Megalopolitan Life

They don’t carry the ectoplasm-seeking nutrona wands and proton packs of Aykroyd, Murray and company, but Joe and Mikki Shelton of Arizona Trips n Tours and their ever-shifting team of investigators, aspiring parapsychologists, acceleration physicists and just plain ghost nuts are “who you gonna call” once you’ve heard a few too many spooky bumps in the night.

Eschewing a flashy Ectomobile in favor of a caravan of compacts and beat-up pickups, the members of Arizona Paranormal Investigations crew set out on monthly expeditions to the state’s most notorious ghost towns, like Tombstone and Jerome, as well as a few not-so-obvious spots around the Valley — one forum member is convinced the old Spaghetti Factory building on Central Avenue in Phoenix is haunted by the ghost of a little girl in the attic. The best excursions, though, are the ones the API crew must conduct undercover. Founder Gary Westerlund, who turned the organization over to the Sheltons in July, insists there’s an old hotel in Glendale that’s now haunted by the ghosts of dead prostitutes and johns from the days when the hotel was a wild Western brothel. Current management, however, would rather the hotel be noted in Fodor’s for its air-cooled suites and kitchenettes. When the API crew shows up with its infrared cameras, low-frequency sound recording equipment and electromagnetic field detectors, the “no vacancy” sign goes up — and true ghostbusting adventure ensues.

So you’ve just watched The Adventures of Priscilla, Queen of the Desert and To Wong Foo, Thanks for Everything! Julie Newmar back to back on video and you’re wondering where you go to get your drag on in this burg. Well, pull on those pantyhose, girlfriend, tuck in that crank shaft, and head on down to the Sunday night “She-Lounge” at E-Lounge. E-Lounge is the hot new lesbian club in town, and Sunday nights there are turned over to P-town’s glorious gals of female impersonation, led by none other than drag diva and longtime Echo columnist Barbra Seville. Seville, who likes to lip-synch Bette Midler in her prime, once flaunted her ab-fab stuff at Wink’s, but now that Wink’s is no more, she uses the E-Lounge as her stomping grounds. Her co-host for the gig is the lusciously vivacious Miss Angela Dodd, who never fails to have the het boys in the audience drooling for more.

With them for the performance are the campiest cuties, the most daring divas, and the classiest queens of the PHX doing their Milli Vanilli best with torch songs, standards, and the latest tops of the pops. If you want to beat the Sunday night blues without consuming a bottle of Jack Daniel’s and a handful of Zoloft at home alone, then the She-Lounge is the place to be.

What a leap of faith for one of Scottsdale’s most prestigious contemporary galleries to open a branch in downtown Phoenix — and aren’t we glad they did it. Representing an impressive roster of nationally recognized painters and sculptors from the get-go, Bentley not only makes us optimistic about the potential of downtown, but also considerably raises the bar for the quality of art on display throughout downtown Phoenix. Set up in a huge warehouse space that accommodates monumental works — quite a change from most other charming but cramped downtown art spaces — this is proof that our bohemian art scene is entering the big time.

We despaired of ever seeing France’s The Triplets of Belleville in a timely manner, but only because we’d forgotten for a moment about Harkins’ Camelview 5 in Scottsdale. Shame on us, then, for failing to remember that Camelview is the best place in town to see exclusive, often obscure art and foreign films. How dare we forget that we got to see Super Size Me the very week it opened in New York, or that The Twilight Samurai opened at Camelview even before it went into major release? One thing we can’t forget: The staff here is ultra-courteous and always knowledgeable about the sometimes oddball films they show. And the popcorn is so good we sometimes forget we’re at an art house cinema and just plain pig out.

Readers’ Choice: Harkins Camelview 5

Any time of the year, the first Friday of the month in downtown Phoenix is a circus. Sure, the main event is still the art — varying dramatically in quality from something you’d see in a New York gallery to “Hey, my kid could do that!” But our favorite thing about the most happenin’ night of the month is the side show outside the galleries along Roosevelt Street between Central Avenue and Sixth Street. If for only one night a month, the heart of a driving city becomes a pedestrian oasis. And the pedestrians range from toddlers in cowboy boots to heavily tattooed teenagers to older folks in comfortable shoes. It’s the best time to people-watch, the best time to run into someone you haven’t seen in years or just saw that afternoon at the office. Music is playing, and when it isn’t, there’s a buzz in the air — or fire, from a fire-breather who just might jump into the busy street as you walk by. Freeze this moment in time, because who knows how long the party will last . . .

First Fridays, you’ll find us in Phoenix. But final Fridays belong to Tempe, and this is a night that has yet to be tainted by an excess of hype. In other words, you can actually see the work on display by local artists.

At the center of Final Friday is Wet Paint, which transforms into B-Side Gallery on the last Friday of each month. B-Side has become the spot to see eclectic local art, listen to live music and, of course, check out what the hipsters are wearing. But the difference here from First Fridays, as far as we can tell, is that the crowd in attendance actually seems to care about the art and supporting the local scene. The well-coifed hair, white belts and high heels are just an added bonus — a different kind of art, if you will. And we will.

In its 1990s heyday, the Icehouse was the epicenter of Phoenix rave culture. Legendary parties lasted all night long within the walls of this cavernous downtown space, making it a natural anchor of the art and music communities. Then, as the times changed, so did the nightlife, and the Icehouse seemed to fall off the local radar. It continued to host events, but only sporadically. Most nights of the month, the grand building loomed large and silent on a dark stretch of Jackson Street.

But lately we’ve noticed that the Icehouse is reasserting itself as a place to see and be seen. Not with old-school raves, exactly, but with the sort of over-the-top multimedia events — live bands, DJs, fashion shows and art installations — that Phoenicians adore, including the now-annual LIFE Festival, an alternative Fourth of July celebration of “Liberty, Independence, and Freedom of Expression.” Welcome to the new Ice Age.

Like the Phoenix art scene in general, Art Detour — that spring weekend where most every gallery in town opens its doors to the masses — is a mixed bag. Some good, some bad. Some very, very bad. We had a favorite spot this year, partly because the art was so good, but even more because the vibe was so great. Held at the downtown Phoenix home of an unnamed but well-known member of the local arts community whose initials happen to be G.S., Garage S. was billed as a traditional garage sale. And it hit the mark, with all the things we love about garage sales, starting with really amazing bargains.

We couldn’t believe our luck — we scored Jon Haddock sketches and a portrait by Sue Chenoweth, painted on the spot. We drooled over bags by Sherrie Medina and Carrie Bloomston; Heidi Hesse and Colin Chillag both had work for sale. There was even a garage band, the Haystacks, and someone had the great idea of trucking in some fake snow. We ran into all kinds of people we knew, and gobbled an ice pop as it rolled down our arm.

The best part was, for that one weekend, Garage S. made our big city feel like a small town.

Everyone we know who attended Catholic school or had to endure catechism class has horror stories to tell about the nasty nuns. But these same people have been screaming with glee over Patti Hannon, who plays Sister, the ball-busting bride of Christ charged with our ecumenical upkeep in Late Nite Catechism Parts I and II. Both plays are written by Maripat Donovan and directed by Marc Silvia, and are running concurrently at Scottsdale Center for the Arts, where the audience pretends to be students of Hannon, who paces the stage, swinging her beads and cracking wise about Christ and his cronies. She’s a master at improvisational comedy, which is the hallmark of this frequently hilarious homage to holiness. And that’s a good thing, since Late Nite II is really just a prolonged improv sketch, one in which Hannon must lob funny answers to any number of questions posed by the audience. No matter how silly or stupid the question, Hannon is always ready with an answer both amusing and instructive. Late Nite II is irreverent but not irreligious, and always funny, thanks to Hannon’s litany of one-liners about good and evil.

Bless you, Patti Hannon, for knowing your way around a sepulcher, and for making us laugh at stuff that used to bug us.

By now, we’re accustomed to complex, compelling entertainment from this tireless troupe. But Nearly Naked’s take on Joe Calarco’s smart, sexy Shakespeare’s R & J was more than fun to watch — it made us want to go home and read Twelfth Night. Fortunately for us, an intimate relationship with the Bard wasn’t necessary to grasp the genius of Calarco’s script — thanks to director Damon Dering’s talent for drawing subtle parallels between tormented youth and the kids in Romeo and Juliet, the ultimate story of adolescent tragedy. Dering’s gifted cast nailed the angst of Catholic school youths stifled by the repressive regime of a Catholic boarding school, who meet to read aloud from a banned copy of Romeo and Juliet. The spartan set and wonderfully low-tech sound design, executed live by a chorus that created the sounds of wind and heartbeat with just their lungs and their teeth, set the stage for one of last season’s very best productions.

When the nice folks at Desert Stages remounted their rip-snorting production of Kander and Ebb’s Cabaret last December, it was a holiday gift to all of us who couldn’t get tickets to the show’s original sold-out run the summer before. The glory of this particular production is that this perennial musical is usually mauled by college theater troupes and small, earnest companies like Desert Stages — the familiar score is best served by big voices, and Joe Masteroff’s wicked translation of Christopher Isherwood’s The Berlin Stories needs a wider acting talent than is usually found among amateur thespians. Which is what made Desert Stages’ superb staging all the more impressive. Songs like “Money” and “Don’t Tell Mama” benefited from exactly the kind of rough talent that director/choreographers Gerry and Laurie Cullit cast here — the very sort of talent one would have found at the Kit Kat Klub. The excellent, stripped-down staging crammed the show onto catwalks and into stairwells, transforming the troupe’s smallish black box (they’ve since moved to bigger, tonier digs) into a seamy nightclub where musical numbers began in the flies and slithered onto a cramped, dirty stage. We’re still crowing about this one, which made us want to “come to the cabaret, old chum” again and again.

With its debut in January, TheatreScape whetted our appetite for more and better community theater productions. The tiny company bowed with Lee Blessing’s Eleemosynary, a story of three women — a mother, her daughter, and her granddaughter the spelling bee champ — for whom love and resentment are indistinguishable. Blessing’s nonlinear tale is a tough one to tell; it’s a stylish, witty play as challenging as a good word game. Its lighthearted narrative is crammed with sadness and loss; it asks us to root for some pretty pitiless people; its main storytelling technique is avoidance. Yet Patrick Du Laney’s skillful, intuitive direction and pitch-perfect cast made sense of these complicated women and their less-than-perfect lives. And when tiny Michelle Chin, her eyes filled with tears, crossed the stage during her curtain call to retrieve the paper wings that are her character’s prized possession, there was hardly a dry eye in the house.

It was tiny details like this — the wide purple wing sketched onto the set’s cubist triptych; the tears welling in Lauren Bahlman’s eyes when she confronted her daughter; the wonderful musical bit enacted by Barbara McGrath — that made this Eleemosynary so gratifying. The result was a sad story told with a generosity of spirit, and an impressive debut from a troupe whose new season we look forward to.

Until recently, the Urban Styles Dance Studio at Tempe’s Mill Towne Center was the place to see and be schooled in popping and locking, breaking and capoeira from the Valley’s best-known b-boys and girls. Regrettably, the studio closed over the summer because of a lack of support. “Break-dancing’s not a studio thing here,” laments former manager Hutton Peck. “It’s more underground.”

To find break-dancing in Phoenix now, Peck suggests hooking up with one of the Valley’s premier crews, whose members teach the skills in order to fund their own. Furious Stylez Crew, led by b-boy community leader House, holds break-dancing classes at different studios, like Destiny Dance and Plum, several nights a week — but locations change regularly. On the west side, Footklan conducts break-dancing lessons Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays at Khalid’s Martial Arts studio. Call House at Furious Stylez or Derrick at Footklan for information on where the Valley’s hottest crews are throwing down any given week.

Much has been said about downtown Phoenix’s growing art scene, and film isn’t always included in the discussion. But lots of galleries are finding the wall space for screenings, and the granddaddy of them all is No Festival Required. It’s become an important presence in the past few years, morphing from an occasional showcase of independent film and video shorts to a regular monthly happening at Modified Arts. Here, both local and national filmmakers show comedy, drama, documentary and experimental works — everything from the weird to the sublime, with no worries over commercial viability. That’s quite a feat in this world of megaplexes. Even folks at the Phoenix Art Museum were impressed — this past year, they welcomed No Festival Required into Whiteman Hall for special showings, exposing it to a whole new audience.

Letter writing is all but dead, thanks to e-mail, and we worry about the fate of Hallmark. Don’t tell that to Cyndi Coon, who is on the verge of a smashing success with laboratory5, her line of greeting cards and note cards. The Phoenix artist is truly inspired; her cards are whimsical, funny and absolutely frameable. She has a way with felt and, oh, what this woman can do with rickrack. We are particularly fond of Coon’s birthday cake cards, and you have to see her rendition of the tooth fairy. Dailycandy.com — the NYC-based arbiter of all things cool — recently anointed laboratory5.com, so get ’em now. Coon’s cards are surely going fast. She might just single-handedly save the art of the letter.

Firebird’s Sports Compact Only events, usually held on the last Saturday of each month, are the soft-core version of the illegal street drags that have become harder and harder to find on the over-patrolled streets of Phoenix. Stunnas show off their tricked-out body kits and flaming decals, booming sound systems compete with the roar of NOS-supercharged engines on the track, and bootylicious babes bounce around on a parking lot stage competing for the title of Miss Dream Body. If it all feels too much like a pre-fab Fast and Furious package, just follow a few of the older muscle car guys out of the parking lot after midnight. There’s always a ‘Vette driver or two who can’t resist putting the “ricers” to shame with their souped-up V-8s.

No one wants to go to the hospital, least of all a hospital devoted to kids. But the kind folks at Phoenix Children’s Hospital have made their digs a little more bearable with a wonderful, whimsical collection of art created by local artists, often in collaboration with children.

The art turns up in unexpected places, like a pre-surgery waiting room, where we were recently greeted with a Rose Johnson print of a young girl holding a heart, just minutes before our baby went in for open-heart surgery.

Not every art encounter can be planned (or not planned — that one was lucky) so perfectly, but we do know that a lot of hearts have been lifted by the bright work on the walls. Grown-up hospitals should take the prescription as well.

Many things come to mind when we think of The Rogue, a beloved Scottsdale dive, but “fine art” just isn’t one of them. Yet the bar is home to our pick for the Valley’s best mural. The painting, by local artist Joseph Oursland, embodies the bar so perfectly, you could almost mistake it for a mirror on a crowded night, ’til you notice the rock stars lurking within. In the foreground, a brooding, dark-haired young man sits surrounded by rowdy bargoers, drinking his whiskey straight, oblivious to the debauchery going on around him. Several famous rockers make cameos throughout the painting — David Bowie snarls from one corner, Debbie Harry appears in the middle of the crowd. We’re delighted that the Valley is home to a muralist like Oursland — someone who refuses to paint cheesy Southwestern scenery on freeway walls. We raise our 50-cent PBRs in salute.

It takes a lot of character to get the same “Best Of” two years in a row. And while we still love the Paper Heart for all the same reasons we did last year — especially its eclectic variety of free or cheap under-the-radar entertainment, like performance art, poetry slams, comedy shows and indie film screenings — we love it for a whole new reason: its spacious, cool-looking new digs on Grand Avenue. The former used-car dealership faces the street at an angle, making a statement about the beauty of being off-kilter in this urban grid. More gallery space has made for bigger, livelier First Friday receptions, too — or is it the addition of a bar that now serves beer and wine? Either way, this is a welcome addition to a stretch of downtown we’d like to see flourish.

We’re not sure if the body parts here are any less plastic than what you’d find at the typical Scottsdale nightclub, but it’s safe to say that the attitudes aren’t as fake. After all, this eclectic party at the Scottsdale Museum of Contemporary Art is being thrown in the name of art, not action, and the stylish young crowd it draws is more suited to downtown Phoenix than Drinkwater Boulevard. No matter what the night’s theme (“Wicked,” “Tart,” “Spice” — use your imagination), there’s always DJ music and live bands, a runway fashion show, plentiful art on exhibit, and, of course, cocktails. We wouldn’t change a thing, except we wish this was a party they threw more often.

For those of us who grew up watching Hogan’s Heroes and idolizing its star Bob Crane, the site of Crane’s murder and his last residence — Room 132A at the Winfield Apartments in Scottsdale — is perhaps the Valley’s most macabre tourist attraction. Crane was living there while he performed in the play Beginner’s Luck at the Windmill Dinner Theatre (now The Buzz nightclub), and it was there that he was found bludgeoned to death with his own camera tripod on June 29, 1978. For anyone who hasn’t seen the film Auto Focus with Greg Kinnear portraying the troubled actor, Crane was obsessed with sex and with videotaping and photographing his numerous conquests. So the killer’s choice of weapon was ironic to say the least. Suspicion centered on an associate of Crane’s, John Carpenter (played by Willem Dafoe in the film), but a trial in 1994 acquitted Carpenter of the much-delayed charges, and Carpenter has since died of natural causes. Some believe Crane was instead killed by a jealous boyfriend or an enraged father (likely there were many), so the case remains unsolved. Interesting aside: Bob Crane’s son Scotty now peddles pop’s homemade porn via the Internet. So if you’re interested in seeing Colonel Hogan boffing babes, check out the site at www.bobcrane.com.

But we digress. The Winfield Apartments are now the Winfield Place Condominiums, and someone else occupies the space. Still, more than one Bob Crane fan has cruised by the condos to have his or her picture taken before the sign for the complex.

In this sprawl-happy burg, it’s hard to find someplace untouched by the hands of man, where one can flee from reality, if only for a few minutes. If you’re like us, you’ve found an escape route, like the six-mile stretch from Phoenix into Paradise Valley, after dark.

As we head east from 24th Street, the chain stores start to lessen, the road gets curvier, and we open our baby up for a little speed. If it’s well past the witching hour, the road’s empty except for the sweet smell of a just-completed monsoon squall. An occasional entrance to some gated estate zips by, but thanks to the cover of darkness (and fewer streetlamps along this drag), the gaudy homes of the ultra-rich are nowhere to be seen. With the windows rolled down, the cool moist air whips around us as we come up a gently sloping hill, presented with a panoramic view of the sodium-lighted grid below us.

Oops, a stoplight camera just tagged us after we rolled through the Tatum Boulevard intersection, well over the 40 mph limit. When we get that surreptitious snapshot in the mail in a few weeks, the look on our face will probably be one of delight.

Just about everybody who works in or around the county courthouses in downtown Phoenix knows Eddie Haramina. More important, he knows more about them than they probably would care to admit. Commonly known as “Eddie the Hot Dogger,” Haramina has been a fixture in front of the east courthouse at First Avenue and Jefferson Street for more than a quarter-century. There, this Argentinean-born gentleman dispenses his custom-made all-beef hot dogs, fresh lemonade and homemade chili. The dogs are excellent and the buns are steamed, but that’s not what makes Eddie such a gem. No, he’s our Eddie because he treats Superior Court judges, homeless beggars — everyone, really — exactly the same: with unabiding respect and courtesy. And people of all stripes do talk to him about everything (literally) under the sun, including their kids, spouses, jobs, dreams and failures. Believe us, the Hot Dogger is no hot dog.

We love a group of girls who strap on roller skates and bust chops. And we love a bake sale. For the past year or so, the women of the Arizona Roller Derby have dolled up in their fishnets and combat boots and taken to the streets of Phoenix to sell their cookies. They’re a solid presence on First Fridays — not always without some strife, according to their Web site, which features pictures of their bake sale efforts, as well as a couple of car washes.

A posting regarding a recent bake sale gone bad reads, “Of course, we also had a solid crowd going for the ‘buy one cookie for $2 and if we’re friends with you, we’ll throw in a beer’ deal, which got us in a lot of trouble, but hopefully the Paisley Violin has forgiven us by now — sorry!”

Whoops! Now you can find them in front of Holga’s, near Third Street and Garfield. But check the Web site for updates. It also has information about upcoming roller derby matches, where the girls will really be shaking their cookies.

You’ve been a naughty New Times reader, and Mistress Porsche Lynn has just the punishment for you. In a warehouse five miles west of Sky Harbor Airport, the legendary adult-film star — whose handprints adorn the adult industry’s Walk of Fame outside Larry Flynt’s Hustler Hollywood store — has the dungeon to rival all dungeons. Inside a nondescript building where security cameras watch over the exterior like high-tech gargoyles, a score of worship-worthy doms, submissives and switches (those who “switch” from dom to sub) render and receive punishment to and from clients.

A number of lavishly outfitted rooms help Mistress Porsche and her femmes fatales fulfill customers’ fantasies. There’s a 4,000-square-foot main dungeon room with X-crosses and cages; an immersion room with a spanking bench, a gynecologist’s chair, and a suspension unit that helps you “hang out”; a doctor’s clinic where your nasty nurse can give you a full examination; and a parlor where sissy boys can cross-dress to their heart’s content. Phone sessions are also available, and there are always guest doms in from N.Y or L.A. Visits are by appointment only, so give them a call for precise directions, and meet that Venus in Furs you’ve always dreamed of.

It’s been a long night of spanging and bumming smokes in front of the Coffee Plantation on Mill Avenue, and now the dawn is breaking. You need some serious sack time, but too bad the cops busted up your squat the night before. Luckily, the cushy red couches in the TV Lounge on the lower level of ASU’s Memorial Union will fit the bill nicely, and you can lay your crusty head down for a nap. If the sandman doesn’t come posthaste, drop a couple of panhandled bucks for a Croissan’wich, watch cheesy talk shows and aging sitcoms on the gigantic-screen TV, or jam out at one of Hoodlums’ listening stations in its adjacent store. If the occasional student worker (or “The Man”) rousts you and demands some student ID, the jig might be up. As long as you don’t stand out — consider removing some of your funk in one of the union’s many restrooms — you won’t look (or smell) much different from any of the other twentysomethings who’re dozing after an all-nighter. When you wake refreshed, check your Hotmail account on any of the walk-up Internet stations before heading out to resume your night-crawling ways or to catch a train to parts unknown.

If you’ve driven from San Diego to Phoenix, you know there’s not much to look at. On a recent summer vacay, we were almost at the end of the road — Maricopa Road, that is, en route to I-10 — when we noticed a sign out the window. It was one of those Adopt-A-Highway signs, you know, the kind usually sponsored by the Sierra Club or the Audubon Society. Up ’til that point, Hooters was the oddest Adopt-A-Highway sponsorship we’d ever seen. But this one really made us wonder if we were hallucinating after too many hours on the road. The Church of Body Modification, chipping in for roadside cleanup? Aren’t those folks too busy suspending themselves by their nipples and ramming hooks through their back flesh? Turns out they are too busy, according to Doug Nintzel, from the Arizona Department of Transportation. He confirms the Bod Modders sponsored a mile on Maricopa Road, just south of I-10, but says that our call prompted some checking, and that after more than a year, no one had heard from the Church. So ADOT “did a modification of our own,” as the witty Nintzel puts it, and stripped the Church of Body Modification of its Adopt-A-Highway status.

Ouch, that smarts.

If you’re a chubby, pale-skinned teen eager to replace your threadbare Misfits tee with something more likely to shock your already concerned parents, you’ve come to the right place. The first thing that grabs your attention as you enter the shadowy confines of this hardcore metal CD store and specialty boutique isn’t the severed limbs that hang from the ceiling, nor is it the not-so-dulcet thunder of grindcore assaulting your ears. Nope, it’s the rows of tee shirts from local and national acts. Three double-sided racks of pitch-black printed tees await you, any one of which will announce your newfound affair with the dark lord and make you the foe of the holy rollers everywhere. Get the folks pounding the Paxil with Cannibal Corpse’s “Eaten Back to Life” shirt, which depicts a rotting cadaver consuming its own entrails. Too subtle? Perhaps Cradle of Filth’s “Desire Me Like Satan” tog — with a buxom, topless woman with legs spread wide and bound to an upside-down crucifix — might get you into group therapy double-quick. Of course, no potentially offensive outfit would be complete without a pair of spiked leather gauntlets, gargoyle incense holder and copy of Terrorizer magazine, also in stock. It’s like a head shop, without all the, er, tobacco paraphernalia.

Don’t get us wrong. We love our city. But we know our limitations. And let’s face it, friends, Phoenix is not the nation’s music capital. It’s not the music capital of the Southwest. It’s not even the music capital of Arizona, for crying out loud. That title goes to Tucson.

But no one mentioned this to Esquire magazine, which recently published a music guide including an article titled “Cities That Rock: A Guide to the 10 Best Cities for Seeing and Hearing Music.” Clearly, the writer was trying to be counterintuitive, since Pittsburgh and Fresno also made the list. But we really had to chortle — and then wonder if maybe we were missing something in our backyard — when we found our own fair city at Number 9, below New Orleans and before San Francisco.

“The Phoenix and Tempe scene is like a desert flower in bloom,” Esquire reports, referencing the Format and Necronauts as the bands to watch, and Stinkweeds and Modified Arts the places to buy music and hear it, respectively.

We love Stinkweeds and Modified, but do they catapult us above S.F.?

Who knows? Maybe we should start believing our own press.

Sloane McFarland is Phoenix’s own renaissance man — an artist who dabbles in real estate. Usually it’s the other way around, but this young man truly applies his aesthetic to everything he does, and, whether he means to or not, is creating community in his hometown. He’s best known as the landlord at Lux Coffeebar on Central Avenue; his slump-block complex also houses the sandwich shop Pane Bianco, and Passage, a boutique featuring locally produced fashion. McFarland is one of the guys behind Welcome Diner on Roosevelt Street, and now, we hear, he’s branching out to Buckeye, putting artists in a strip mall and developing other properties, spreading the wealth west.

Thanks, Sloane, for helping us to fill the pages of Best of Phoenix. We can’t wait to see what you do next.

Even the most gun-shy gals feel at home on the range at Shooter’s World. From 4 to 8 p.m. every Friday, “Arizona’s largest indoor shooting facility” fires up for ladies’ night, wooing the girls with free range time, free firearm and safety rental, and free instruction; the only cash to cough up is for ammo and targets.

And even though you’re packing heat, Shooter’s 24 air-conditioned lanes make it easy to keep your cool. So grab a couple gal pals, strike that Charlie’s Angels pose, and discover a whole new World — where firearms and femininity aren’t mutually exclusive. Fo’ shizzle, my trizzle.

Dr. Mike Newcomb isn’t content with healing the sick. He’s on a mission to heal the country, if he can, one radio show at a time. Newcomb’s progressive, liberal radio show On Second Thought began last summer and has quickly expanded from its initial hourlong time slot in the morning to three hours during drive time. Newcomb’s a physician in the mornings, making rounds at local nursing homes and then rushing to KFNX’s downtown studios for three hours of political discourse with callers that has become more lively as his listenership has grown. His theme music has evolved as well, with songs like Tears for Fears’ “Sowing the Seeds of Love” getting replaced by edgier tunes like Ozzy Osbourne’s “Diary of a Madman.”

We can’t wait to hear what’s next.

Readers’ Choice: Howard Stern

Hey, couch potato, flip off MTV and make your own dream come true. If you’re looking to boost your Mack Daddy attack arsenal, Big Boyz Toys is your artillery headquarters. Big Boyz Toys boosts the bad-ass factor with a full line of custom body kits and graphics, dash accessories, lights and interior add-ons. They can dress up your engine with color wire looms, hose sleeves and oil caps, install custom Euro taillights, fog lights or conversion headlights, and slap some flames on the hood. Big Boyz Toys also offers a full line of custom wheels to wrap around your hubs, including König, Motegi, Arospeed, and Primax. (Yes, you can even get those cool shiny hubcaps that keep spinning when you’re parked, for perpetual pimpin’ motion.) They’ve also got a phat selection of wings and spoilers, and a full line of speed and performance products, including race oils, battery extenders, underdrive pulleys, adjustable fuel pressure regulators, and nitrous oxide systems. Just keep an eye on that glow-in-the-dark speed gauge — you can buy some custom shift knobs or designer seat-belt shoulder straps for the price of a speeding ticket.

Readers’ Choice: Soundwerks

Driving the streets of Phoenix doesn’t seem so mundane when we pass through the intersection of 12th Street and McDowell. Since 2000, a shrine made up of three white wooden crosses has been lovingly maintained on the dirt lot across the street from Banner Good Samaritan Hospital, honoring three teenagers who died there on a summer evening when a drunken driver barreled into their car.

On any given day, the shrine is decorated with flowers, stuffed animals and other mysterious trinkets, or festooned with bright Mylar balloons marking yet another birthday where, once again, the guest of honor is absent. We see shrines along busy streets all the time, all over town, of course, but none so carefully tended — and for so long. The flowers and other decorations are always fresh.

And so is the thought, each time we drive by, that you can die in the shadow of an enormous hospital.

Ever since the drive to Las Vegas got speedier when U.S. 60 went four-lane, local cardsharps have had more of a reason to skip town for Sin City. But why risk becoming another roadside cross when the Salt River Pimas have all sorts of ways to separate you from your weekly wages? With two casinos within a 30-minute drive from downtown Phoenix, you’re just the kind of chap or chick who’d be an ace at improving the tribe’s bottom line. True, Vegas has showstopping entertainers, but get enough $3 beers into you, and even Beatlemania Live will start resembling the real Fab Four.

You’ve probably been jonesing for an opportunity to practice your Texas Hold ‘Em skills ever since watching all those World Series of Poker reruns on ESPN2, so stop off at Talking Stick — where there’s also Omaha and 7 Card Stud to be had. Two rules to remember, high roller: System players go broke systematically, and the house always wins. So when the flop doesn’t go your way for the nth time, head down the 101. The main digs await, where 30 blackjack tables (from $5 to $250), 1,500 multidenominational slots and keno lounge will help buy you a one-way ticket to Tap City, population: you.

Ever wonder why that solid antiperspirant works so well? Because some kind, sweaty soul was willing to try it out for you first, to guarantee it won’t cause a heinous rash in a hard-to-reach spot. He got a few bucks for his time, and so can you. Hill Top Research, a national product-testing firm, has a location in Scottsdale, and it’s looking for people to test moisturizers, shampoos, cosmetics and, yes, antiperspirants and deodorants. Be warned — or, rather, warn your friends and family: Guinea pigs have to go through a “washout” period first, during which you’re not allowed to use any sweat/stench-preventing products.

You probably won’t get stinking rich, and you might end up with that aforementioned rash.

Or you just might come out smelling like a rose.

We know the nice folks from Arizona Chain Reaction are flipping through “Best of” right at this very moment, clutching their heads and shaking their fists whenever they see mention of a chain store or restaurant. Sorry, guys, we tried to keep it to a minimum — but sometimes bigger is better. Not always, though, which is why we wanted to pause and say a few kind words about this little group. Modeled after an organization in Austin, Texas, that has done a lot to help preserve that city’s unique flavor, Arizona Chain Reaction’s creators are hell-bent on adding some spice to the Valley by helping small businesses flourish — and giving us even more great stuff to write about.

We’re still giddy over the impending arrival of IKEA, but we’re thankful for you, too, Arizona Chain Reaction.

Some mornings, reading the daily paper just feels like a chore. For a treat, we turn to The Vent. It’s a simple concept: just a column down the side of the editorial page of the Tribune, devoted to the rants of readers who call a dedicated phone line and, well, vent. Random excerpts from the callers’ diatribes — usually having some connection to current events or something specific that’s appeared in the paper, or, often, another Vent — are printed in no particular order, making for an often creepy glimpse into the mind of the East Valley resident.

One day in August, The Vent included a slam against an anti-Prop 200 column by an ASU professor: “I’m sick and tired of these liberal(s) such as Roxanne Doty calling concerned taxpaying citizens racist and white supremacist. I’m glad I wasn’t in her political science class in that liberal university wasteland that doesn’t even have a dress code.”

This random observation:

“I just served 16 weeks of grand-jury duty in Florence and would do it again. I will be 80 years old in September.”

And finally, a comment on The Vent’s favorite topic, which is, of course, The Vent:

“For all you readers who complain you don’t like The Vent: Why don’t you get a life and quit complaining and read something else. Because there are a whole lot of us who really like reading The Vent. It makes us very, very happy.”

Us, too.

He used to be president of the Salt River Pima-Maricopa Indian Community. She used to, um, work for Governor Fife Symington. We’d heard they were an item, but we’d never seen them together until one night around Valentine’s Day, when we spotted them together in the Camelback Trader Joe’s. It was just before closing time. They bought a lot of coffee and chocolate raspberry sticks. She paid.

It was a great Phoenix moment.

Jason Rose is not a shy fellow. And he doesn’t shy away from controversy — he shills for the likes of Joe Arpaio and Andrew Thomas. But we hear that even Mr. Rose was blushing when his latest personal PR campaign went, well, flaccid. Rose ran a half-page ad in the Arizona Capitol Times — a small paper that covers the Arizona Legislature — advertising his public relations, um, firm. The ad showed a nude black man flexing his biceps, wearing a sign over his crotch that read, “Size Does Matter” — a reference to Rose’s, er, long client list. At the bottom, in fine print, the ad read: “Not an actual picture of company president Jason Rose.”

We can’t imagine that ad won Rose a lot of African-American clients. But we can’t wait for Rose’s next PR campaign.

Phil Gordon is truly a pig in shit. This guy was dying to be the mayor of Phoenix for as long as we can remember, and now that he’s got the title, we’ve gotta say — he hasn’t screwed up yet. Actually, he’s done some good, steering downtown development away from sports and demonstrating a real vision for the city’s future. We like the fact that he’s working closely with ASU to bring a medical school downtown.

We don’t like the fact that he continues to prop up the ill-conceived convention center, that he robbed our libraries of porn — and what were you thinking, you schmuck, endorsing Andrew Thomas for county attorney?

We know the old saying, you gotta go along to get along — so go along, now, fearless leader, and get us what we want, like a replacement for Patriots Park.

If you do your job right, Mayor Phil, everyone in town will someday love this city as much as you do.

Readers’ Choice: John McCain

Technically, Deb Gullett represents north central Phoenix in the Arizona Legislature. But in her relatively brief time in office, she did a lot of good for the whole state, demonstrating again and again that she’s not afraid to stand up to special interests and fight for what’s right. This year, she made sure a law was passed that protects victims of car accidents from hospitals that want to double-dip in the victims’ insurance settlements. Gullett is smart and she doesn’t hedge. Even though she technically survived a challenge to her campaign petitions earlier this year, she decided to opt out of what promised to be an ugly race — probably the smartest thing she could have done.

But we hope we haven’t seen the last of her.

They’re so vain, every anchorman probably thought this flick was about them. Certainly the Valley’s morning news crews bought into the PR hoopla surrounding the summer’s Will Ferrell comedy Anchorman, like so many slow-on-the-uptake short people thanking Randy Newman for the musical tribute. The Fox 10 Arizona Morning crew of Ron Hoon, Rick D’Amico and Ilona Carson, in particular, really got into the act the Friday of the movie’s première, with the guys sporting stick-on Ron Burgundy mustaches and jackets, ribbing eye-candy Carson with classic ’70s chauvinism.

But while D’Amico’s vintage air-check reel from his on-air start in Michigan showed him with a hilarious poufy hair style closest to Ferrell’s character, it’s Hoon’s naturally smarmy persona that makes him a ringer for the film’s cartoonish Casanova. The age-indeterminate Hoon, an on-air staple in Phoenix for decades (who appeared to be hitting up Dick Clark for grooming secrets on a recent visit), has the kind of quasi-movie star appeal Burgundy exploits.

The happily married Hoon doesn’t skirt-chase young admirers, but he’s not above using his perfect teeth and Robert Redford hair to scoot past the plain Dan Davises on the celebrity junkets. A few East Valley residents still recall a media circus Christie Brinkley hosted for her ill-fated fashion line in the ’80s, when Hoon shamelessly puppy-dog trailed Brinkley around the Superstition Springs Dillard’s, finally wedging himself through the closing doors of an elevator just to get in a few more quality moments with the then-Mrs. Billy Joel.

Stay classy, Ron!

As the Barbershop movies made clear, often the best place for black folks to get in on some free-flowing gossip, boisterous political debate and, occasionally, a good haircut is the community barbershop. In the Phoenix area, however, it’s hard enough to find a stylist who knows the difference between a bald fade and a finger wave, let alone one who can officiate over a no-holds-barred throwdown on the D.C. sniper and Rosa Parks’ ass.

Fortunately, a real-life Calvin’s can be found on the Valley’s west side, at Another Level. Operating out of the same modest storefront since early 1997, Another Level boasts a staff of 13 barbers and hair stylists whose outrageous banter, says owner Brandon McFadden, could give Cedric and Eve a run for their money. “There’s a lot of characters here,” says McFadden. “Sometimes I feel like I’m the only normal one in the shop!” Sports and R&B luminaries ranging from Penny Hardaway to Glenn Jones have been known to drop in for a taper, but mostly it’s the same friendly crowd of gossiping gals and ware-hawking guys, some of whom will hang out for three hours or more without even getting a cut. “There’s a lot of sitting around,” says McFadden. “People just like the atmosphere.”

We hate to be so blunt, but we’ve gotta say it: Get those poor print reporters out of the TV studio and let them write their stories. Then we’ll have more time to watch Lew Ruggiero. Lew is the smartest, hardest-working, best-prepared reporter on local television, and, let’s face it, this is a bonus in his business, rather than a requirement.

Lew also knows how to stand in front of a camera and talk. And he looks great in a windbreaker.

John Hook is the best thing about TV news in the Valley, and he’s the best thing about Fox, period. We like him because we can tell he’s smart, that he understands the news he’s reading. We like him because he avoids the goofiness of his colleagues on other local stations. And most of all, we like John Hook because we can watch him at 9 p.m. and still catch the 10 Spot on MTV.

Readers’ Choice: Diana Sullivan

We feel like we have a personal relationship with Dennis Lambert, which is how we think you should feel about your morning radio host. Sure, we’ve let Howard Stern into the car on occasion, even flirted with the boys at KTAR, but when we want to know what’s going on in the Valley — and, as an added bonus, what’s up all over the country and the world — we tune in to KJZZ.

Readers’ Choice for Best News Station: KPNX-TV Channel 12

Husky hepcats in search of fly threads or the latest in alt-rock wear at the local big and tall store usually wind up fat outta luck. Try finding a catchy club shirt that doesn’t smack of tackiness — it’s an exercise in fat-boy futility. So if you’re living large and look more like Jack Black than Jack White, seek out this hip-hop haberdashery that includes sizes you won’t find at Hot Topic. Piles of Dickies slacks and Levi jeans fitting up to a 66 waist size practically overflow from the close-quarter shelves, and short-sleeve Western shirts up to 10X crowd together on circular racks. The joint’s also got ghetto-fabulous gear with brands like Ecko and Enyce for sale — not to mention formal wear in shades so ostentatious they’d make Andre 3000 proud. Forget about a five-finger discount, unless you want to join the Polaroid rogues’ gallery of shoplifters hanging by the front door. It’s all good, especially since bargains abound and 40 percent-off sales are so common that when you depart, your wallet remains fat and your style stays phat.

It’s an unusual year in the Valley when not one of its four so-called major sports franchises enjoys even modest success. But while neither the Suns, D-Backs, Coyotes, nor Cardinals (as usual) could muster more wins than losses in the past 12 months, the Arizona Rattlers made their case to reign supreme over the hearts and minds of Phoenix sports fans.

The Rattlers could have thrown in the towel back in April, when they were toiling away in the bottom of the Arena Football League standings at a dreadful 3-5 — with one of the toughest schedules remaining of any AFL team. Instead, Hunkie Cooper (who broke 20,000 career all-purpose yards), Sherdrick Bonner and sackmaster Bryan Henderson led the Rattlers on a 10-game winning streak, achieving what was once impossible by claiming the division title and home-field advantage throughout the playoffs. And no, not even a third straight ArenaBowl loss could sour such a feat.

Readers’ Choice: Arizona Diamondbacks

Just when Amare Stoudemire had become the crown prince of the Valley sports market, Randy Johnson proved that the king has yet to leave the building. With the Big Unit’s perfect game in May against the Atlanta Braves — in which he set down, in order, all 27 batters he faced, while striking out 13 — Johnson gave the Diamondbacks their first no-hitter in franchise history (Johnson’s second) and a dismal season’s lone bright spot. That was, until he later earned his 4,000th strikeout on June 29, becoming just the fourth pitcher in history to reach the milestone. And on September 15, he passed Hall of Famer Steve Carlton for third place on the all-time strikeouts list. A World Series ring, four straight Cy Young awards, close to 2,000 strikeouts, and now the perfect game — all in a D-Backs uniform. As long as the Unit finishes his Hall of Fame career here in Phoenix, he won’t just be the greatest left-hander to play the game — he’ll be the greatest athlete ever to represent the Grand Canyon State. Amare, wait your turn.

Readers’ Choice: Randy Johnson

This authentic New England seafood house could easily be the best place to love the Boston Red Sox, but we figured being a BoSox fan and a Yankees hater were synonymous, and given the D-Backs’ pummeling of the Yanks in the 2001 World Series, it’s more universal to hate the Evil Empire.

Owner Bill Deacon, a burly Beantown boy at heart, opened the quaint Cape Cod-like joint in 2000 to create a West Coast haven for New Englanders and Red Sox fans. Not only does he televise every game, he has his own Green Monster, an oversize hot dog truck plastered with Red Sox paraphernalia that sits in the parking lot as a beacon for Boston fans. Lunch patrons can order authentic Fenway Franks, made with the actual ballpark’s buns. When Red Sox supporters flood the restaurant, Deacon says Yankees fans are welcome, but, he adds, “I won’t be responsible for what happens.”

Abs of steel? We prefer a more natural look: abs of granite. We sculpt them at the Phoenician, where the glitzy Centre for Well-Being spa goes back to basics with its new “Nature’s Gym” outdoor obstacle course. Starting at the base of Camelback Mountain, the all-natural workout finds fitness equipment in the desert’s natural resources. Resort instructors lead 75-minute cross-training sessions, including stretches on desert boulders, pull-ups on paloverde trees, bicep curls with granite rocks, sit-ups on golf tee boxes and yoga exercises in flower beds. And packing a cardio punch: power walks on the golf course and stair-stepping through flowered paths. It all ends with cool-down stretches amid garden waterfalls and — in our own restorative touch — three vodka tonics poolside.

Who wants to dress to impress for a workout? Who wants to pay big bucks for the privilege of getting sweaty in public? And who really thinks that prestige matters when it comes to pumping iron? Nobody here, obviously. The Y is an ego-free oasis of self-improvement, and if its diverse membership wasn’t so darn friendly and outgoing, you might never be able to tell the secretaries from the attorneys, or the techies from the art gallery owners. Camaraderie usually stems from butt-kickin’ yet fun classes such as hatha yoga, Cycle Reebok or power step, but even if you’re a loner who shows up to do some time on the treadmill or in the weight room, you’ll be part of a community before long.

Like any worthy Paradise Valley woman, the Spa at the Camelback Inn had a lot of face work done recently. And, boy, does she look good. Even when her locker room was a little run-down, Camelback Inn still ran the best spa. We’ve always loved the tranquil pool area, the thick white terry robes, the impeccable nail, face and body services. But after a little lifting and tucking, the spa is better than ever. The hot rock massage is still the best in town, and so is the pedicure. Everything good has been preserved, just spruced up a bit.

And isn’t that the sign of the best plastic surgery?

Readers’ Choice: Camelback Inn Resort and Spa

Since Swell’s merger with the more commercial Spin Records earlier this year, the shop’s become the hands-down only place to go whether you’re looking to drop the new Jay-Z joint into your next set, or you’re in need of some underground breakbeats to juggle. Scope Swell’s vintage section if you’re looking to drop a Van Halen mash-up, or just browse the extensive selection of wax and check out the beats on one of the shop’s eight headphone-equipped turntables. Then go blow up the spot with your new crate full of vinyl.

Readers’ Choice for Best Place to Buy Hip-Hop Music: Zia Record Exchange

We were delighted to find this gem of a coffee house, nestled beside a frame shop across the street from Arizona State University. Three Roots has all the ingredients of the perfect college coffee house. There are plenty of comfortable places to sit, including tables for laptops and couches for lounging. The lighting is perfect, the walls painted deep shades and hung with interesting art (what we saw on a recent visit looked like human organs set in wax), with great music playing (that particular morning: the soundtrack from The Royal Tenenbaums). There’s a bookshelf, a basket of toys and a place to register to vote. The drink selection is broad, featuring Revolution tea produced in Tempe, and the place even serves wraps from Cafe Lalibela around the corner. We overheard interesting snippets of conversation and noticed that on her break, one of the servers was weaving on a loom.

We have to go now. But you know where you can find us.

Any place where Jaime Pressly, Nicole Richie and Paris Hilton have dirtied the sheets, we’re sold on. Since this precious, modernist boutique hotel opened in Old Town Scottsdale earlier this year, it’s been a magnet for the elite, the famous, the rich and the beautiful. Other than the lovelies already mentioned, Ice-T and wife Coco have been spotted partying at the James’ ultra-hip J Bar, Woody Harrelson spent the weekend in one of the James’ posh suites watching movies on a 42-inch plasma television screen (one comes with each room), and Mikhail Baryshnikov and Jimmy Kimmel have dined together in the James’ highly rated Fiamma Trattoria restaurant. So just think, when you have a drink at the J Bar, you’re kicking it with Ice-T. When you enjoy a plate of pasta at Fiamma Trattoria, you’re supping with Jimmy Kimmel. And when you sleep in one of the James’ gorgeously appointed rooms, you’re sleeping with, uh, Woody Harrelson. Or maybe you’re having a slumber party with Jaime Pressly, Nicole Richie and Paris Hilton all at once. Hey, it’s a free country. We won’t judge.

They leave well-rested, well-nourished and well-traveled. But at Metcalf House, a hostel that’s more like a home, guests sometimes leave almost as much behind.

The historic hostel is on Ninth Street between Portland and Roosevelt, and part of its charm resides not only within the wood and brick crevices of the almost century-old house, but also in the knickknacks, art and handwritten musings of travelers past. Once you make it through Metcalf’s lush front entrance of bamboo, ferns, palms and cactuses, you’ll find a handmade cuckoo clock left by a German tourist above the living room fireplace. Tacked to the ceiling above the dining room table are more than a dozen portraits drawn by a visitor who spent six months at Metcalf House. Others leave foreign currency on windowpanes, helpful hints for getting around Phoenix (in foreign languages), or flags of their home country draped across one of the 18 beds the hostel provides.

For $15 a night (or $30 for the hostel’s only private room), guests get plenty in return. Manager Sue Gunn is known to mother weary travelers with tidy and cozy accommodations, and the backyard firepit — with a great view of the downtown skyline — provides ample ambiance for a night’s worth of conversation.

All true arcade rats know an arcade is only as good as its service technician. Joysticks get jiggly, DDR dance pads crack, and occasionally a sore loser will even take a swing at a defenseless video screen. When games go bad, gamers go elsewhere — unless the arcade has a tireless technician like Robbie Fenwick, the geeks’ go-to guy at the Golfland-Sunsplash arcade in Mesa. Fenwick presides over the hundreds of driving and fighting games, pinball machines and especially the music-oriented games that are Golfland’s specialty, ranging from three DDR machines to instrument-simulation games like Drum Mania, Guitar Freaks and Keyboard Mania, motion-sensitive dance games like Dance Freaks and Para Para Paradise, and even a Korean DDR competitor called Pump It Up. As a bonus, Golfland’s proximity to the Sunsplash water park also makes it the only arcade in town where you can catch girls in bikinis dancing on the DDR machines — which is not always a good thing for Fenwick. “A good portion of the problems we get here happen because we’re right next to a water park,” Fenwick says. “So people get all wet and then they’re playing on the machines. Water and electricity — not always a good mix.”

Every amusement at Jillian’s is ridiculously expensive. A single game of air hockey will cost you a whopping two dollars; premium games like Hyperbowl will set you back a five-spot. Heck, even Ms. PacMan can’t be had for less than a dollar. So it’s a mystery how the price-jacking demons managed to overlook the entertainment complex’s 12-lane bowling alley, where you can bowl a game surrounded by cool art deco couches, six multimedia screens, a DJ booth and a fully stocked retro bar for about the same price that stodgy old AMF center down the street charges. At $3.25 per game ($4.25 after 5 p.m.) plus $4 for shoes, the compact, stylish strike zone is the best-kept secret of the kingpin crowd. “My boss says we’re only a quarter higher than the regular bowling alleys,” says the bubbly brunette behind the counter, eager to assign you to one of the usually empty lanes. Best bonus: no leagues!

The world of wrestling — um, we mean sports entertainment — is not unlike the realm of baseball, at least when it comes to tapping new blood. Each has its own version of the big time (World Wrestling Entertainment and Major League Baseball) and an underlying stratum of regional farm clubs serving as a training ground. But that’s where the similarities end. The D-Backs draw from the diamond of the Tucson Sidewinders, and WWE wrangles rasslers from the rings of promotions like the Valley-based Impact Zone Wrestling. The biweekly show at The Sets in Tempe serves as an opportunity for “workers” to hone their skills and iron out gimmicks. Out of the countless combatants who’ve graced IZW’s squared circle, a few have even made it to the majors. Ring announcer Justin Roberts has occasionally worked the mike on WWE TV shows for more than two years now, and Matt Wiese, formerly known as Horshu, is currently getting the back of Kurt Angle as Luther Reigns on Smackdown. IZW regulars Navajo Warrior and GQ Gallo also will routinely perform in “dark matches” (or untelevised bouts) at local broadcasts of WWE programs.

Besides, when’s the last time you saw one of the boys of summer fling a chair around? Oh wait, never mind.

Like just about everything else once dismissed as silly kid stuff, go-karts have raced into the mainstream of grown-up extreme sports. The F1 Race Factory, bordering the Tempe gateway just south of 48th Street and Washington, requires a valid driver’s license to race its modified European karts — each outfitted with a speedy Honda GX 270cc motor and Yokohama racing slicks — and serves beer and wine in its Trackside Grill (although tipsy karters are subject to Breathalyzer tests). Plugged in to the Valley’s import racing subculture, F1 has hosted Saturday night “Show Your Sh*t!” car shows in its parking lot and has lately become a favorite training ground for the drifting crowd. Regulars consider driving the low-down karts as the purest form of racing — as close as you can get to feeling every twist and turn on the track without having to peel yourself off it.

At the Bondurant School of High Performance Driving, there are several ways yours can become the baddest ass on the road. Bob Bondurant has been teaching Phoenicians how to drive fast and furious since 1990, and offers a variety of driving courses designed to improve skills. The “Executive Protection/Anti Kidnapping” course (four days, $3,995) includes training in “forward and reverse 180s, evading and ramming, and understanding and avoiding attacks.” Sure, it’s primarily designed for government and military agencies battling terrorists, but take it from John Ashcroft — these days a terrorist is in the eye of the beholder. The asshole in the SUV who cut you off on purpose is threatening your way of life. Bondurant can give you the tools to keep the roads safe for democracy. Bondurant also offers a less aggressive (and less expensive) “Highway Survival Training” course (one day, $895). Use your own car or slip behind the wheel of one of the school’s Cadillac CTSs or Mustang GTs and learn how to manage skids, how to corner safely, and the proper use of brakes.

This is one driving school experience you just might enjoy.