Some chicks just hate to see a man enjoying himself. And Jett, the PHX’s bisexual Rachel Bilson, is one of those. The other day, I’m lounging in my New Times office, feet up, halfway through a box of peanut-butter Girl Scout cookies, crumbs all over my shirt, when the bizzatch…
A lot of what’s appealing about greater Phoenix falls into the classic can’t-judge-a-book-by-its-cover category. I don’t mean the lusher parts of Scottsdale or the desert vistas out by Carefree. I mean just tooling about the city, parts of which, let’s be honest, can be less than enchanting. Ours is not…
“Jeez, Jett, try not to pull a Dale Earnhardt on our ass!” I croak as the PHX’s sultry, bi-lovin’ speed-demoness skids around a corner toward the alt-music nightspot Modified Arts near Seventh Street and Roosevelt. “Plus there’s po-po all around, and I’ve got an open bottle of Stoli in my…
Ah, the smell of chocolate and meat! Two great tastes that taste great together. Okay, maybe not. Still, this is what my olfactory nerves deal with each time I enter Chandler’s 4-week-old Shabu Fondue, a hip, nightclubby eatery that looks like it belongs catty-cornered from Stingray Sushi in Scottsdale. Instead,…
“No matter what happens here tonight, Kreme, we ain’t knockin’ boots,” declares my sometimes Sapphic, sometimes stick-happy sidekick, Jett, as we’re parking the Impala near Club Chameleon, the PHX’s premier palace of swing. “So don’t get any ideas!” “Hell, girl, you can keep ’em on,” I smirk as we head…
God, I could go for a pint of Stella Artois, or “wife-beater,” as it’s sometimes referred to in merry ol’ England. I’m in a black-and-white box of an eatery, surrounded by photos of Cornish tin miners, reading a biography of Hermann Goering. Halfway through my midday meal, it hits me…
Jason Rudolph Peña, 26, is the PHX’s kick-back Gustav Klimt. The soft-spoken iconoclast is known for his live paintings of ethereal women with large, dreamy eyes. Like Klimt’s women, Peña’s are idealized creatures, highly feminine and unobtainable. He’s exhibited at monOrchid, Thought Crime, Amsterdam, and House Studios, and has a…
It’s midnight at Sadisco’s monthly ball of glorious, gutter depravity, and the debauch is in full swing. Some industrial joint is screeching from the speakers, and the TVs are screening the grisly serial-killer pic Saw. There’s trash on the floor and bloodstains on the checkerboard pattern pasted all over Jugheads,…
Some bastards have all the bloody luck. Say, a year ago today, you signed a lease or bought a residence near 70th Street and Shea Boulevard in Scottsdale. Then you wake up one morning to discover that not only does the cul-de-sac there boast Sushi on Shea, but the Great…
What’s up with all the freakin’ rain in this town? Sure, I’ll be singin’ another tune come August, but I didn’t move to the middle of the desert to live in Seattle south. Now I know why everyone in the Pacific Northwest does heroin. Damn, if I have to spend…
Might there be some redemption for what I like to call the swill on and around Mill? As I mentioned in my recent write-up of Mucho Gusto Taqueria and Mexican Bistro, just west of Mill Avenue on University Drive (“Taste Magnet,” January 20), Mill Avenue generally holds as much fascination…
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…
