People & Places

Readers' Choice: CBNC

Readers' Choice: Soundwerks

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.

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.

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

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.

It was a great Phoenix moment.

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.

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

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

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!

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."

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

Readers' Choice: Diana Sullivan

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

We can't wait to hear what's next.

Readers' Choice: Howard Stern

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

Readers' Choice: Randy Johnson

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."

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

Readers' Choice: Camelback Inn Resort and Spa

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

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

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.

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

This is one driving school experience you just might enjoy.

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.

Readers' Choice: Harkins Camelview 5

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.

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.

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.

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Ouch, that smarts.

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.

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

In fact, about the only place around TC where young people have to deal with the weirdness of the adult world is at the entrance, where older relatives sometimes hang out like the reverse version of underage kids outside the liquor store, bribing 14-year-olds to pick up that latest Sigur Rs CD from the section's 5,000-plus collection of new and recent releases -- the most current selection in town. It's no wonder the oldsters lurk jealously outside the door: Teen Central is like the dream library denied to all previous generations, outfitted with a cozy crash space surrounded by magazines and vending machines, nearly two dozen Internet-wired PCs blaring music videos and games, a wide-screen TV hosting twice-daily movie matinees, and even a small dance floor.

Best of all: In Teen Central, no one ever tells you to "shush."

Readers' Choice: Chuck E. Cheese's Pizza

We love this carnival in the middle of the city -- and we bet you and your kids will, too.

There are knockoffs of all shapes and sizes: classic Transformers gestalts, unusually colored Power Ranger Megazords, Gundam Wing robots, and Robotech Valkyrie jets, ready to be drafted for a living-room war against GI Joe and the Rebel Alliance. Gentle hands are required, as some of the Chinese imports are made from such shoddy plastic that they'd shatter if you looked at them incorrectly. And someone should have considered running a spell-checker before exporting these goods, as multi-packs of "Spader-Man" and "Dragoon Ball Z" action figures (complete with bastardized graphics) look a little off.

We give the young'un $20 to buy the "Power Player Super Joystick," which promises thousands of classic NES games built into a Nintendo 64 control pad and wicked-looking Sig Sauer-esque light gun to boot. It's a sturdier substitute to toys that could potentially transform from robot to implement of impalement in the blink of an eye.

On the way to the parking lot, our now-joyful charge sings "Spader-Man, Spader-Man, no one fixes pets like a spader can."

Grown-ups, however, have to watch their steps: Adults are required, by law, to be accompanied by a child while inside the town limits.

Teach those babies how to shop early!

Next time, we'll ask for two packages. We wanted to play with the Wikki Stix, but the toddler didn't want to share.