the number 9 man in a unit dedicated to eradicating Phoenix of its criminal class? We will never know.

But it is fun to contemplate the degree to which Phoenecians — whether residing in their ersatz Moorish-themed gated communities or eating in their favorite international theme restuarant or shopping in their favorite string of supermalls (thus experiencing the life of an atom blown through a super-conductor) or playing cops (much like our president is playing at being a president) — collectively enact their own private fantasies.