Burgs like Snottsdale and Parasite Valley may get all the kudos when it comes to living arrangements, but were I run out of central Phoenix on a rail and forced to choose, I’d take that toddlin’ town of Chandler over either one of those two swells-zones. Here, as in all…
If it seems like the Jettster and I have been playing Mister and Mizz Humptyvision of late, going out a lot in the middle of the week, blame Yahweh, yo. This monsoon season’s playing havoc with our sched. And for whatever reason, for the past week or so, Wednesday’s been…
Descending from Pinnacle Peak the other day, after a repast at Sassi, the new, resort-like restaurant fashioned to resemble an Italian villa, the initial stanza of Coleridge’s Kubla Khan rang in my noggin. You know the lines, “In Xanadu did Kubla Khan/a stately pleasure dome decree . . . “…
A plush, blue-lit chapel of sin, with a black square bar for an altar: That’s Scottsdale’s Next on the inside. Slanted wood beams give the illusion of a church’s peaked ceiling. Arty pics of nude chicks line the walls, and equally hot waitresses keep the booze flowing like the Colorado…
Those of you old enough to have lived through any part of the Cold War — or to have suffered through a political conversation with a devout Libertarian — will be familiar with the oft-repeated mantra that capitalism is the most efficient system on earth, unlike communism, which is grossly…
I’m perched on a stool at The Merc Bar, a bucket of vodka-Red Bull before me, with the superstylin’ sounds of Britain’s Groove Armada pulsing through the stereo, and — if I get any more relaxed — Mary-Kate Olsen’s bony butt could knock me over by bumping into me. Jett’s…
I was in Tempe last week, sitting in a cafe and flipping through my recent purchase from a nearby bookshop of a rare copy of Valentine Penrose’s The Bloody Countess: The Atrocities of Erzsebet Bathory, when a bizarre desire took hold of me. Those of you familiar with this 16th-century…
So I was over at Mikey’s the other day, doing bong hits and watching episode after episode of Cartoon Network’s Aqua Teen Hunger Force, which makes a lot more sense once the sinsemilla turns the reasoning center of your brain to oatmeal. Mikey had Tivo’d a mess of them, and…
I’m all alone in the ‘Zona this Saturday night. Jett’s jetted off to NYC for a little vay-cay, leaving me by my lonesome in P-town. (Sigh.) Never thought I’d admit to missing 116 pounds of bitchy lipsticker, but I reckon I do. Thought I’d stay home, sip Hennessy, and play…
One of the joys of writing a weekly column for New Times is that I’m pretty much given carte blanche to cut through the ca-ca that other news outlets lay on with a trowel. Take, for example, the current coverage of former president Ronald Reagan’s demise: the tearful remembrances, the…
I’m situated at the bar at TT Roadhouse, a pint of Harp before me in a frosty glass, awaiting the Pink of P-town to show her pretty lipsticker kisser. Suddenly, the Jettster slaps my back, a vodka-rocks in one paw and a pint of her own in the other. Apparently,…
I suppose most folks have their own, somewhat flattering image of themselves, and I am no different in this regard. In my mind’s eye, I’m a cross between Sydney Greenstreet’s character Signor Ferrari in Casablanca and the so-called “wickedest man in the world” Aleister Crowley, though I lean more toward…
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…
