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…
Pardon my language, but all of these low-carb-South Beach-Atkins fanatics can take a giant bite out of my billowy boxers. Why, I’m as dyspeptic as John Ashcroft with a grapefruit-size gallstone, and all because of this asinine Atkins drivel that would have us forgo one of the most satisfying gustatory…
The ads running in Phoenix’s local media couldn’t be more straightforward, and seemingly guileless. Beneath a photo of one of the art world’s most popular icons, Little Dancer, Aged Fourteen, is the title of the exhibition now on display until May 30 at the Phoenix Art Museum, “Degas in Bronze.”…
Oh, the things I do for my beloved public! I was at home the other day, enjoying a bottle of Shiraz, nibbling on a hunk of Kerrygold Dubliner cheese, and exploring sites about numismatics on the Internet, when I checked my e-mail to discover an impassioned missive from an employee…
It was eye-popping: Countless teenage bimbettes in low-cut jeans or short pleated skirts and provocative tops. If I had a dollar for every glimpse of skin-glittered ass-cleavage at Britney Spears’ Glendale Arena concert on a recent Wednesday night, I could afford a swimming pool full of Kris, and a set…
Drift Polynesian Restaurant and Tiki Lounge, ,
Ever since blowing into this desiccated town from El Lay’s relatively humid climes, a number of fellow lowlifes have told me about a notorious gangbanger club at 2424 East Thomas that even scares the bejesus out of Phoenix SWAT. Apparently, the nightspot’s also the Saturday after-hours hangout for brown-and-black Phoenix…
My personal mantra in all things culinary and cultural mimics that wry, clock-wearing philosopher of yore, Public Enemy’s Flava Flav, who was fond of advising listeners, “Don’t believe the hype!” That ageless, pithy axiom can apply equally to Jay-Z’s announced intention to resign from rap (not again!), as well as…
All you P-town ballers grab a pencil and take notes: Kreme and Jett don’t go anywhere before 10 p.m. Maybe if the Legislature ever gets off its ass and ups the drinking cutoff to 2 a.m., like most non-Mormon-inspired metropolises, then I can finally trade up to 11 p.m. In…
As you might surmise from my pork-lovin’ Tar Heel roots, there’s nothing I adore more than a mass of shredded swine. But here in the desert, so far from the slaughterhouses of my native North Carolina, I’ve rarely come across restaurateurs who can prepare pig so that the meat is…
The dance floor at Hot Pink squirms like an orgy with clothes: Women and men, women and women, men and men and a number of more complicated combinations gyrate together — humping, grasping, petting each other to the cyberpunk snarl of Billy Idol’s “Dancing With Myself.” Blue and red lights…
Whenever St. Valentine’s Day draws near, my thoughts turn to cod. True, there initially may seem nothing so unromantic as the humble Gadus morhua, which spends its life swimming along the ocean floor, mandibles agape, devouring anything in its path. Fishermen have even been known to slit open these vacuum…
Ten o’clock in P-town, my second Ketel One on the rocks, and still no sign of Jett. Wonder what’s keeping that bee-ahtch? Not that I wouldn’t be more than satisfied to sit on this barstool for a while and bathe my liver in a river of vodka, but damn, girl,…
Such is my cross, that I must often let fly a long-winded raspberry in the face of those I wish were doing a better job of feeding me. Call it culinary tough-love. As my pappy was wont to declare before caning my hide raw for mooning a schoolmarm or some…
For whatever blasted reason, my missteps have been costing me beaucoup simoleons of late. So I thought I’d share these with you that you might gain wisdom from my blunders, much along the same lines as we all stand to benefit from Christina Aguilera’s decision to go skanky or Miss…
Pardon me for saying so, but I’m beginning to wonder if some folks in this town need their craniums checked for nests of field mice. Of course, by now, I’m sure quite a few of you are thinking the same of moi — at least if one’s to judge by…
I was puttering about in my housecoat and slippers the other day, listening to Puccini’s Turandot and fiddling with my collection of foreign bottle caps, when I spotted the purple top for a bottle of Young’s Double Chocolate Stout. One of my favorite brews, its company logo features a ram…
Scripture informs us that a prophet is never welcome in his own country, and the same holds true for exceptional individuals in one’s own backyard. Even the surly savants of the New Times editorial staff are not immune to this truism. Consider the injustice done to their next-door neighbor, Stacy…
For good or ill, it was Dean Martin who led me to Pronto Ristorante. Not that I mean Ol’ Pink Eyes himself arose from his grave to guide me, drink and cigarette in hand, to this P-town pasta house. But he might as well. See, Santa was good to me…
Everyone remembers their first time . . . eating raw oysters, that is. Why, this garrulous gourmand was but a callow underclassman at UNC-Chapel Hill, when during a fall break I was invited to an oyster shuck thrown by some rowdy fellows with whom I shared courses. With kegs flowing…
As a member in good standing of PETA (that’s People for the Eating of Tasty Animals), I’ve long nursed a flesh-eating fantasy that would put serial bison-killer Ted Nugent to shame: a ranch-restaurant where all manner of critters roam the grounds, everything from javelina and jackrabbit to ostrich and Gambel’s…
Okay, so maybe Afroman isn’t the first guy who comes to mind when you think about September 11, but Ted Koppel could do worse than to have the straight-outta-Palmdale rapper on Nightline to talk about airport security. That’s because Joseph Foreman, Afroman’s laid-back, spliff-smokin’ Clark Kent, used to be airport…
