The Worst Place in America
NOTE: The following entry was written in March of 2022, when I moved to Phoenix for work during a tight congressional race in AZ-1. I was convinced I had found the dastardliest corner of the vast American Landscape.
I left Scottsdale today. Yesterday I ubered to Staples to pick up necessary materials for canvassing — pens, clipboards, Manila folders, hiring documents, all that jazz. Lugging everything all over Scottsdale and Phoenix has been a nightmare, but beggars can’t be choosers. I’m staying at the Super 8 off of I-17, and I unknowingly have chosen the worst possible part of town any traveler to Phoenix could choose to stay in. I’m convinced I heard the words, “police open up” several doors down. A little note taped to the metal door (painted white) reads:
“For your own safety and protection, when you are in the room, please turn the deadbolt lock knob located below”
“Lovely,” I muttered to myself after reading a sign stating the obvious. Merging off the highway and checking into this dilapidated eyesore, I immediately understood what part of town I’m in. I don’t like to be unarmed, but the TSA is a neofascist institution, therefore bringing weapons on a plane would not work in my favor. I’m sleeping with my belt on the table adjacent to the bed just in case. A Google search proves my hypothesis painfully true, via AZCentral:
