The view of the golf course from the deck of my borrowed McMansion is calculated to hit the pleasure center of every human brain: a still pool of water framed by an undulating ribbon of greenery. Above the fairway, the desert mountains rise like great heaps of bone and ash that have been welded together by the sun.

Returning here at night, the sameness of the darkened houses conveys an anxiety about being different in some small but decisive way that will catapult you and your children out of the realm of golf courses and throw pillows and back into the world of gardeners and maids you came from, a recurring horror that can be hidden from children and spouses with pills, but always returns a few days or weeks later — which is why the kids liked rock and roll. It promised relief from the sound of anxious seconds ticking away, a promise of obliteration and being in the same moment. Standing next to an amp and feeling a thrill when someone touched a string.