So I’m minding my own business, lounging in my triple-XL Underoos, crunchin’ on a big bowl of Cocoa Puffs and watching a rerun of the Squidbillies that I’d taped off Adult Swim, when the PHX’s Zooey Deschanel checks in with me via land line. “Hey, Kreme, whatcha doin’?” queries the…
Is Congressman J.D. Hayworth a boob or an anti-Semite? This rascally warbler knows there’s beaucoup evidence of the former, from J.D.’s days of almost starting fistfights on the House floor and reading lame-o Top 10 lists into the Congressional Record, to his embroilment in the Jack Abramoff scandal or his…
I’m chillaxing at the bar in the revamped and newly het-friendly lez club known as The Biz, formerly Ain’t Nobody’s Bizness, which up until recently mostly served the mulletcore of the PHX’s lesbian community. Beside me is a phatty who, despite her roundness, is good enough to do. Except that…
Last week, this park-lovin’ pigeon decided to take advantage of P-town’s “cold snap” of highs in the 90s and flap down to Wesley Bolin Memorial Plaza, right across from the Arizona State Capitol, for a summer stroll through that public promenade filled with monuments both large and small, both moving…
Tricky T’s on the tables at Camus this Sunday, dropping tracks as diverse as Damian Marley, Devo, Nine Inch Nails, and old-school Michael Jackson, while mixologist extraordinaire Carson Quinn prepares another one of his amaretto-infused Carson City Martinis for your 300-pound Paul Wall of the PHX. Yep, it’s the Lord’s…
The expectations game can be as dangerous for restaurant owners as playing mumblety-peg with a 10-inch, razor-sharp Bowie knife. If you roll into town telling all and sundry you’re the bee’s knees, pour $1 million into your eatery, and brag that your venture is going to be the only “authentic”…
Great Knights of Columbus, this carping canary can barely believe the scuttlebutt whispered in its ear-hole by a well-placed source in the offices of the Maricopa County Attorney, somebody The Bird will hereafter call Deep Beak! According to Deep Beak, our tough-talkin’ County Attorney Andy Thomas should be renamed Candy…
Pink Taco is to Mexican grub what the House of Blues is to soul food, or P.F. Chang’s is to Chinese. Each of these spots doles out eats for yupper middle-class, gringo palates. So if you’re expecting either a gourmet meal or an authentic ethnic dining experience when you go…
How often do you get to peep porno at a city attorney’s office? This pervy pelican’s referring to Mesa City Attorney Debbie Sphincter’s (uh, Spinner’s) office, where the top prosecutor keeps alleged lewd e-mails on file. See, Mesa coppers were sending these un-PC missives to each other until an internal…
The late ’70s. California. Macrobiotic cooking. Wacky New Age cults. Jogging. Yoga. Tibetan Buddhism. Jerry Brown and Linda Ronstadt. Uri Geller. Wheat germ. Meditation. The Esalen Institute. UFOs. Patty Hearst. Est. And my own personal fashion icon, the Reverend Jim Jones, the man who made guayaberas and dark sunglasses look…
What with Hot Pink! having shot its last hipster wad at Karamba this past April 28, there’s a huge, gnarly hole on Friday nights waiting to be filled. The twentysomething sleazy scenesters who rule the white-kid club scene here in Sand Land need an appropriately skuzzalicious venue wherein to work…
I wonder if Damon Brasch could do for veganism what American Apparel founder Dov Charney has done for generic clothing: make it sexy as all get-out. Brasch is the owner of Green, New American Vegetarian, a purveyor of vegan comfort food on Scottsdale Road in Tempe, not far from the…
You’ll recall this squawker’s scribblings regarding the whole Pink Taco brouhaha a couple of months ago. Scottsdale Mayor Mary Manross objected to the gynecological name of the Mexican-themed grub shack, which was setting up its second location at Snottsdale’s new highfalutin shopping/condo complex the Waterfront (“Raising Manross’ Hair,” April 27),…
There’s been no love lost between myself and those belonging to the Valley’s veg-head clan. And I’m a big enough man — literally as well as figuratively — to admit that certain prejudiced perceptions of the vegan/vegetarian tribe have heretofore inhibited my gustatory outings. Generally, when someone says the words…
I don’t know who’s been peeing in God’s Rice Krispies lately, but too many people I know have been dying. Seems like every time I turn around, someone cool has keeled over here in P-town, usually way before their time: a pal’s stepdaughter, a friend of a friend, or someone…
Why have I been skipping around the office, of late, humming Iron Butterfly’s heavy metal classic “In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida” as I go? Have I been doing peyote again? Swallowed a bag of ‘shrooms, followed by a tab or three of X? Yahweh, no. My drug of choice is made evident by the…
A humongous Pop-Tart. That’s what this marionberry cobbler — named for a type of blackberry, not the erstwhile mayor of D.C. — reminds me of, from its gooey, purplish guts, to its crust, which, like Kellogg’s toaster pastry, turns soft after a little time in the microwave. As with the…
Aside from the fetish festivities this evening, which I’ll describe in a sec, Chasers in Scottsdale looks like everyone’s friendly neighborhood dive, with pool tables for the cue-ballers, a low stage for musical acts, and an abundance of TV sets, which I’m guessing on most nights feature sporting events. But…
Before the P-town Rihanna and I get blunted at the four-year anniversary of the Dolemite of hip-hop clubs in the PHX, there’s a little information we must convey to the masses. In the last Inferno at WWIII Sadisco (“War Games,” May 18), I mentioned that Sadisco co-founder Donnie Burbank believed…
There are a barrel of jackasses out there in foodie land who insist I’m never supposed to visit a fresh grubbateria until it’s survived six months or so, and to these jackasses, I say: Eat my ragged Speedo! My five-year mission as your Captain Kirk of comestibles is to explore…
I used to loathe doggie bags, mainly the way they stink up the sedan as you’re motoring home with half a curry fermenting in the back seat. But I’ve learned the trick of rolling down all four windows on the trek home so that the breeze blows back any odious…
I must be paying for the sins of a past life. Why is it every time I locate a new sushi purveyor that I’d like to put into heavy rotation for my weekly feeding rounds, the joint is inevitably 30 minutes to an hour away from me? By Thor’s mighty…
