It’s a hot, humpalicious night in the ‘Zona, and yours truly’s pounding down pistachio at the local Baskin-Robbins. Suddenly, a fembot frame darkens my dish. “Knew I’d find you here,” says the Jettster. “We have to work tonight, Porky. Besides, aren’t you supposed to be on a diet?” “Yeah, I’ve…
Occasionally, I feel like the Ted Bundy of food critics, trawling sundry restaurant rows here in Phoenix, looking for my next victim. It has something to do with exorcising my inner Jack the Ripper, albeit with the written word as my butcher knife. Unlike Bundy, et al., my “victims” are…
A pocket full of jimmie hats and no honey willing to help me put them to use, I was resigned to sitting home with Mr. Zig Zag, a fifth of Sky and that new Petey Pablo CD. But, suddenly, the land line was buzzing. “Wassup, Buddha-butt? Feelin’ sexy on this…
Last week, I was perusing this book Bizarrism, a compilation of “Strange Lives, Cults and Celebrated Lunacy” by Aussie author Chris Mikul, when I was overcome by an irresistible yearning to taste the treasures of the briny deep. Or, to state it more plainly, I was bloody hungry for seafood…
All you P-town gangstas know of Mr. Kreme’s passion for fashion, my penchant for poppin’ collars with the flyest ladies in the 602 or the 480. So when I heard tell of this erotic fashion show called “Feel Me” goin’ down at Holga’s art colony downtown, I was all up…
I have been very, very spoiled in the past when it comes to churrascaria, or Brazilian barbecue. I didn’t realize how spoiled until I visited the new Brazeiro Steakhouse in Scottsdale’s Fashion Square. But more on that place in a moment. You see, fortune has heretofore led my belly to…
You know, my co-pilot Jett wasn’t always the L-word Jessica Alba. Before she became the lipsticker queen of Phoenix nightlife, she was just another cute chick in a Catholic schoolgirl uniform hanging out at Scottsdale’s Jamaican Blue Lounge, which celebrates its 10th anniversary this year. “Hey, Special K,” the Jettster…
Los Angeles may have the ocean, a temperate climate, Hollywood starlets and the Lakers, but the Valley cleans La-La Land’s proverbial clock when it comes to pizza. Perhaps Angelenos are too busy eating tofu and primping for their close-ups, but for whatever reason, in El Lay, it’s either Wolfgang Puck…
After blowing most of our dolo at that swank strip club Skin last week, Jett and I needed a low-rent joint at which to chillax (that’s chill and relax, yo). Fortunately, my pally Gatsby, ribald renaissance man and massage therapist to club hotties, had a semi-genius idea for us. “Monday…
I’d been sitting on the fence for the past week about Rokerij, Richardson Browne’s classy new chop shop, when I happened to take a look at the fine print on the menu of this stone-and-wood surf-and-turf joint, which reads: “Sorry, we do not provide highchairs or booster seats.” In other…
My dawg Jett, a.k.a. the lezzy Nelly, has been ailin’ of late ’cause she got dumped by her squeeze of the week, some fine hoochie-mama with bodacious ta-tas. The girl went Unabomber on me, and locked herself in her room with some bud and a bottle of Tanqueray. “What you…
One of the bonuses of dwelling in a real metropolis is having a reputable Indian eatery within reasonable distance of one’s digs. When I resided in New York, I was the luckiest I’ve ever been in this regard. My building was near 23rd Street and Lexington Avenue, and just a…
Death and taxes. The two unavoidables of human existence had me knee-deep in the dumps. It happened after I visited my local H&R Block on Camelback to see how much I didn’t get back from the supposedly massive Bush tax cut. Okay, I admit, I did qualify for a piddling…
Like Snoop says in that joint they play all the time on Power 92.3, “Green’s for the money, the money, the money.” But green’s also for the mainstay of P-town bar-band culture, the Emerald Lounge, the kind of place where hot bands rub up against friendly drunks and stoners. It’s…
Let me share a little secret with you: Journalists love to eat and eat well, but we’re also notoriously cheap. In part, this has to do with the fact that almost no one gets rich off scribbling for a living. And probably, deservedly so, if you judge by what’s sometimes…
Dime time. That means, 10 o’clock on a Thursday night, and I’m chillin’ at my homegirl Jett’s pad as she readies herself to ride on da club. The crib’s split between her side and that belonging to her roommate, T-Dog. One guess which side looks like a Hummer did doughnuts…
Allow me to address a theme that runs through a number of missives I’ve received from my detractors, most of whom have this ass-backwards notion that restaurant reviews should be as chipper as the banter of those coifed nimrods over at Good Morning Arizona. That is, when somebody deigns to…
Hey, Phoenix, where the freaks at, baby? Your 300-pound mack of wack and his lezzie Lara Croft been hankerin’ for some underground weirdness of the first water. We craved the bizarre, the bugged-out, the deviant — and the plain ol’ nasty. Luckily, a light bulb illuminated above Jett’s spiked ‘do:…
The good news first: I’ve recently had the pleasure of eating at the hippest new sushi joint in the Valley, with maki rolls so innovative, and yet professionally prepared, that I’d almost be willing to move upstairs from the place so that I could get my daily fix. Now the…
I’m at home splashing on some Pierre Cardin musk, preparing to step out and get skunked at the illustrious Bikini Lounge on Grand Avenue, when the celly beeps to the tune of Too Short’s “Shake that Monkey.” Of course, it’s that lezzie lady-pimp of renown, my partner in nighttime inebriation,…
Though I have yet to visit Siam, I have lived in the next best place for Thai cuisine: Los Angeles. In La-La Land, there are nearly as many Thai restaurants as there are taquerias in Phoenix, and I became so accustomed to that country’s unique mélange of spicy, sweet-and-sour flavors…
That Big Playboy in the sky works in mysterious ways. The Lesbian Johnny Knoxville and I had chosen to ride on Minder Binder’s ska-punk Thursdays, expecting to find folks bouncing their heads to the sounds of local, Von Dutch-wearin’, AFI wanna-bes. But when we arrive at that big, red barn…
