I’ve always loathed Thanksgiving, so don’t expect some column from me telling you how to cook a turkey with a beer can stuck up its butt, or where to snarf the best stuffing in the Valley. Everything about the holiday nauseates me: the enforced familial bonding; the orgy of unoriginal…
First up, this week’s column is dedicated to ex-Wu Tang warrior Ol’ Dirty Bastard (a.k.a. Russell Jones), who on November 13, just two days short of his 36th birthday, graduated to that big pimp parlor in the sky, and is now no doubt sippin’ Cristal with fellow legends like Biggie,…
Folks call and write me with some amazing requests. Usually, I do my best to reply in a timely manner, but occasionally, the inquiries veer into the asinine zone, in which case, I may never respond. For example, if you’re a PR flack who wonders why I never called back…
Other than chedda, what separates the up-and-coming flowmaster from a baller whose SoundScan numbers rival the deficit? The answer depends on the gamespitta in question, but when it comes to PHX lyricist N.O.K. (None of a Kind), the difference between this talented MC and bigger playas in the game could…
Like Tara Reid getting a new rack or Cynthia Nixon deciding to bat for the home team, it’s a time of transition for Inferno, y’all. First off, Implants cartoonist Elaine Bell fled Phoenix for Manhattan a couple of weeks ago, where, from this point on, she’ll be seeking her fortune…
I’ve been jonesing of late for some really excellent house-made pasta. No doubt what brought this on was my slightly disappointing visit a couple of weeks back to the James Hotel’s Fiamma Trattoria, where it seemed like everything but its house-made pasta was first-class. Since the James tirelessly trumpets the…
To borrow a line from Demi Moore boy toy Ashton Kutcher, “You’ve been punked!” That’s right, New Times’ October 28 cover story ’bout a Valley firm named Preserve A Life — which taxidermies deceased humans for “mountings” in the homes of loved ones, etc. — was a spoof just in…
I am terribly pained that all the fuss concerning the Boston Red Sox, the World Series, and the Curse of the Bambino is finally over. Not that I cared a whit for a bunch of gum-chewing knuckle-draggers running around a diamond to the cheers of the hoi polloi. I prefer…
When I heard that Jett, the L-word Maria Menounos, wanted to go to Amsterdam with me, her extremely Kreme-y partner in nightlife, I thought maybe she’d seen the error of her lezzie ways, and wanted to get freaky with a fat man. So when I met up with her at…
In my line of work, a double-wide backside seems to come with the territory. I’m sure there are certain female food critics in Arizona whose tailbones are as sharp as needles, but really, ladies and gents, should you trust a thin restaurant reviewer, someone more concerned with donning a size…
Whenever I wax homesick for La-la Land, I need only stop by Scottsdale’s James Hotel for a fix of that über-modern, über-sophisticated vibe that the City of Angels has in great store. Pass through the James’ lobby towards its J-bar, and you could just as well be at The Standard…
Ever since yours truly arrived in the Zona, nearly everyone in P-town’s clubland has had the Black and Tan on their lips. And, no I don’t mean a pint of Guiness and Bass! I’m referring to the not-so-secret speakeasy, which has hosted bi-weekly Sodom-and-Gomorrah-esque after-hours par-tays, reportedly with underage cuties,…
I recently read online that the ugliest man in Hollywood, and a piss-poor actor to boot, Billy Bob Thornton, badmouthed the immortal Bard, calling Shakespeare “bullshit,” and thereby confirming my opinion of Monsieur Sling Blade as one dumb redneck. I take comfort in the fact that BBT’s fame is short-lived,…
The celly chimed the other day, and at the other end is my man Gentleman Jules Demetrius, the P-town Picasso whose artwork we first told you about during a visit the Jettster and I paid to the Thursday night Blunt Club at Boston’s in Tempe (“Beats ‘n’ Blunts,” March 25)…
My initial experience dining at Flat Iron Rotisserie and Grill, the new, Southwestern-themed establishment on Indian School Road, can be compared to meeting a bewitchingly beautiful Monica Bellucci-esque femme fatale at a party. There’s an instant, smoldering attraction. Your eyes lock in a flirtatious dance, and you find yourself saying…
Emerg McVay’s a one-man verbal blitzkrieg, a black Osama bin Laden piloting a lyrical 747 right into the core of your cranium. Preconceived notions? Kick ’em to the curb, yo. Especially if you think that P-town can’t blow up like ATL, the Lou, and Chi-town before it. Just listen to…
As you may have gleaned from perusing this space previously, I take a dim view of conventional wisdom and the morons who spout it. Al Pacino’s character Ricky Roma in the screen version of Glenglarry Glen Ross sums up my P.O.V. when he states that he subscribes to the law…
What would you eat if it were your last night on Earth, and you could have just about anything you wanted? That’s the hypothetical dilemma I’ve been mulling since a friend of mine gave me this odd little book titled Last Suppers (Loompanics Unlimited), which is all about the final…
Prêt-à-Porter Ranch It’s a sausage fest in Old Town Scottsdale on this Thursday night. And the J-grrl and I are at Martini Ranch, beholding a sea of horny, white and mostly male faces. I haven’t seen this many ofays since the last time the Boston Celtics won the NBA championship…
, Redendos Pizzeria and Pasta
With the J-grrl back in the saddle this week after her brief leave of absence (though whose saddle, I’ll never tell), I decide to let the lezzie Eva Longoria pick our party-place du jour. Three guesses where the Jettster wants to lick her lips and twist her hips? The new…
It’s a fine Tuesday night in the Zona, and Saddam Hussein’s chrome-dome, um, brother-in-law Sheik Samir Hussein is getting his ass beat down by a big-assed Catholic priest in a dog collar known as Father Punishment. The shirtless Sheik had come into the rasslin’ ring at The Sets in Tempe,…
