Megalopolitan Life

The 1999-2000 Phoenix Suns were a gimpy lot. It seemed that a week couldn't go by without a key cog in their lineup pulling up lame and grimacing in agony. But as every hoops aficionado knows, there's a hierarchy to these things.

When forward Tom Gugliotta blew out his left knee, people felt bad for him, but nobody panicked. When Rex Chapman, Penny Hardaway and Shawn Marion took turns missing long stretches of the season, fans felt frustrated, but nobody panicked.

But when All-Star point guard Jason Kidd fractured his left ankle with a month left in the regular season, your last name didn't have to be Colangelo to know that Phoenix was witnessing a total eclipse of the Suns. What other injury would send the team into such a fit of desperation that it would drag Kevin Johnson out of the retirement home for one last waltz at point guard?

That's how important Jason Kidd is to this team. With all due respect to Randy Johnson, there is no other professional athlete in this town so utterly indispensable to his team.

In 1999-2000, Kidd didn't quite match his astonishing pace of the year before, when he was probably more deserving of the league MVP award than eventual winner Karl Malone. Nonetheless, Kidd was routinely dominant, leading the league in assists (10.1 per game), finishing fifth in steals (2.0 per game), and averaging 14.3 points and 7.2 rebounds per game. And -- as always -- he was an iron man, averaging nearly 40 minutes a game.

The true measure of Kidd's greatness, though, is the way he always seems to play at a different speed from the rest of the team, tirelessly pushing the ball up the floor, driving his teammates with the urgency of a warrior who knows that he won't be mentioned in the same breath with his idol, Magic Johnson, until he starts putting championship rings on his fingers.

Readers' Choice: Randy Johnson

Last year, the award in this category went to the city of Tempe's official Web site, which offers wide views of Mill Avenue -- about the only street in the Valley where one regularly witnesses both foot and vehicular traffic.

This year, one Mill Avenue worker bee whose office affords an unobstructed view of the intersection at Fifth Street and Mill Avenue has one-upped 'em with a camera closely focused -- 24/7, updated every 30 seconds -- on a bench just outside Cold Stone Creamery ice cream and sweet shop.

Chow down, Tempe! You're on candied camera!

Poor Dave wasn't very Smiley the day we tuned in to the New Guys morning show and heard him turn on the waterworks while reading a "Dear Dave" e-mail his girlfriend sent him. Not since the Hindenburg crash has such tear-drenched humanity dripped out over the airwaves. On hand to catch his deposits of grief was the nauseatingly reassuring Love Doctor, a Tuesday morning regular who told him it takes a strong man to cry on radio where no one can see you.

It did make the morning drive more riveting than the hackneyed "wacky" fare that he and his partner Greg Simms usually dream up (like polling listeners for "kissable news anchors," for instance), but frankly we're too cynical about radio in the year 2000 to think Smiley's weeping was anything but crocodilian in nature, especially since he snapped back into his "professional" voice so quickly you'd think Don Pardo just walked into the room.

Maybe a marketing group told him the only way to beat Dave Pratt and Howard Stern in the morning ratings was to get disaffected female listeners by becoming a sensitive weeping jock. Or maybe someone just shoved the latest Arbitron numbers under his nose and let the teardrops fall.

For one week each year, the already sex-soaked cable network MTV becomes MT&A, letting it all hang out for Spring Break, shot at some exotic location and featuring nubile college students humping and grinding and sometimes frolicking in nothing but shaving cream.

Suddenly, this year's fun in the Mexican sun was interrupted by an abstinence-only public service announcement approved by the Arizona Legislature, produced by the state Department of Health Services and funded with our tax dollars.

The ad featured head shots of a half-dozen Jennifer Aniston look-alikes, taking turns delivering the following lines:

"To all you guys out there who see me as just another sex story to brag about to your friends: reality check. You know that thing between your legs? That is not what makes you a man. Not now. Not ever. But don't worry. There's a solution for guys like you. It's called a blow-up doll. Personally, I'd rather keep my self-respect than sleep with you."

The commercial ended and the screen filled again with writhing, near-naked coeds in Cancún. Earth to Arizona Legislature: "Come again?"

Would you expect anything less than bizarre from a gallery named after two vampire antique dealers from a Stephen King novel?

Opened in early 1999 by fledgling art czars Ryan McNamara and Andy Guzzanato, Barlow & Straker is the ne plus ultra of local performance spaces -- and it rarely performs below expectations with a lineup that's wild, weird and wacky -- but rarely fathomable.

Take, for example, last year's "Squeak and Clean," a performance by Phoenix artist Angela Ellsworth and collaborator Tina Takamoto. While Ellsworth exercised for two straight hours on a NordicTrack in a gigantic exercise ball hooked up to vibrating massagers (attached to large bars of soap, no less), Takamoto simultaneously scaled a gallery wall in rock-climbing gear and made gestural drawings with her feet.

Well, maybe you had to be there. We were -- and we're still trying to figure it out.

Welcoming you to downtown's favorite live theater is a most unusual sight. There you'll find an even dozen men, women and children having a great old time dancing their days and nights away. And not a stitch of clothing on one of 'em. It must keep them young because they've been doing it for decades now and they never get any older. Since 1974, as a matter of fact. "Dance" is an installation by John Waddell that was originally in the courtyard of Phoenix Civic Plaza before moving to its current home at the Herberger. The statues are a particularly joyous bit of public artwork. They appear to be having a blast. But isn't it about time someone got them some sunscreen?

Just let other cities try to brag about theirs. Boston's ain't nothin' but beans. Philadelphia has a little tinkling bell. New York? Only a shriveled-up old apple core.

When you are talking balls, you are talking Phoenix. Not just any balls, either. We are talking big ones. Three feet tall and just as big around. And made out of solid concrete to boot. Strong enough to stand up to a desert summer without breaking a sweat.

Yup, right out in front of BOB for all the world to see. Along the corner of Fourth Street and Jefferson you'll find almost a dozen stone baseballs welcoming you to the home of the Diamondbacks. A perfect spot to grab a photo of the baseball-loving young'un on the way into the game. Are you man -- or woman -- enough to straddle 'em?

Now you can learn all the exciting ins and outs of this fabulous, high-paced career! If you want to be a model, or just gawk at one, get yourself to this copper-topped office complex, sit at an outdoor table and monitor the action!

Most afternoons, you'll see a photographer, usually with a British accent, shouting at his subject, "Great! Great! You're giving me great stuff!" You can sympathize with his numerous lackeys, buzzing around in the blazing-hot sun with huge silver screens at half-mast, forever fussing with light meters. Hopefully, you'll be in the company of some deliciously catty women who'll quickly size up the competition and snipe, "She ain't all THAT!"

Although this location no longer offers an unobstructed view of Camelback Mountain as it had in seasons past, who's gonna notice on an earring spread? They keep coming back anyway. All the better for you to hang around at a distance -- like a model busybody!

Bridges have been rising out of the ground and spanning new freeways with blurring speed in the past five years. But this one slows the eye to a memorable crawl across the landscape. Its inviting grayish profile of mountain peaks shows us what's new in galvanized chain-link fencing. And the craftsmanship that made mountains appear in this 260-foot span of woven metal is the finest we've ever seen. J&L Highway Construction, which actually formed the bridge's distinctive chain-link cage, was responsible for that. A design team of engineer Seetha Ramahia and Tempe artist Laurie Lundquist came up with the idea for the bridge. And the Phoenix Arts Commission's Percent for Art program and ADOT paid for it. The result is truly one of a kind.

Going to the dog track needn't cost you a bundle. Just grab your dead presidents and head to Phoenix Greyhound Park for one of the pup palace's legendary weekend swap meets.

Each weekend, hundreds of vendors gather to sell all the crap they couldn't unload at their garage sales -- old tools, rusty golf clubs, eight-track hi-fi's, and ancient, tube-powered Zeniths. Hundreds more vendors sell newer things like packaged socks, luggage, clothes, art and furniture -- the list is endless.

And if you don't happen to be in the market for someone else's castoffs or a 99-cent liquidation sale? Well, haggling over the price of old eight-tracks is just part of the fun.

For pure people-watching, the dog track is the flea market equivalent of Rodeo Drive. A seat near the snack bar provides a primo view of the crowd, and a live band sometimes plays background music for an hour or two. A pan flute and guitar duo recently hypnotized passers-by with soft, mellow rhythms as worn-out shoppers guzzled beer and scarfed nachos.

As the time passes, so does a passing parade of diverse humanity, the likes of which you're unlikely to assemble en masse anywhere else in town -- or at least until the state fair rolls around again. And where else in town can you gawk at the myriad forms of your fellow man while getting your ears pierced on a lawn chair?

There may be worse names for a store selling used children's clothing, but right now, none to springs to mind. Except, perhaps, Kiddie Worn -- but that would be in really poor taste, wouldn't it?

Granted, watching local politicians scarf down a BLT or digging into a caesar salad is not everyone's idea of a great time. If you, however, find yourself in this camp, hie yourself to Tom's Tavern, the pol-spangled trough that is to the Phoenix governmental set what the Brown Derby used to be to Hollywood stars.

We recently took a Valley newcomer to Tom's Tavern for lunch, promising a good chef's salad and the chance to see more big-name ballot-box celebs than you could shake a recall petition at. We were not disappointed.

Governor Jane Dee Hull lunched with state Representative John Wettaw. Hull sent the rest of her dessert tray over to state Senator Scott Bundgaard, who stopped to chat with Arizona Superintendent of Public Instruction Lisa Graham Keegan. State liquor czar Howard Adams dined on the patio, two tables over from us.

And the chef's salad? If it ever runs for election, it'll get our vote, too.

It's been months since the GOP presidential primaries, but those who know him best -- his constituents -- are still slack-jawed at the way Arizona's senior senator was able to capture the hearts, minds and money of America's moderates during the race for the Republican nod.

McCain fell short on primary wins, but his Straight Talk campaign won't soon be forgotten; history professors will teach it as the best example of modern American grassroots politicking. Consider: The man with the reputation in Arizona for terrorizing anyone in his path sweet-talked national reporters into writing glowing accounts of his every move. The guy who didn't lift a finger to get campaign finance reform passed in his own state made himself the champion of such reforms on a national level -- all the while collecting millions from special interests with business before McCain's Senate Commerce Committee. A senator who all but ignores his home state is able to win reelection time and again.

You may not like him, but you gotta hand it to him: John McCain is one masterful politician.

Readers' Choice: John McCain

After a .22-caliber revolver was confiscated from his carry-on bag at Sky Harbor in February, KTAR radio personality Bill Heywood was questioned by airport security but was allowed to make his scheduled flight to New York anyway.

Claiming he'd forgotten the weapon was in the bag, Heywood later announced he was "gratified the system works."

If you think Sheriff Joe has an itchy trigger finger take on due process, try running sideways with the law here in Goldfield.

For a mere $10, a friend or family member can have you arrested, jailed, tried and hanged within five minutes by a couple of Old West sheriffs in full regalia and full of (feigned) firewater. It's all in fun, but rest assured, even in jest, there is nothing so humiliating and unnerving as being hunted down like a rabid dog and run through a kangaroo court to the gallows. It's especially awful if said suspect has ever been arrested for real. This is a wonderful way to get a little payback on winter houseguests who have overstayed their welcome.

The Goldfield bad cop/bad cop show will resume around Thanksgiving and carry on through the winter months.

Goldfield also offers a full-day gauntlet of cheesy Western kitsch for families willing to suspend their good sense of taste and propriety. Like the old mining towns Goldfield emulates, there seems little here that people won't do for a little spare change -- the train ride is enjoyable, the jeep or helicopter rides are a hoot (if you can afford them), the mine tour is much less amusing.

Still, it's a great place to spend an afternoon with visitors and kids in the winter. And you can't beat the scenery, with both the Superstition Mountains and Four Peaks serving as backdrops to the town.

Readers' Choice for Best Tourist Trap: Rawhide

There are few guilty pleasures on the planet as consistently rewarding as those Spanish-language soap operas known as telenovelas. Unlike their maddeningly dull American counterparts, telenovelas are all-out sexual romps delivered with enough high-octane melodrama to make Charo blush.

KDRX, Phoenix's Telemundo affiliate, is the best place to score your daily telenovela fix. Without having to touch your remote control, you get the steamy Amor Sin Limite, Muñeca Brava (the unlikely tale of a rich girl posing as a peasant), and the network's centerpiece: Xica de Silva, the loosely historical (and surprisingly graphic) story of a Brazilian slave who wins her freedom by exploiting her sexual prowess. History never tasted so good.

Oh, yeah, you also get the nightly news, for those of you who are into that sort of thing.

Readers' Choice for Best Spanish-Language News Station: Univision

The surest evidence that the local Hispanic market is experiencing explosive growth can be found on the radio airwaves. In 1999 alone, three new Spanish-language stations joined an already crowded field, which now includes eight stations (not to mention KKFR-FM 92.3, which goes out of its way to reach Latino hip-hop fans).

In simpler times, local Spanish-language radio was thoroughly dominated by KNAI, known as La Campesina, part of a United Farm Workers network based in urban areas. And although its numbers have inevitably dropped in the past two years, KNAI remains the conscience and the soul of Spanish radio in the Valley.

While other stations opt for a pop-friendly, synthesized brand of Tejano, KNAI cranks out accordion-driven conjunto and polka rave-ups, with a smattering of acoustic waltzes, and just enough social commentary to remind you of its roots in Cesar Chávez's labor movement. Ultimately, La Campesina is a daily aural reminder that there's no point in crossing over to the mainstream if you lose your traditions along the way.

It's part of the cutthroat competitiveness of modern sports talk that every radio jock thinks he has to prove his worth by being a bigger, more abrasive smart-ass than the next guy. It's to Jeff Kennedy's considerable credit that he doesn't bother to play this annoying game.

Kennedy, known to listeners as "The Trainer," has always been a sincere, likable radio host. But since jumping from KGME to KDUS in 1997, he's gained exponentially in command and confidence. What really separates Kennedy from the local pack are his respect and affection for the "friends of the program" who call in every day, and his willingness to admit that he's not the all-knowing king of sports trivia. Though he's enthusiastic about all sports -- and more sympathetic than most talk-show hosts to women's athletics -- he candidly admits that he's no great authority on hockey, so rather than babbling ignorantly about it, he lets his callers educate him.

With a strong supporting cast that includes the insightful Evan Andeen, Kennedy is a touch of class in what can often be an ungainly genre.

David Leibowitz is the smartest guy on local radio. Just ask him. Leibowitz's self-possession notwithstanding, this guy is head and shoulders above the rest of the radio rabble. He's informed, extremely quick and frequently ironic in an otherwise irony-free airspace. His print journalism background explains both his sinus-deep voice and his ink-stained depth. His is a talk show from which it's actually possible to learn something. Now if he'd just stop doing those dreadful eye surgery commercials.

If you're like us, you're weary of local TV newscasts that somehow manage to be simultaneously stuffy and shallow. It's not like that with KTVK's NewShow, an informal yet informative experiment in local journalism and, yes, infotainment. This hourlong 10 p.m. newscast is led by real news, and then -- much like the progression of sections in a newspaper -- gets softer as the minutes fly by. Channel 3 is still the most fearlessly directed local broadcast operation, capable of grinding sacred cows into red meat. But it's the laid-back, whimsical sense of the NewShow that's most refreshing. It's a risky format, and we admire the chutzpah. The irrepressible Liz Habib, who's more hostess than anchor, sets the tone. She's a chameleonlike pro, able to convey empathy when she's reading the grave news yet maintaining a beguiling and impish mien when the show lightens up. The likable yet credible Mike Warren is Habib's trusty sidekick. The NewShow's exploration of Valley nightlife, music and alternative culture is a sensation with a younger demographic (dare we call it "alternative TV"?). Mike Chamberlin, meanwhile, is a sportscaster with conviction. He's not afraid to call a shovel a shovel, or tweak the barons of the Valley sports scene when the situation warrants. Sure, we'd like to see more investigative and enterprise stories on the NewShow -- the hourlong format pleads for it -- but the show is still in relative nascence. So we'll give the Channel 3 crew until the next Best of Phoenix to serve even more nutritious fare.

Readers' Choice for Best TV Newscaster: Liz Habib

Misery loves car-poolers. So why suffer rush-hour gridlock alone when you can share the ride with DJ Steve Tingle, whose stock company of phone-prank characters (formerly heard over KEDJ) takes a back seat to no one?

Mel Blanc reincarnated, the vocally versatile Tingle regularly tickles prisoners of morning drive-time listeners as he single-throatedly creates the biggest assortment of wackos this side of a Farrelly Brothers flick. There's honky-hatin' ho "Clarissa Jenkins," the flatulent flatbacker who once flummoxed a locksmith with a cell phone call after she claimed to have accidentally locked herself in the trunk of her car -- in the middle of a serious attack of gas. Then there's the ever swishy "Ramon Jaworksy," whose lisping pleas for a pair of hunky bunkmates didn't cut much ice with the receptionist at a local military recruiting office. And who can resist horny yenta "Blanche Horowitz," who inevitably elicits puzzled gasps from victims as she provides obscene translations for old Yiddish phrases?

But if you're laughing so hard that you find yourself in a minor fender-bender (as has been rumored to happen), don't call us. Call Clarissa Jenkins, you uncircumcised monkey!

Readers' Choice: Dave Pratt

Unlike some cities, Phoenix has never had trouble putting competitive teams on the field. The Suns and the Coyotes have been playoff perennials, and in 1998, even the Cardinals broke a decadelong spell of futility in the desert with a 9-7 record.

But, competitive as these franchises are, they don't tend to rise to the occasion in the postseason. You'd have to go back to the glory days of Charles Barkley to find the last time either the Suns or Coyotes were more than TV spectators once the second round of playoff action commenced.

Last year, in their maiden trip to the playoffs, the Arizona Diamondbacks were similarly shown the door in the first round. But, that disappointment aside, this team has shattered baseball precedent by stepping to the top echelon of the majors before casual fans even knew what their uniforms looked like. The very thought of a major-league baseball franchise winning 100 games and capturing a divisional title in its second season is startling enough to make Abner Doubleday and Connie Mack do head-first slides in their graves, but that's exactly what this team accomplished.

Whether it's Randy Johnson mowing down opposing hitters or reborn journeymen like Luis Gonzalez and Steve Finley cranking the ball over the swimming pool, this is a team that's as entertaining as it is efficient. A mild second-half swoon this season can't obscure the fact that this is still the best sports ticket in town.

Readers' Choice: Arizona Diamondbacks

He doesn't have feathers or wear loud primary colors. He doesn't do an asinine stadium jig that would mortify even the lowest forms of wildlife most mascots emulate.

He's Fang, the longhaired, jeans and tee-shirted mascot for the Arizona Rattlers, although no one actually calls him that to his face. Nah, he's the team's "enforcer," there to ensure that both sides of the stadium raise the "noise meter" up a respectable seven or eight notches.

Not that he even needs them, since he barrels through pyrotechnics on his thundering motorcycle. Once Fang gives his seal of approval, he's off again, which lets us know he really ain't such a trouble boy. Basically, Fang is what the Fonz would've turned out to be if he'd stopped hanging around those goody-goody Cunninghams and given those Steppenwolf albums a chance.

During an early scene in the laugh-challenged Garry Shandling/Annette Bening comedy, one character explains that while he lives in Phoenix, he also has a weekend getaway retreat "up in Scottsdale."

Not long after local audiences were still savoring that geographical howler, Shandling visits a Phoenix strip club. When he asks whether it's the only one in town, someone explains that there are several other similar establishments scattered throughout the city.

Having trouble finding inspiration with Barney blaring in the den? Sick of Kool-Aid-sticky computer keys? Junior been using your journal as a coloring book?

Hear, hear! Writers Voice can help.

The YMCA brain child that has brought fiction, poetry and memoir workshops to the Valley for almost a decade also offers a writing class designed for moms, taught by moms.

Over the years, the workshop has been held at different locations with different instructors and different curricula, but always the same goal: to provide a nurturing environment for writers who happen to be mothers and a forum for discussing and writing about issues surrounding motherhood.

And you don't have to be a published author to take part; mothers of all levels of experience are invited. A favorite feature of the weekly sessions: child care.

This year, Writers Voice director Julie Hampton is working to make Mothers Write a regular gig, and by early 2001 she expects to have the workshop available at four locations in the Valley.

Write on!

The closest thing to a one-stop shop of underground downtown culture is this bare-bones space carved out of an old brick building on Roosevelt. It's strictly an after-dark joint. The lights typically don't go on until 7 p.m. But once they do, the offerings are just as likely to include exhibitions by painters, sculptors and performance artists as they are performances by dancers, poets, jazz players and punk rockers. The featured artists are largely up-and-comers -- the bands are some of the primo ones on the indie music circuit. And the swarm of culture-driven people who fill the dark streets around the arthouse helps to strengthen the human beat of the old heart of the city.

Other than Native American and maybe Mexican art, Phoenix is not exactly a hotbed of ethnic art and artifact shopping. Unless, that is, you scope out the shelves of ASU Art Museum Store, where, for more than 20 years, volunteer manager LaReal Eyring has been bringing the best of the outside world to the Valley.

In years past, the store's included exquisite tribal jewelry from India and Afghanistan, as well as fine folk ceramics from Mexico, Morocco and Japan. And we were recently bowled over by large tapestries made from old Pakistani beaded embroideries that you probably won't see anywhere else in town.

Since the inventory constantly changes, it's best to pop in at least once a week or you might miss the latest ethnic treasure Eyring's managed to round up with a relentlessly unerring eye. All this and your purchases are completely tax-free, too, since the store is a nonprofit enterprise.

More of an art incubator than an art barn, gallery owner Kraig Foote's seven-year-old art space gives talented young artists a commercial outlet that few would otherwise have. Most of the painters, sculptors, potters, woodworkers and glass blowers who show here still store their supplies in lockers and cabinets at local colleges, universities and high schools. But their works are often the artistic equal to those found in neighboring galleries along Scottsdale's art walk. Best of all, Foote's success hasn't lured him away from his original plan. Prices are still low, from $100 to $2,000. And fresh faces and art are always emerging from the gallery's pool of young talent.

Tired of cruising the local bars, cornered by heavily tattooed guys with missing front teeth asking, "Hey baby, what's your sign?" Fed up with meeting chicks with fake body parts?

Invest $15 ($10 if you're a museum member) and buy your way into Phoenix Art Museum's After Hours (okay, so it is sponsored by New Times), a singles soiree open to all comers -- but generally attended by a more refined crowd than those mentioned above -- held the third Thursday of each month at the museum. Billed as "a monthly experience of unique art, unusual music, outrageous dance, cool poetry, performance art, food, drink and more," After Hours provides an artful reprieve from the vapid, soulless, meat-market dating experience many of us have come to know and hate.

Nowhere else (in Phoenix) can you see a drag queen cosmetically transform before your very eyes or see artists caricature guests à la Gidget Goes Hawaiian -- all the while trolling for Mr./Ms. Right.

Get the picture?

Whether you're just getting your feet wet, training for the Ironman Triathlon or an aging veteran of chlorine-soaked, predawn practices as a kid, Sun Devil Masters offers a challenging program with three workouts a day in a world-class, 50-meter outdoor pool. Former Olympians and NCAA champions too numerous to name roam the decks as coaches or ply the crystal-clear water during challenging workouts sure to pop your pulse over 150 beats per minute. Under the direction of former ASU men's coach and Master's National Champion Ron Johnson, swimmers are pushed by an ever-changing yet constantly demanding workout regimen. Knock down two miles in the pool before dinner, and eat all you want.

The season never stops, but is highlighted twice a year by Master's National Championships where swimmers "shave down" to get the ultimate peak performance. The competition is friendly, but intense. Swimmers, take your mark . . .

Admittedly, they may seem woefully out of place in the middle of a Southwestern desert, but the well-manicured, classical Chinese gardens here are the next best thing to being in Beijing. Go past the upturned eaves of the COFCO complex's authentic glazed tile roofs (cleverly fashioned to impale any evil spirits that may dare to enter its portals) and wander along meandering paths lined with weeping willows and bamboo.

A serene water lily pond, artfully punctuated with rushes, papyrus and carved stone sculpture, provides a cool locus for the gardens' Tang dynasty replicas of intimate pagodas and pavilions. Designed for serious star gazing, moon meditating and vista viewing, this is the ideal haunt in which to cool your bound heels when your copy of Bernardo Bertolucci's The Last Emperor finally wears out.

"Were UFOs created by . . . Hitler?! Find out about the Hitler-UFO connection, tonight on Fox 10, right after The X-Files!"

No joke, that was an actual teaser from the never-ending series of wonderfully shameless Fox 10's Sunday-night tie-ins to the latest Mulder and Scully adventure.

In the interest of hard-hitting TV journalism, the station's intrepid reporters have aired alleged UFO photos from the space shuttle, saucers over Illinois and, of course, the ever-popular Phoenix Lights updates.

To showcase its journalistic diversity, Fox periodically delves into non-UFO issues such as psychics, ghosts and haunted houses. Ich bin ein Aliener!

The political shouting over the Squaw Peak pots a decade ago didn't end efforts to beautify Valley stretches of asphalt.

And a good thing, too. Ever since "the pots," landscaping and public art have helped to sharpen the appearances of local bahns.

So instead of the Berlin walls that other regions install between freeways and neighborhoods, we get cheerful expanses like this public art project along the Pima Freeway. Designed by a team that included artist Carolyn Braaksma, landscape architect Jeff Engelmann and architect Andrea Forman, the six-mile ribbon of relief murals features desert critters and flora in shades of gray, green, pink, lavender and beige concrete. They're immense, colorful and filled with shadow-cut details that add the best smile we know of to any Valley drive.

Mama pee-a! The men's rest room at this popular Scottsdale family-style trattoria offers black-and-white pics so naughty they'd result in felony charges if posted on the Internet. The dirty dozen or so images feature young Italian boys urinating on alley walls, street poles and into the camera. Full-frontal prepubescent nudity abounds in a collection that attempts to charm and, hopefully, rarely succeeds. (Yes, the photos in the women's rest room are also a bit racy, but they cannot compare to the men's room's K-6 water-sports action.)

On second thought -- waiter, cancel the penne!

Quizzed about who he'd cast as himself in a proposed made-for-TV movie based on his book America's Toughest Sheriff, Joe Arpaio offered up the names of actors Robert De Niro and Al Pacino.

Despite the dangers involved in crossing the border to Arizona, illegal immigrants are arriving in hordes. They have little choice -- the average wage of two dollars a day in Mexico just can't cover rent, utilities and food. So they come to Phoenix hoping to find work that will pay a little more.

Day workers will help you move, landscape, paint, almost any chore that needs to be done. They have no set hourly price. However, do the right thing and pay what is mutually agreed upon. (Some workers have complained about getting stiffed for up to three days' work.)

Laborers gather in corners across the Valley. However, if you want guaranteed day labor, the corner of Broadway Road and Mesa Drive in Mesa is a sure bet. Up until noon every day of the week, all four corners of the intersection and adjacent streets are filled with guys eager to make a day's wage.

Pickup trucks pull up and a handful of them will jump in the bed. These men are eager to work and consider day labor a big boost to their economic situation; many send their earnings home and put a little aside in their savings.

Hey, works for us.

For decades, Scottsdale's young men have had the 20/30 Club -- a service/social organization designed, as the name implies, for men under 40.

But what about the women? We haven't found a comparable "official" group, but we did get an invite last spring to a chick trip that looked way better than any 20/30 charity golf tourney.

Cassidy and Katie Campana (daughters of former Scottsdale Mayor Sam) have made an annual tradition of gathering their girlfriends and their girlfriends' female dogs (along with ample libations appropriate for both species) and heading to the northern Arizona pine country for the ultimate bitch session.

The Campanas make grudging exceptions for male dogs, but otherwise the event is strictly off-limits to men. "This is an all-girl weekend . . . so save all your griping, but also all the juicy stories," the invitation reads.

Meow!

Grilled by reporters after several felony counts against her were dropped in November, former beauty queen Jill Scott -- an ex-Mrs. America and Mrs. Arizona best known for her appearances on local TV commercials for her ex-husband's Empire Glass windshield replacement company -- talked to the press corps about the ordeal. "It's been humiliating," said Scott, whose ex-husband claimed she'd stolen money from his company. "I've lost about five years of elasticity in my skin."

Tempe's "A" Mountain is not the city's only painted butte. Head west on Broadway Road, and look south just before you hit the I-10 freeway, to check out the side of Double Butte -- about halfway up. There, just below a white painted cross, is the word "labia" in large letters. We have no idea how it got there; we're just happy as a, well, clam that it is.

You've seen them as you drive along, those "Adopt-A-Highway" signs, usually featuring the name of a local anti-litter philanthropist.

But even jaded motorists will do a double take at the name emblazoned on several signs near the entrance to the Lost Dutchman State Park. Instead of bearing the names of the sponsoring do-gooders, these signs merely declare: "In loving memory of John Denver."

Yes, that John Denver. The "Rocky Mountain High" singer lived in the Rocky Mountains and died in 1997 when the plane he was piloting crashed near Monterey, California.

So why the Arizona tribute? Seems it's part of some fans' efforts to get John Denver Adopt-A-Highway signs -- and roadside cleanups -- in all 50 states.

Far out!