“Dude, it was like Animal House fucked Satan and had a baby,” says the heavily tattooed and pierced Nikki Sixx over the phone from a tour stop in Arkansas explaining the genealogy behind Motley Crue, his voice youthful-sounding but hoarse with a Spicoli-like cadence. “You know, Satan with a sense…
She walked west on Polk over 13th Street, a block north of Van Buren. White tennis shoes, tight jeans, a man’s button-down work shirt gathered and tied in a knot at her navel. She had a slim build with long kinky dark hair running down past her shoulders. Her lips…
About suffering they were never wrong, The Old Masters; how well they understood. –W.H. Auden, Musee des Beaux Arts The Taxi Driver “Hey man, you wanna buy this gun?” says the yellowy-eyed Latino man in the back seat who has introduced himself as Hank. “For $80 it’s yours, mister. A…
On January 1, 1988, in Tucson, Arizona, Billy Sedlmayr stepped out of a stolen pickup truck and walked into a Dairy Queen. He had no gun but told the ice cream clerks he did, and they believed him. The lie yielded him $97, a sum small in proportion to the…
Largely associated with the cinder block and milk crate set and families expert in child mass-production, the drive-in movie theater really is about a piece of 20th-century Americana that is quickly dissolving. Many drive-ins of yore are now Kmarts, apartment complexes and even trailer parks. Conceived by an entrepreneur named…
Picture the setup for a girl-on-girl tryst in a porn nugget titled Hot Seats released last summer on VCA video: Horny babes on mountain bikes traversing the hills outside of Los Angeles, clad in tight bike shorts, nipple-enhancing jerseys and enough makeup to challenge any Spice Girl. Two of them…
Editor’s note: You won’t find any food in this Cafe column–strange things happen when award-winning food writer Howard Seftel takes a vacation. This week our guest columnist describes one of his favorite food-free environments. Welcome to saloon society. King’s Lounge, 434 North Central, 495-1597 Phoenix, now outfitted with its own…
If matchbox 20 is the rock ‘n’ roll equivalent of McDonald’s, then Todd Snider is the rock ‘n’ roll equivalent of El Fronterizo bar down at 14th Street on Van Buren in Phoenix. It’s where the smell of stale cigarettes, unfulfilled dreams and a thousand midnights of being drunk all…
