Jett’s run off in a corner somewhere at Mardi Gras in Scottsdale, snapping a pic of this squalie’s ass, while I’m dodging flailing arms and legs near the dance floor. On stage, there’s a bald white dude, in a flowing Middle Eastern-type shirt that reaches all the way to his…
On paper, the whole concept of tapas must seem a boon to money-grubbing restaurateurs everywhere, which is why nearly every upscale nightclub you waltz into these days serves what they refer to as “American” or “International” tapas, basically a catchall meaning, “Tonight, we’ll be serving you a third of the…
The warm glow of candlelight suffuses the Wrigley Mansion’s grand living room, as George Gershwin’s ghost tickles the ivories of an ancient Steinway, belting out the dulcet tones of “Rhapsody in Blue.” Seems Gershwin was a guest of chewing gum magnate William Wrigley Jr. back in the day, and recorded…
The ofays in this town would starve without Mexicans, whether legal, illegal, or full-blown citizens. Seems like just about every eatery in Maricopa County has Spanish-speaking help in the cocina, from cheapo fast-food outlets and slow-food bistros to those wallet-draining nose-in-the-clouds gourmet spots that bother with only the highest of…
It’s near midnight on a Friday, and IO club owner David Landreville and I are chatting up this lil’ pecan-skinned spitfire we’ll call “Natalie” ’cause she didn’t want me to use her real handle, for reasons that will soon be clear. We’re parked at IO’s backlit martini bar, and Natalie’s…
In case you haven’t noticed, I’ve been burning a humongo hole in my billfold the past few weeks, eating out at all these high-dollar grubbaterias, and stacking so much credit card debt that Visa should consider taking out a life insurance policy on me. How else would the company survive…
Don’t ask why Jett flaked on me this week. Something about a free eightball and a three-way in Ahwatukee. Not that I blame her. I mean, the last three-way I was invited to involved me, myself and I, all buck nekkid in the hot tub. Talk about a tight fit!…
If there’s any place in town that has me daydreaming about bloody guillotines and headless aristocrats, it’s Kierland Commons, though my 18th-century fantasy is more Monty Python than History Channel. First, we’ll erect the infernal machine in front of Restoration Hardware, with executions beginning at noon. All Cialis-popping, nouveau riche…
The voice crackling over the cell phone belongs to a cat with three days left to live: D12 rapper Proof, Slim Shady’s right-hand man, and a respected hip-hop artist in his own right, who was slain early Tuesday, April 11, in a three-way shootout that the Detroit po-po are still…
Halfway through the slightly acidic creaminess of my sorrel bisque, and well into a second bottle of value-priced Pinot Noir with my dining companions, I feel unusually blessed. Seated amidst the colorful hodgepodge of art and antiques that is the Backstreet Wine Salon, all alone on a Thursday night (save…
Chuey the Rock ‘n’ Roll Midget, a.k.a. “The Satanic Hispanic,” scrambles to the middle of the Wheel of Fortune-like board as fast as his little sawed-off legs will carry him and rips down an 8-by-10 pic of tonight’s “secret square,” missing-and-presumed-dead Alabama hottie Natalee Holloway. The four-foot-three, 180-pound horndog then…
Hoist the Belgian tricolor and strike up that kingdom’s national anthem, “La Brabançonne.” Chart a course for the ancient port city of Antwerp, and make it snappy. We sail for the land that gave us mystery writer Georges Simenon and the Singing Nun, Audrey Hepburn and René Magritte, pommes frites…
“What the hell is Britpop, anyway, Kreme?” queries the Jettster as I ease the shaggin’ wagon into the lot next to Anderson’s Fifth Estate in Scottsdale, site of the monthly Britpop night Panic!, the reason for our appearance this eve. “Oh, you know, it’s all those ’90s bands from the…
I’d have a rough time coining a more idiotic name for a restaurant than “Cocono’s,” the d.b.a. of the new West Valley venture brought to us by members of the Salazar family, proprietors of the mostly mediocre Manuel’s Mexican Restaurants. The handle’s too close to “Coco’s,” that family-friendly peddler of…
Paco Paco might’ve been a drive-thru likker store back in the day. Something about the slanted roof, pointy lit-up sign, and the way the squat structure juts out to the south of Earll Drive on 16th Street with a little driveway off to the side. Whatever its original use, it’s…
Eyeless sirens trapped in the detritus of urban wastelands. Iconic gas-mask-clad craniums sprouting antlers like human jackalopes. Jigsawed female forms splayed out beside abandoned automata. Behold, y’all, the bizarrely bewitching realm that photographer Dayvid LeMmon, 23, creates with his camera and computer. Outwardly, the Glendale resident plays the unassuming, stringy-haired…
I’ve had New Orleans on the cerebrum lately, and not just because the Katrina disaster remains an open sore on the American body politic. I picked up this recently published comic novel Tremble and Ennui by New Orleanian Edgar Nicaud the other day, and had great fun following its ne’er-do-well…
Four hours before showtime, and Justin Warfield, the lead singer of the neo-New Wave band She Wants Revenge, has his hands all over some chick’s panties. Okay, several chicks’ panties, to be precise. Apparently, this is what some Rock Gawds do in their spare time. Um, you know, prep merchandise…
Holy headcheese, not another freakin’ Irish place! Now, don’t ruffle your kilts, lads. After all, it is St. Paddy’s Day, and this is the only time of the year I’d bother writing up two new purveyors of Celtic comestibles in a row. Last week, it was Scottsdale’s smashing Skeptical Chymist,…
Irish Disneylands? You bet they exist. Actually, I’m as sure that Shane MacGowan likes his Jameson that you’ve been to one. Hard to avoid ’em in this town or any other American city. They’re called Irish pubs. And if a little green man approaches you in one of them and…
Outstanding sushi in the wiles of the northwest Valley? Yeah, right. Now you’ll be telling me that President Bush has been secretly planning to sell U.S. shipping ports to some Arabic-speaking emirate in the Persian Gulf. Huh? He did what? Guess I have to start watching Jon Stewart more often…
A high-pitched cackle and a black strip of thong. That’s what DJ Lady Tribe and I hear and see from the back door of downtown’s Brickhouse Theater, as the lez-and-het-happy Milla Jovovich bum-rushes us, her glutes suddenly shimmering in the streetlight before she covers them up and bounces back to…
