Right now, Hank III, son of Hank Jr. and grandson of legendary country music badass Hank Williams Sr., resembles an XY version of that hirsute ghost in the horror flick The Ring. Long, dark brown hair hides his clean-shaven face as he works his fingers furiously over a red electric…
I have the funny feeling Mike Tyson knows something I don’t. Other than how to land a right cross that’ll knock a 230-pound boxer on his ass. See, I’ve started compiling a little list of the places where I’ve spotted snapshots of the former world heavyweight champ around town, and…
Y’all are gonna think I’m crazier than Houston plucking his eyeball out in that London hotel room, but I’m here to spit the truth like Twista, Jesus, Buddha and Kanye West, and that truth is: Most strip clubs bite big, hairy camel balls. Now, no one loves lookin’ at nekkid…
Does Phoenix really need another steak house? That’s what pops to mind considering the recent arrival of the swank, upscale Donovan’s near 32nd Street and Camelback. I mean, if there’s anything you can say definitively about Phoenix, other than the temperature of the sidewalk in August, it’s that we’re one…
I reckon my cheeks are redder than Elmo’s ass, the cheeks closest to my grill-piece, that is. It’s a Saturday night at Tempe’s colossal, 28,000-square-foot Graham Central Station (www.grahamcentralstationtempe.com), the four-in-one nightclub that includes the karaoke bar Alley Cats, a Top 40 dance hall called South Beach, an ’80s room…
Tina Tamrat Hildebrand laughs and smiles shyly when I play reporter rather than gentleman, and ask her age. This fetching little Ethiopian lady could pass for someone in her mid-to-late 20s, but curiosity has yet to kill the culinary critic, which is why I pose the question. “You know, in…
The ker-plunk and whoosh is most pronounced right around the intersection of Tempe’s Fifth Street and Mill Avenue, or, as I like to call it, the corner of Hooters and Gordon Biersch. No doubt you’ve heard it before: the sound of your soul being flushed into the rancid sewer of…
Jules Demetrius, 35, agitprop maestro, poet-sledgehammer on the mic, is well-known to those in the know, whether it be from his live art and madcap MC-ships at the Priceless Inn’s Blunt Club, or from his incendiary imagery of doped-up housewives, starving children, pedophile priests, and pissed-off Iraqis. A member of…
Call me cynical, but when someone approaches me and offers up a review copy of a CD unavailable in stores, the first thing I think is, “How many different ways is this going to suck?” However, I’d just seen Chopper, L.S. perform “one for the ladies” titled “Baby What Up?”…
One of the most popular cats on the FM dial locally is Power 92.3’s JX3, who keeps things fresh and fantabulous weeknights from 7 to 10 p.m. on the Valley’s No. 1 hip-hop station. That is, there’s always something different going down on his show, whether it’s Suns stud Amaré…
I’m convinced there’s a conspiracy of dunces out there, hell-bent on making the dining experience as consistently staid and by-the-numbers as an effin’ copy of Reader’s Digest. Scribblers of that pinkie-in-the-air genre known as “food writing” — the unfortunate tribe in which I’m lumped — are by far the worst…
Sitting in the dark-orange, Dr. No-like bar at Scottsdale’s Stingray Sushi, drinking a tall glass of Kirin draft and watching the promising Phoenix Suns get spanked by San Antonio recently, it occurred to me that I probably feel the same way toward Stingray Sushi as I do toward our basketball…
If Inferno were to begin accepting commercial endorsements, like NASCAR speed demons or them ho’s at the Olympics, Red Bull and vodka would be the official drink of this column. Though the switch-hittin’ Ciara of the PHX sometimes orders a vodka-tonic, the Kremester always asks for some Bull and hooch,…
On the whole, 2004 has been a good year for this portly penman, as enjoyable dining experiences have easily outweighed poor ones. Indeed, what stays with me, in the form of fat cells as well as recollections, are the great meals I’ve had on my various eating expeditions throughout the…
What a colossal difference a second visit to a restaurant can make. See, my modus operandi as a critic is generally as follows: I pick a place I want to review, then I dine there at least twice, usually with guests, so I can nibble off their plates unsuspected by…
This is the comedy-club rule: Sit up front, and you can expect to get fucked with, at least a little bit. Plus, when you roll on any club with the bisexual Ashanti of P-town lookin’ fine in a low-cut, form-fitting, red satin top, it’s like wearing a raw T-bone as…
Everyone knows about Pavlov’s dogs: those canines that helped Russian scientist Ivan Pavlov demonstrate that the natural flow of saliva in Sparky’s mouth could be induced by external stimuli, like a bell ringing. Pavlov referred to this as a “conditioned reflex,” and his findings netted him a Nobel prize way…
Let’s see if I can do justice to this mutha: Monday nights at ACME Roadhouse in Tempe are off the hook, the chain, the rope, the string, and just about anything else you can imagine. According to manager Alex Mundy, ACME, about a block south of University on Rural, serves…
Hey, I may come off in print as a bloated narcissist, but I do get my comeuppance often enough. Take, for example, a question I had for a colleague after visiting the six-month-old Coyoacán steak house on South Central Avenue. The restaurant sits nearly at the foot of South Mountain,…
Anyone who doesn’t believe the PHX has talent like Chi-town, the ATL and the Lou needs to pop over to O’Mallys at 3544 West Glendale Avenue in Phoenix on the day after Monday and check their Roc the Mic Tuesdays, where P-town’s husslas, playas, fly bitches and MCs congregate to…
It’s a fine Tuesday morning, and I’m seated at a table in Matt’s Big Breakfast, the new diner that opened a month ago on First Street and McKinley, next to the Coronado Hotel, in the same spot where the eatery Chez Bubba used to do business. The sun is shining,…
It’s ’round midnight on a Thursday eve, and yours truly, Kreme, is at Scottsdale’s Pussycat Lounge getting his fat fanny slapped by the finest dime in the hizz-ouse, a blonde cutie by the name of Victoria. Queen Vic is laughing her pretty little ass off, laid-back in this big circular…
