People & Places

Lord almighty, we feel our temperature rising, especially when Mesa resident and diehard Elvis Presley fan Duke Hicks takes to the stage and unleashes his realistic reproduction of the legendary superstar. Having offered up his Elvis imitation act for more than two decades, this delivery man and part-time country musician is arguably one of the longest-lasting King clones in the Valley. He’s been seen at a plethora of private parties, countless corporate functions, a regular gig at Philly’s (a bar-restaurant in south Scottsdale), as well as at the Frontier Hotel & Casino in Las Vegas, where Hicks says he nabbed “a rousing standing ovation” following his performance. (He’s even set to star in an upcoming documentary on Elvis impersonators titled Heart of the King.) Aping what he calls “classic Elvis” (a.k.a. the skinnier, non-drug-addled version), Hicks dons a sequin-studded white jumpsuit and the King’s trademark shades and croons his way through an eerily accurate rendition of Elvis’ repertoire, which encompasses more than 50 songs — from chartbusters like “Burning Love” to more subdued numbers like “You’ll Never Walk Alone.” Hicks admits he may have to let out his costume in the near future, as — just like his hero — he’s developing “a little bit of a paunch.” Just stay away from the pills, Duke.

Even if you ain’t got big chips, there are places — especially in Scottsdale — where it will behoove you to act as if you do, and the J Bar is one of them. This super-slinky waterin’ hole packs in the booful people on peak nights Thursdays through Saturdays, and the high-class chicas therein can smell a scrub coming from a mile away. So let us school you on how to act like you’re a playa, even if your ride is a Hyundai. First, the swagger. You gotta be cocky, and a little snooty. Turn up your nose at the finest-lookin’ ho’s in the room; after all, it’s their job to get next to you. As far as garb goes, tinted glasses are mandatory, and shabby chic always works. Wear your best shiny shirt right out of the package with a pair of your most raggedy jeans. This tells the ladies that you’re rockin’ so much dolo that you can afford to be lazy. Don’t wash your hair for a day, then mousse it all up into spikes. And stop by the men’s counter at a department store to spray on a sample of its most expensive cologne. Finally, if you don’t have a gold card to throw out at the bartender, prepare a thick cash roll of mostly ones with two C-notes on top. You’ll only break the first one, but the bitches’ eyes will pop when they see you break out that wad. Then nurse one, maybe two martinis with your wing man and wait for the honeys to beat a path to your studliness. Yeah, baby, there’s nothing like the life of a $30,000-a-year millionaire at the J Bar.

Everyone worships the good Lord in his or her own way. On Fridays, Muslims hit the mosque, and on Saturdays, Jews go a-synagoguing. Christians of many denominations make Sunday their day of prayer, and we fall into this category, although our chapel, if you will, is Shepherd’s Nite Club, where communion is in the form of a Jack ‘n’ Coke, and baptism is referred to as “Super Soak-Her,” a wet-tee-shirt contest like no other in our Valley of the Sin, uh, we mean, Sun. Here hot amateur gals and some off-duty pros get nearly nekkid for Jehovah, allowing gallons of very cold H2O to be poured all over their skimpy tops and thongs. That’s when the Holy Ghost takes control, inspiring these heavenly honeys to crawl all over the men in the congregation, and minister to them in a religious fervor known to perform miracles such as raising the dead and making the blind see! Indeed, we like to think if Jesus comes again, he’ll mosey on over to Shepherd’s for a cocktail and gander at all this piety on display. After all, there’s no cover, and it beats Bible study, that’s for damn sure.

For those of you who don’t play blackjack often and who’ve never seen the buddy flick Swingers, wherein this gambling maneuver is much discussed, doubling down is essentially doubling your bet in mid-play because the odds are in your favor. And what’s the best time and place to double down in Casino Phoenix? Tuesdays and Thursdays at any of the Valley’s six Castle Megastores, where the management runs a rent-two-DVDs-for-the-price-of-one special, allowing you twice the XXX viewing pleasure with twice the adult film stars at the beck and call of your remote control. This is an important offer for pornophiles because the majority of adult films are not quite as, er, stimulating as you’d like ’em to be, if you catch our drift. But by doubling your “bet,” and taking home, say, Italian stallion Rocco Siffredi’s latest release along with a compilation of steamy seductress Tera Patrick’s best work, you’re more likely to precipitate a jackpot worthy of your wager. Plus, let’s face it, what we’re alluding to is a hell of a lot more fun than gambling, right?

In casino terms, a whale is a big fish with money to burn: a Shamu-size gambler who can afford the fickle fortunes of wagering, while staying in a posh money pit and enjoying all the amenities due someone of his or her stature. If we think of PHX as a Vegas-style casino, then the best “whale” watching is at the Arizona Biltmore Resort & Spa, where true players chill in old-school environs wrought by Frank Lloyd Wright disciple Albert Chase McArthur. McArthur eventually hired Wright on to the project, too, and the style echoes the principles of America’s most illustrious architect. This “Jewel of the Desert,” as it’s been called, has more than 700 guest accommodations, nearly 80 of which are one- or two-bedroom villas. In addition, there are seven tennis courts, an 18-hole putting green, eight pools, and so on. The “whales” who’ve reportedly beached here have included such luminaries as Clark Gable, Harry Cohn, Irving Berlin, Marlon Brando, both Clintons, both Reagans, and U2. Now if they could only fit a real orca into one of the Biltmore’s ce-ment ponds, then we’d really be impressed.

In the parlance of gaming, a sawdust joint is a no-frills, lower-end gambling parlor, the kind of place where they might even have sawdust on the floor, but where you can still catch that betting buzz. Now, there’s no sawdust on the floor of the Bikini Lounge, and there’s not even gambling, unless you’re wagering on when the cat next to you is going to try to light his cigarette the wrong way around. But if Phoenix is a player’s paradise, then it follows that there are both sawdust juke joints of renown like Bikini for the common folk, just as there are “carpet joints” for the swells and pretty people. Actually, the 58-year-old Bikini caters to a wide array of PHX characters — from First Friday revelers and penny-pinching Picassos on the make to brazen betties in low-cut tops and snooker aficionados from around the way making use of Bikini’s one pool table in the back. The decor is old-school tiki, with a grass-skirted wahine on black velvet behind the bar. And the drinks are dead cheap. What else could you ask for in a sawdust joint? Oh, yeah, gambling . . .

Picture the polar opposite of the sawdust joint, and that’s a carpet joint, the sort of plush, swank spot that caters to the moneyed and dissolute, the terminally hot, who want nothing more than to rub up on one another while sipping their cosmos. The Pussycat Lounge is the best carpet joint in a city of carpet joints — Scottsdale, where everyone’s young and good-looking, with loads of disposable cash. On either side of the large open space before the bar are the requisite couches for them to chill at, because their lives are too effin’ hard — standing around, being beautiful, maxing out daddy’s MasterCard. There’s even a sex swing to one side where the “pay attention to me” babes curl up, eventually to be joined by other Prada-wearin’ pretties. Once the alcohol or whatever they’re doing in the restrooms takes effect, they’ll be making out with each other. And if you’re a dood on the prowl in your shiny shirt, and wait around ’til last call, you might be able to offer one of them a ride. See, most of them have done a DUI stint or two in Tent City, and one more time could mean they’ll have to do six months with the ankle bracelet. So you’re their knight in shining armor, studly. Just be sure you’ve got plenty of Trojans on hand.

Introverts, you’ve been warned. If you’re the wallflower type, stay the hell away from Bacchanal. In addition to gourmet Grecian cuisine — like succulent lamb capama and mouth-watering moussaka — this east Phoenix ethnic eatery is famous for its big, fat Greek wedding of food and festivities. A spirited slate of entertainment runs Tuesdays through Saturdays, where patrons, including fraidy-cats like yourself, are encouraged to participate. The eats get in on the show, too, as waiters will occasionally rush to tables carrying flaming dishes of saganaki, consisting of baked kefalograviera cheese that’s set afire by a thin coating of brandy and snuffed out by a fresh-squeezed lemon. Each night a live folk band performs, followed by the sultry undulations of a belly dancer or two. Customers can either join in the dancing or show their appreciation by purchasing plates for $1 each and smashing them on the ground. Of course, you can simply stand by the sidelines and watch, but get enough ouzo in you and we’re sure you’ll Greek out like everyone else. Opa!

You might be pimpin’ all over the world, like Ludacris, or you might be pimpin’ in Old Town as a $30,000-per-annum “millionaire” with a Lexus on lease and a wardrobe by MasterCard. Either way, if you’re young, hot and stylish, chances are the glamorous new Scottsdale club e4 is calling your name. The brainchild of founder/CEO Aron Mezo, e4 is really four clubs in one, each representing one of the basic elements of fire, water, air or earth. It’s a veritable adult Disneyland, with alcohol vaporizers allowing you to breathe in your favorite shot on the misted “air” patio; a medieval, S&M dungeon scene for the “fire” chamber; a laid-back couch-laden lounge for “earth”; and a gurgling, blue danceteria for “water.” Like in other Scottsdale party zones, e4 has plenty of chicks with fake boobs and doods with fake bank accounts. But here the eye candy gets competition from the environs, which is always imaginative and intriguing, even when the clientele is not.

There’s a lot to love about the Wrigley Mansion, built by chewing-gum magnate William Wrigley Jr. for his wife, Ada, and now owned by Phoenix’s own jazz-playing recluse Geordie “Son of Spam” Hormel, heir to the meatpacking fortune. The interior of the regal mansion is a little dusty and threadbare in places, but the patina only adds to the place’s old-school charm. First, there’s Geordie’s restaurant and bar at the Wrigley Mansion Club, which offers tasteful live music on select evenings. Once in a great while, the hippie-fied Hormel himself plays jazz piano there. The bar features several rooms with plush Victorian furnishings; it’s the perfect place for a glass of good port or cognac. And the restaurant offers a terrific nighttime view. But the best thing about the mansion, in our humble opinion, is that, once you’ve finished din-din, you can wander without escort through the rooms, drink in hand, eventually landing on a set of over-the-parking-lot balconies facing the Phoenix skyline. What happens on those balconies, stays on those balconies. Trust us, the views are great.

When the weather’s just right, we like to sip a vodka martini on the perfectly appointed patio at AZ 88, with the rest of the beautiful people. When it’s too hot, we’ll crowd up against them at the bar. Last time we were there, it drizzled, but instead of ushering the B.P.s indoors, the staff handed out black umbrellas, a charming touch, and not surprising, given that attention to detail — from the ever-changing art to the coffee bean in the espresso martini — is a hallmark of this Scottsdale establishment. We held our breath, hoping no one skidded on high heels or leather-soled loafers on the slick marble floor. But everyone glided.

Every year, the sunsets in the Valley just seem to get better and better. We’d tell you that’s because of the increase in pollution, which, at twilight, lights the sky on fire with pinks and oranges. But that would be a buzz kill. Better to simply send you over to the jade bar — the bar adjacent to elements, the restaurant at Sanctuary — and let you ponder your existence over a cantaloupe martini and the prettiest sunset view in town. From the patio of the jade bar, you can see Mummy Mountain and the twinkling lights of Paradise Valley. That’s right, Paradise.

For a first date sure to set you apart from every other yahoo who attempted to impress your paramour before you, hook up with the concierge at the ritzy Westin Kierland Resort in north Scottsdale for a semi-guided ride on the hotel’s fleet of $5,000 Segway scooters. Merely stepping on the high-tech gyroscopic “human transport” devices is instant fun — the space-aged machines respond to your slightest touch, zipping off on two big wheels in whatever direction your mind seems to suggest. After a short lesson from a hotel staffer, you’ll be free to zoom about the sprawling grounds like a New Age George and Jane Jetson. Don’t stop this crazy thing!

What’s that sexy look in Roaring Fork proprietor/chef Robert McGrath’s eye? Yeah, baby, Chef Robert knows what you want and just how you like it: His signature 12 oz. Big Ass Burger with roasted green chiles, long horn cheese, bacon, grilled onion, and fries, served only at the restaurant’s saloon. That burger alone would be enough to net McGrath top honors in this category, but McGrath slays us with the other items on the bar menu, like the Green Chile Pork Stew with jack cheese and buttered flour tortillas, or the “Frito Pie,” consisting of “Buzzard Breath” chili, diced onion and Cheddar over Fritos corn chips. Robert, if you think you can serve food like this at your bar and then have your way with us, you’re . . . you’re absolutely right. We surrender! As long as you give us one more burger for the road, and let us come back whenever we want, we’re all yours, bubba.

Hey, you! Yeah, we’re talking to you. You got a Godzilla-size appetite? Then get your fill of Japanese food and stiff cocktails during Tokyo Tuesdays at Ra Sushi Bar. From 8 p.m. to midnight, Ra serves up monster-themed drinks and menu offerings while screening classic Godzilla and martial arts films. Come give your best impersonation of those cheesy voice-overs and catch a Godzilla flick and a variety of Sonny Chiba kung fu movies. Get tipsy off seven specialty drinks, including a Skyy Spice and Kahlúa concoction known as the Smog Monster that will leave you roaring for more. Among one of the four menu items honoring the amphibious creature is the Mega Monster Sampler, which comes with chicken skewers, two varieties of won tons and lobster spring rolls, and is perfect to share with friends.

There’s no cover charge, so what are you waiting for?

We’ve had a long, hard day of keeping our noses to the grindstone, but now it’s quitting time and we’re plenty parched. We need a place to quench our thirst and drown our sorrows, cheap. While nearly every local bar, tavern and saloon offers the ubiquitous happy hour, few are as inexpensive as this popular cantina-style Mexican eatery located on University Drive near Loop 101. We’re familiar with the joint, having spent many a noontime hour enjoying its dozen or so $5 lunch specials as well as its penny beers. But now we’re making the trip out to east Tempe every weekday from 4 until 7 p.m. to whet our whistle with 95-cent pints of Miller Lite, Budweiser, Bud Light, and Michelob Ultra. We’re not the only ones looking to satisfy our dual cravings for refreshment and savings, as plenty of cotton-mouthed ASU college kids and businessmen are also in the house, both drinking it up and yukking it up. With apologies to the people at Circle K, Susie’s offers the best thirst buster in town.

Find a penny, buy a drink: Every Friday and Saturday night, Blaze hosts “1 Cent Night,” where lushes can enjoy penny U-Call-Its from 8 to 11 p.m. The special includes top-shelf liquors like Hennessy, Hypnotiq, and Kahlúa, so your dates will think you’re spending lots of moola for them to imbibe, when you’re really not spending any more than you would spend on, say, one of those “prizes” from the quarter machines at retail stores. So bring a dime, have 10 drinks, and be a dancin’ fool. At the end of the night, you should have more than enough to spring for a cab ride home.

We don’t like whining about wine, but the vino prices at restaurants these days are through the roof! All we want is a little bottle of Chianti or a nice Pinot Noir to slurp with our meal, but the bottle that costs you $12 at Cost Plus might go for two or three times that much in the most modest of grub shacks. Fortunately, there are still some places around that’ll let you schlep in your own fermented grape juice for a small fee. At Giuseppe’s, it’s a mere $3, whether you’re chugging Boone’s Farm or sipping a fine Bordeaux. Owned by Richard Bock, principal cellist for the Phoenix Symphony, this storefront Eye-tie eatery has long established itself as a place where you can buy a plate of pasta that’s better than most, as well as enjoy above-average bruschetta, baked ziti, lasagna, fried eggplant and so on, all for very reasonable prices. His BYOB policy seems an extension of this democratic attitude toward food and drink, and we love him for it. So cop a quart of Manischewitz or Château Mouton Rothschild, get down to Giuseppe’s and start guzzling, y’all.

With the ghosts of such renowned tipplers of yore like John Wayne and Jack Durant roaming the place, it’s no wonder that this Phoenix classic serves what we regard as the best drunk food ever conceived on the face of the planet. Indeed, after our fifth or sixth Crown and Coke, what we want is a plate or two of “Durant’s debris.” Rumored to be the leftovers of all the fine steaks served at Durant’s — hence the title “debris” — these come as two skewers of mesquite-broiled cubes of filet mignon, rib eye, and New York strip, separated by scallions, with garlic aioli as a condiment. This Atkins-friendly appetizer soaks up quite a bit of that John Barleycorn in our tummy-tum-tums, making room for more firewater yet! Sure, you don’t necessarily have to be drunk to order the debris, but where would be the fun in that?

Life is short, pallie. Nothing’s guaranteed in this crazy-ass world, except that eventual date with Doctor Death, and the fact that The Man owns your ass from diapers to dust. So what’s the point? Is it all so bad people will burn in Hades and goody two-shoes and snitches will get to strap on wings and kiss God’s blessed hiney for infinity? Basically, all we can figure is that it’s about the few creature comforts you can snatch from a rotten existence before you croak. You know, “A loaf of bread, a jug of wine and thou.” Except in our case, we’ll take a stack of Benjies instead of that loaf of bread, a night with a supermodel instead of thou, and a case of Kiltlifter Scottish-Style Ale in bottles instead of that jug o’ vino. Yes, that malty, amber ambrosia with its faint smokiness is one of the few reasons we have to live! Because we ain’t got no stack of Benjies, no supermodel, and no jug of Cristal. But Kiltlifter you can boost at just about any local supermarket, Cap’n, even though it’s made by the kind folks at Four Peaks Brewery in Tempe. Think of it as non-prescription Prozac, dawg, and get you some.

Imagine 40,000 gallons of beer on the wall. That’s what the Rock Bottom brewery chain produces every year, using the finest hand-selected hops and malted barley from Yakima Valley in the Northwest. Rock Bottom’s got three other Valley locations (see the Web site for locales in Glendale, Ahwatukee and Scottsdale), but the Desert Ridge location boasts brewmaster Brian Helton, who makes his favorite local brewski, the Gila Pale Ale, with a tasty touch of caramel malt and orange citrus hop. The local lager menu also includes Roadrunner Brown, the El Jefe Hefeweizen (an unfiltered wheat ale with a hint of banana, clove and vanilla), and the scrumptious Saguaro Stout, a creamy dry stout with dark chocolate and oatmeal flavor. And the brews are good to go, with half-gallon “growlers” and quarter- and half-barrel kegs available for takeout. Rock Bottom, you’re tops with us.

We have no earthly idea what you’re going to do once you finish reading all these Best Ofs. Change your underwear finally, we hope. But we do know what we’re doing once we’re finished writing all these puppies: heading over to the Clarendon’s Camus restaurant and bar, where we plan to grab a stool and ease into one of Carson Quinn’s many mah-velous martinis. See, Quinn is a real artist when it comes to crafting variations on this classic cocktail. Once the top dog over at the Merc Bar, Quinn came on over to the Clarendon when it gave him carte blanche to follow his muse and create a bar/restaurant to match the newly boutiqued Clarendon. The Mighty Quinn named his new place after his favorite novelist Albert Camus, and, needless to say, the specialty martinis there kick much kahuna, like the Carson City Martini, a citrusy mix of Amaretto and Absolut Citron, garnished with a maraschino cherry; or the Camus Blood Orange Martini, a luscious, icy concoction of Hanger One Mandarin, Triple Sec, lime, and a blood orange purée garnished with an orange peel. There are others, sure, but this is what we’ll be imbibing once the last BOP is done, which we pray will be soon.

Here’s how to mix a good mojito: Take a lime and put it into the microwave for about 20 seconds. This makes it easier to extract the juice from the bugger. Squeeze into a tall mortar (a bowl will do, if you are as ill-equipped as we are). Add a tablespoon of sugar, plus four or five washed mint leaves. Muddle the holy hell out of the mess (that means mush it up real good), and pour the contents into a tall glass of ice cubes. Fill the glass to about three-quarters of an inch from the top with good white rum. Top the concoction with club soda, shake well and drink. We’re sure there’s a way to make a larger portion of mojitos, say, a pitcher full, but our math skills aren’t good enough to provide the measurements. Obviously, lots of white rum is the most important part of an excellent mojito. There are many places in the PHX that attempt the mojito, but few understand this basic premise. One that does is the Southwestern restaurant Sierra Bonita Grill, whose mojitos will drop you on your ass, pard. You will be happily drinking mojito after mojito at the place, thinking all is well — because Sierra Bonita’s version of the libation tastes like minty lemonade — and then: POW! On a night when the temperature’s below a dry 95, try savoring this refreshing cocktail on SB’s bar-adjacent veranda. There’s something about the night air that makes a mojito or three kick in roadrunner-fast.

We know, we know, Sex and the City is so 2004. Everyone who’s anyone is now watching Entourage. But can we help it if we developed a strong attachment to Carrie Bradshaw’s favorite drink, the cosmopolitan? We know vodka sales skyrocketed along with Sex‘s ratings, and we intend to keep sales high. And ourselves a little high, too, on the cosmos at Portland’s. The bartenders there know just the right amount of cranberry juice (a scant splash) to mix in with the ice-cold vodka. We’re not even sure what else they put in there, and it doesn’t really matter — vodka’s the key ingredient. Now if we could just remember what time those Sex and the City reruns are on, and persuade the bartenders at Portland’s to turn the channel . . .

We never tire of visiting the various Havana Cafes owned and operated by B.J. and Gilbert Hernandez. This year, we recognize them for their sangria, that fruity, blood-red Spanish libation that elsewhere can seem so drab and bland, but at Havana Cafe is terribly refreshing and bursting with flavor. Three-quarters of the chilled drink is a blend of Merlot and Cabernet, and the other quarter is a mixture of freshly squeezed fruit — lemons, limes and oranges — spices such as cinnamon and whole cloves introduced via a spice bag, and a splash of 7UP. Served over ice with fresh apples, there’s nothing like it on a warm evening, trickling down your throat like a cool stream. My, but we suddenly feel parched. Perhaps we should run right over there for a pitcher or two. Adios!

When your mixed drink of choice is the melonball, and it seems to be made differently (and usually poorly) at every bar in the Valley, you start to feel like maybe you should just order a friggin’ screwdriver. Most of the time, when you do ask for a melonball, you get a drink made of mostly orange juice, a smidge of vodka, and a tiny, microscopic drop of Midori melon liqueur, anyway. Or you just get a glass of tequila with a thimbleful of sweet-and-sour mix tossed into it. Nobody seems to know what’s really in a melonball, or how to mix one. So when the bartenders at Stray Cat Bar and Grill say, “You want a melonball? I’ll make you a kick-ass melonball,” and then they bring the tastiest blend of Sauza tequila, Midori, sweet-and-sour mix, and (secret ingredient) Captain Morgan coconut rum topped with a fresh maraschino cherry, you just want to kiss the bartenders and yell, “Ding, ding, ding, ding!” We have a winner.

This newcomer has just the right features to keep us coming back. First of all, Shady’s is no townie hangout. Its cool, understated coziness — a compact bar, black upholstered banquettes and booths, a single pool table — attracts a crowd that’s young, good-looking, and interested in more than simply getting hammered. There’s also a killer jukebox stocked with classic alt-rock, punk and ska (no surprise, considering that Shady’s older sister is Scottsdale’s TT Roadhouse, whose own jukebox has long been a New Times favorite). Don’t expect a fashion show; Shady’s is stylish but casual, attitude-free, and (dare we say) timeless.

One might assume that Joe Grotto is a bit pompous, given that he named his north Valley speakeasy after himself. But after you encounter the friendly and down-to-earth owner (if you can manage to flag him down as he eagerly interacts with customers, that is), you’ll discover how appearances can often be deceiving. The same goes for Joe’s drinking establishment. Tucked into a nondescript corner of a quiet strip mall, Joe’s is actually a rockin’ bar and hot music spot. Grotto enthusiastically welcomes you to his place, gushing about how his joint is a gathering spot for all kinds, be they teased-haired aging cock-rockers, polo-shirt-clad office drones, or belly-shirt-wearing ladies of the night. He’s equally amped about booking local acts like the classic rockers of Sluggo, the female-fronted rock foursome Downward Dog, or the extreme thrashers of (sic)monic. Joe’s is fast filling the Valley’s need for a serious hard-rock venue, a void left by the closure of the Mason Jar earlier this year. You go, Joe.

Nowhere is the west side’s rough-and-tumble reputation more apparent than at the adult playground of sorts available at this tavern. Barflies from miles around amble into the Amber Inn for grown-up thrills, whether it’s the arcade claw machine stocked with triple-X DVDs and other porno novelties; the virtual poker games over the bar’s interactive NTN trivia system; raucous karaoke nights Thursday through Saturday; or the saucy pics of Marilyn Monroe adorning the walls. On any given evening, you’re likely to find surly regulars downing dirt-cheap drinks like 50-cent Cherry Bombs (a gut-busting dose of Everclear 151, amaretto and Tabasco sauce), 75-cent Jägermeister or Pucker shots, and $1 domestic pints — offered every night except for those featuring live entertainment — or engaging in flirtatious conversations with a foxy female bartender (occasionally clad in a “Fuck You, You Fucking Fuck!” tee). But if your desire for dirty deeds isn’t sated yet, there’s a head shop just next door. Remember, sin is in!

For many Valley urbanites, the portions of Phoenix located south of Interstate 17 might as well be south of the border. Ask ’em for the hookup on any hip hangouts or cool clubs among the blighted badlands of junkyards, dollar stores, or industrial parks, and you’ll usually get blank stares or suggestions of “Um . . . Applebee’s?” instead. If you can brush aside these pathetic profferings and search around a bit, some gems can be found — like the flavorful fiestas at Federico’s. Whatever this grimy hole-in-the-wall nightspot lacks in style, it makes up for in character, with rancheros and duded-up Mexican cowboys working the cue ball on five different pool tables, congregating at secondhand tables covered with red cloths, or dancing with exotic-looking diva Latinas to styles like norteño and sweet cumbia spun by DJs on the weekends. It’s standing room only come 11 p.m., so arrive early and prepare for a pat-down from one of the tough-looking security guards frisking for weapons at the door. If illegal intentions are your thingo, gringo, look for potential marks elsewhere.

Approaching its 20th anniversary, Casey’s is still the best place to hang if you’re too cool for school — namely, nearby Arizona State. Whether you’re a hipster art student or a slacker fifth-year senior, chillin’ at Casey’s with a plate of crab cakes and a mug of Guinness (and blowing off that 3:15 class on a Tuesday afternoon) is a rite of passage. Don’t get us wrong, Casey’s ain’t just for the college crowd. It’s a second home for hundreds of “olde towne” Tempe residents who relish a simpler scene free of karaoke, silicone or gold lamé shirts. There’s no better bar, or one with a more eclectic crowd — from hippie chicks to frat boys, working stiffs to barflies — to engage in conversation, either by bellying up to the cozy bar or lounging at picnic tables on the vast outdoor patio. So while regulars might bitch about the lack of parking, most will admit that after a night (or a lazy afternoon) at Casey Moore’s, that lovely citation courtesy of the City of Tempe is almost worth it.

Turns out that drunks and dickheads aren’t the only things that’ve been 86’ed from this roadhouse, as boredom and pretentiousness are equally verboten. Despite this club’s hot spot in the shadows of Scottsdale, there’s nary a posturing person to see or be seen among a diverse throng of pierced and tattooed patrons, trendy college kids, working stiffs from the General Dynamics plant across the street, and others who congregate here. In addition to all the people-watching, amusement can be found via an array of amateur comedians who pack their gags into one side of the club for yuk-filled shows throughout the week, while DJs, local bands, and a cast of spunky/funky/punky barkeeps and wait staff offer diversion on the other. Besides, when’s the last time you were in a bar that’s lit by candlelight (other than during the last blackout)?

A thought struck us the other day as we sipped a rum and Coke while maxing and relaxing inside this, our newest favorite watering hole: This place is definitely chill. Maybe it’s all the fans and vents blasting freezy freshness throughout this darkened shelter from the sun, or perhaps it’s the refreshing specialty drinks like the Blue Lagoon (a breezy blend of vodka, curaçao and pineapple juice), imbibed by all the wild regulars who slide on in during the cool-as-ice Latin Night Thursdays, with DJs spinning salsa, merengue, reggaeton, and American oldies. It’s also pretty groovalicious that the owners keep things spic-and-span here, reminding their staff (via a Magic Markered sign over the register) to refrain from eating sunflower seeds at the bar and to “Clean, clean, all ways [sic] clean.” We don’t care if they can’t spell here. We love ’em anyway.

BS West is absolutely one of the friendliest clubs you’ll ever party at, whether you’re bi, gay, straight, or none of the above. Hidden in Scottsdale’s back streets (despite its Fifth Avenue address), the party’s always pumpin’, with enough stud muffins in attendance to make a het fella rethink his sexuality. It’s got the feel of a two-story gay frat house in the midst of Scottsdale’s party scene, with a 2-4-1 hump day special that makes BS the place to hit on Wednesday nights. But as wild as it can get, BS still retains a neighborly feel, where people aren’t afraid to converse with one another, or at least flirt shamelessly. And the bartenders actually seem happy to have your business, unlike at some other places where they make you feel like they’re doing you a favor by serving you. BS has been going strong since 1988, and if it stays the way it is, it’ll probably be alive and kickin’ in 2088.

There was a time when people were afraid that “The Biz” would be a victim of its own success. The Valley’s oldest lesbian bar is also its best-known, and if straight people know about only one gay bar in the city, it’s The Biz. But what makes this bar so popular for people of any sexual orientation is not just the promise of hordes of hot women writhing together on the dance floor. The DJs, Tsunami and Suzy, spin the hottest mixes of hip-hop, house, Top 40 and retro, and the bartenders serve up drinks faster than you can say the L-word, not to mention the slew of sexy shows (the band Betty, musician Jennifer Spector, and drag kings) and erotic events (wet tee-shirt contests and “Stripper Night”). But don’t take our word for it. Show up on a Thursday or Sunday night and see for yourself. Just be prepared to stand in line if you show up after 10 p.m.

We swear, if we took our mom to Ain’t Nobody’s Bizness, then drove her across town to Axis/Radius, she’d think the Scottsdale club was the lesbian bar. Everybody knows that the gals in the stylish Scottsdale clubs are stone-cold hotties, with their low-cut shirts and skirts so tight they could have been painted on. But at Axis/Radius, they let it all hang out, with full-on, girl-on-girl grinding. The guys love to gather ’round and watch the ladies go at it, even if the femmes fatales are “just friends” off the dance floor. And judging by the lack of same-sex ass-shaking and smacking when the guys aren’t looking, the show is for the blokes, anyway. That’s a nuance we figure would be lost on Mom.

Our desert metropolis has everything, including a place where one can pick up a lady with a little something extra, if you know what we mean. These unique gals congregate for libations and laughter at Cruisin’ Seventh, a queer neighborhood dive that’s become popular with transgender and transsexual types. Entertainment by such drag performers as Ineda Buffet, Devina, and Evelyn Edwards has made this nightspot a weekend favorite. Both fake females and soon-to-be-females flock here to relax with a cocktail, play pool next to a wall canvassed in colorful murals, or chat it up with a handsome suitor who may or may not be worthy of such a woman. Don’t take our word for it; cruise on in yourself.

Locating this nightspot can be difficult if you’re not a leather queen or at least a fan of same, since the Padlock has no flashy sign, just a giant black and blue flag (which means “Trusses and biker caps in here, lads!”) painted on the front wall. Inside, dungeon decor and dartboards are the play stations of bare-chested, buff and burly studs who pack the place every weekend for special events like “Uniform Night” and the “Best Asset Contest” designed to make even the toughest leather daddy blush. “Drop’m and drink” Tuesdays get bottoms and tops alike to party in nothing but underwear for half-price drinks. Looking for an excuse to dust off those leather chaps and riding crop? Now’s your chance to spank your weekend for being bad and embark on a night of naughty fun.

A pool hall, as opposed to a billiards parlor, should be comfortable but with an edge. The kind of place where no one tells you to take your feet off the neighboring barstool; where the drinks are strong, a game costs 50 cents, the sticks are straight, and chalk is plentiful. You want a place where people treat each other with respect, but fighting words are occasionally exchanged. Attractive members of the opposite sex are a bonus, but not required — you’re here to shoot pool, not watch players bend over to make shots. Groggy’s is just such a rough-around-the-edges spot, with six tables and plenty of room between them. Skill levels vary from rank amateur to pretty damn good, but this isn’t a place for hustlers; just a kick-back-and-relax neighborhood tav where the eight-ball rules. The bartenders know their business; even when it’s busy, you’ll never wait longer than a minute for a refill. And Groggy’s has it going on: The kitchen makes a mean sandwich, and the digital jukebox plays virtually any song ever recorded. Drop in when Tits on a Stick (she insists they’re real and she really answers to that name) is working. ‘Nuff said.

It’s hard to resist the charms of a bar that serves up both darts and bangers and mash, which is why George & Dragon is our pick as the best English pub in town. A low-key spot, it’s bigger on comfort than style, catering to football hooligans and people who like a good pint — real Brits, in other words, and the Americans who love them.

We’ve picked Chandler’s Fibber Magees as the Best Irish Pub again for one salient reason: To be a great Irish pub, you not only have to have great drink, an authentic atmosphere, and Irish music, you also have to have a solid Irish menu, one that does more than give lip service to the cuisine of the Emerald Isle. More than any of the other fine Irish establishments in the Valley, Fibber Magees delivers on Irish eats with baskets of soda bread, plates of boxty — the Irish potato pancake — bangers and champ, trad Irish breakfast with black and white pudding, and so on. One or two other Irish places in the area make a stab at Irish food, but none comes close to the quality of what you get at Fibber Magees. Yes, you can get a proper pint of Guinness here, as well as a shot of Jameson. And there are plenty of fair colleens to gaze upon. But the food is why we keep comin’ back, and it’s why Fibbers keeps winning this award.

If you regard pitas, shish kebabs and belly dancers as a distraction to your hookah pipe smoking, then the Red Sea Hookah Lounge is the place for you. The Red Sea isn’t a restaurant; it’s a straight smoking joint. Sprawl on the velvet love seats and order up a water pipe of tobacco in flavors like mango, blueberry and peach. If you want food, they’ll go to the bar next door and get you something. Otherwise, this place is about smoking, and nothing else.

A veritable seraglio of heterosexual sin that could turn one of those altar-boy-caressin’ Father Feelgoods in the Catholic Church into a red-meat-eatin’ lover of the female form, this palatial chichi emporium boasts 160 of the finest dames in the Valley, each of them getting half-nekkid just for you. Penthouse also offers up 10,000 square feet of flashing lights, plush chairs, plasma TV sets, long-ass bars with a strip of ice down the middle so you can set your glass down and keep your drink frosty, three stripper stages, and a high catwalk leading from the gals’ dressing room to the main stage. Still want more? Penthouse also features an old-school, four-star menu with everything from surf-and-turf to stuffed pork chops. And if you’ve got the moola, there’s an exclusive, members-only VIP section where you can survey the action on the floor from behind tinted windows. Overall, the classiest strip joint in town, bar none.

Tits, bazooms, chi-chis, ta-tas, melons, jugs. No matter what you call them, if you want to be the queen bee of Coyote Hill, you have to be willing to show them off a time or two. At this popular nightspot just three miles north of Glendale Arena, DJ Mikey Mike hosts “Bead Night” every Friday and Saturday, during which he calls for ladies to get wild and win some cash. Guys pay a $5 cover and are handed two fistfuls of beads, while the gals trot around doing whatever they can to scam the most beads for the $50 grand prize. Ladies have been known to go as far as to flash some nipple to beat out the competition. But guys, be creative! You have hundreds of women at your beck and call. Just whippin’ out her rack is way too easy. Make her work for it!

A big, swank Spanish restaurant by evening, by night Barcelona becomes a meat market pulsing with dance tunes and beautiful people on the prowl. Most nights, count on a DJ who knows how to keep the place hopping or a band that does a decent job covering good dance tunes. But unlike lesser clubs, Barcelona never feels ridiculously crowded or too smoky to breathe. The bouncers are great at keeping traffic off the dance floor, so you’re not going to get knocked in the ribs when you bust a move.

All these new ballroom-dance-related reality shows and feature films have us craving a smooth spot to glide across a dance floor. The place that comes to mind is a jazz club tucked quaintly into a corner of Uptown Plaza at Central Avenue and Camelback Road. Johnny’s Uptown caters to those with aspiring twinkle toes. Its modest-size dance floor is set against a stage that’s always bubbling with live music, one that allows just enough room to swivel and pivot yourself into a stupor. Dance soirees happen nightly and tend to run late, with such entertainment as Doc and Nayo or the Xcite Band playing until 2 a.m. Ella had it right when she sang, “It don’t mean a thing if it ain’t got that swing,” and Johnny’s is the place to swing it ’til it won’t swing no more.

If you need a place to sit back with a bottle of beer while watching a game, a place where you can sing your troubles away to an off-pitch karaoke song, or a place to rock along with local bands, BJ’s is where you’ll best land. And before you try to score points with a giggle at this hopping spot’s funny name, know that the owners have got you beat. The work uniform at this casual nightspot is a tee shirt splashed proudly with the phrase “I ♥ BJ’s.” (Of course, knockoffs of this shirt are for sale, and for just $15, too.) Unlike most sports bars, BJ’s hosts live music and karaoke simultaneously every weekend, with bands like Monsoon Alley, and Big Mama and Whitebread. The crowd is a fun mix of neighborhood locals and ASU West students looking to unwind after class, all looking for cheap drinks, a quick game of shuffleboard, and maybe even a round of darts. With all this fun and more, who can help but ♥ BJ’s?

Don’t expect any alone time in either of the restrooms at Half Moon, an upscale sports bar that caters to corporate lackeys looking to unwind — and to undress, apparently. Each restroom has what appears to us to be a strategically located video camera mounted in a corner, pointed right at you. It’s not uncommon to find a gaggle of guys huddled around the sink, gawking at the 17-inch LCD screen on which a trio of girls in the restroom next door are tossing their unmentionables over the stall, gettin’ freaky with each other. We once saw a flat-chested hottie stuff her bra with toilet paper before hunting for a CEO at the bar. And the ladies get to see plenty, as well, whether it’s a goon digging for gold or an insecure middle-management type shoving a pair of socks down his pants. Is it all just a gag, you might ask? Hey, the camera never lies.

Standing nine feet tall, weighing in at five hundred pounds, this enormous monstrosity can put any bar mascot to shame. Set at the entrance of Hurricane Bay in north Phoenix, a giant replica of a volcano inspired by Mount Wannahockaloogy from the Disney movie Finding Nemo transports patrons directly to the Islands. Complete with a waterfall and smoke billowing from the top, the nameless sculpture overlooks a dance floor lighted in turquoise, and a grass-skirted bar, and can be seen from every point in the equally oversize nightspot. Some believe that if you touch the behemoth for good luck, you are destined to find the beautiful virgin before she is sacrificed to the gods.

Sure, you can see and be seen all night long in the clubs, but in some circles, gelato has become the new nightcap — and everyone who’s anyone is slurping it up. It’s a true Experience, hanging at The Gelato Spot, which shares a strip mall with Zen 32, Delux, and Hava Java. On a recent visit we spotted Arizona Republic columnist Bob Robb rubbing his tired, hard-worked brow over his little cup. Another time, Shelly Cohn and Mollie Trivers, Valley culture vulturettes, held court. The location is key, but it’s the gelato and the accompanying service that make this place such a magnet. The fresh-fruit sorbets are lovely, as are the heavier selections — the traditional Italian tiramisu (just like the dessert of the same name), bacio (chocolate-hazelnut) and torroncino (hazelnut, honey and almond). The worst-kept secret in town is that you don’t actually have to buy any sorbet at The Gelato Spot: The friendly staff will give you so many tastes, you’ll be full by the time someone asks for your order. But be a sport, buy something — remember, people are watching.

If you’re up to no good and don’t want the whole town to know about it, there’s no better place to hide out than this funky, thoroughly dark central Phoenix watering hole. The Valley’s version of Hernando’s Hideaway has a great retro vibe, a thoroughly diverse clientele, and just enough smoke (and so little light) that total discretion is a given. If it’s a busy night at Chez Nous and the music is loud, no one will ever know you were there.

There’s no explanation for a place like the Palo Verde. Dude, this place should be on an episode of Ripley’s Believe It or Not. By everyone’s admission, even the regulars, the PV is a dive. Outside, the junky brick building looks like it might house a meth lab or a massage parlor. Inside, it’s bare bones: a jukebox, two pool tables operating at 50 cents a pop, a couple of electronic games in the back, one old-school Playboy pinball machine, and a seedy little bar area. And yet it draws one of the most diverse crowds in the Valley, including iron cowboys, college geeks, punk-rock chicks, tattoo artists, crusty old-timers, hip black guys — you name it. Why do they all head for the Palo Verde? Aside from great drink specials, there’s no easy answer, other than maybe it’s like pulling on an ancient pair of jeans which, despite all the wear and tear, are comfy as hell. Got another theory? Meet us down at the PV, and we’ll discuss it over a couple of pints, matey.

Dirty Dogg Saloon may be a “biker bar,” but don’t be scared. The hot Harleys and other shiny chrome hogs out front belong mostly to middle-aged moneymakers and thirtysomething trendsetters. After all, we’re talking about a bar in a Scottsdale strip mall. Some of the fellas still look pretty rough, though, covered in old, faded tattoos, with a few teeth missing here and there, but buried beneath the dirty denim and leather are biker b-boys who just wanna bust some moves. Maybe it’s the hundreds of bras and panties hanging from the ceiling, or maybe it’s the fine, frivolous young ladies who gather ’round them, but when these guys get down, they get down all the way, doing hand spins and back spins on the floor, throwing off their bandannas, and jamming to whatever’s on the jukebox, be it Mötley Crüe or OutKast. Ride on!

Check your attitude at the door. Hardtailz caters to bikers, but it’s no place for assholes. You don’t have to have tattoos or grease under your fingernails to get a fresh drink as soon as yours runs dry. Unlike some other places where strange faces are greeted with suspicion or indifference, everyone is welcome here, whether they get around on a Harley, a Honda, or in a BMW. There are parking spaces reserved for bikes next to the entrance, and the obligatory closed-circuit television camera, so you can keep an eye on your ride as you sip. If you don’t want your scooter out of sight, you can sit in the outdoor beer garden, which misters keep cool in the summer. The bar is spacious, with room enough for billiard and Ping-Pong tables. There’s live music most nights (classic rock dominates — this is, after all, a biker place), and the kitchen serves up great cheeseburgers and fries. So hop on your hog and head to Hardtailz.

Kudos to the Yucca Tap Room for a courageous common-sense approach to the anti-smoking Nazis. At considerable financial risk (establishments that allow smoking can be fined up to $500 by the city, and snitches can rat to the police online), the Yucca keeps a healthy supply of Altoids tins behind the bar. They are not there to cure bad breath. Rather, the tins make dandy ashtrays, which can be quickly closed in case the cops show up. The tins are not available during live music performances or when it gets busy. They are for slow, lazy afternoons, when everyone in the place either smokes or doesn’t object if others light up. Which is exactly the way it should be.

One of the last surviving old Tempe bars, the Sail Inn regularly hosts Grateful Dead cover bands like The Noodles and Xtra Ticket. Both bands kick out mind-reeling jams, much to the delight of Deadheads who come from miles around and are still kicking up the dirt 10 years after Jerry Garcia’s death. Even former Grateful Dead keyboard player Vince Welnick occasionally drops in and brings his keyboard magic to the Sail Inn’s inside and outdoor stages. The Noodles play every Sunday beginning at 4:20 p.m. and jam until about 9 p.m. Xtra Ticket makes appearances once in a while and adds a few of its own high-energy jams to the Dead’s massive library of music. And think again if you’re expecting a crowd of aging hippies out spinning on the dance floor — there’s a steady stream of youngsters letting their freak flag fly, some of whom never saw the Grateful Dead play. We hope the music never stops at the Sail Inn.

When heading down Seventh Street, drivers can’t miss the massive blue and yellow sign that screams “Apollo’s!” and marks the spot where a personable bunch is always busy welcoming a good time. And for anyone, gay or straight, who can’t resist belting out his fave tune in public, Apollo’s — one of Phoenix’s oldest gay clubs — is the place to be. Thursdays through Saturdays, bargoers can enjoy an evening of chart-toppers by would-be starlets hoping to conquer their stage fright before the next American Idol audition. Apollo himself would be proud.

Electroclash had already peaked by the time this Friday-night dance fest got started, but that didn’t stop Phoenix’s young and trendy from coming out en masse to freak dance to Fischerspooner. Wisely, though, founder DJ Nimh (who stays involved but has since moved to New York City) established a weekly mix that went beyond the now oh-so-over music genre; now glam, dance-punk, and New Wave faves are Hot Pink! staples. These days, Sleazy Sean and Colt host the night, and sometimes lure visiting rock stars and DJs (Hot Hot Heat, Barry Weaver, etc.) to throw down some beats. We never thought this party would survive to see its second anniversary, but Hot Pink! is still bringing the heat.

Phoenix has some great DJs of all stripes, proficient in all types of musical genres, but is there anywhere in town a DJ of more renown than Pete “SuperMix” Salaz, the Buddha of House, who has long reigned over the night like some affable Aztec god? If you spotted Salaz on the street, you’d just see a portly, easygoing chap, not one who would stir you one way or the other. But this Maestro of the Wheels of Steel is a legend that other DJs bow down to, a mixmaster women throw themselves at, begging to be inseminated. Think we’re kidding? Show up at the next underground RedMonkey event, re-created from those which once took place at the Riverbottom Lounge long ago, and you’ll witness for yourself the passion people have for SuperMix and his signature evenings of dirty house. Partnered with DJ Senbad, a.k.a. Sean Badger, Salaz helped make Batucada the success it was at Scottsdale’s Next, and now he and Senbad are bringing house back to Phoenix with Lemon Drop Saturdays at Majerle’s 9-Lounge. So 20 years into his career as a DJ, the legend is still going strong. Keep spinnin’, SuperMix. Keep spinnin’.

Wanna party with the PHX’s Sultan of Soulful Beats? Then DJ Senbad, a.k.a. Sean Badger, is your man. Though Next’s Wednesday night Batucada is no more, DJ Senbad continues his magical carpet ride, whether at special events, like pool parties at the Clarendon, or at the new house night over at Majerle’s in downtown Phoenix. There’s even talk of more nights at Next, so keep your head cocked and your ears wax-free and follow the beat when you hear it, ’cause that’s where Senbad will be.

Whether he’s setting the decks ablaze at the after-party for the Soul Train Music Awards in L.A., or backing up Da Nutz weekday afternoons on Power 92.3 FM with the Two Hour Drive at Five, DJ Fashen is one of the greats in the game, who weaves the most popular hip-hop of the day in with classic and sometimes surprising sounds to craft a wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am jam, a master mix of interlocking tracks that works well whether it’s at the Buzz, Next or on the air. A member of the Heavy Hitters, one of the illest crews in hip-hop, Fashen started out as a club kid and native son of the PHX. Now his name’s known and respected throughout the industry. Why, he even snagged the 2003 West Coast DJ of the Year, though homeboy lives in the freakin’ desert! Well, here’s another plaque for your wall, Fashen. We’ll keep listening.

DJ William Fucking Reed has but one command for your delicious derrière: Get on that floor and dance! Every Saturday night at the Rogue Bar East in Scottsdale, Reed hosts Shake!, a frenzied, hip-twisting bacchanal where he drops genres like mod, glam, post-punk, garage, Brit-punk, metal, power pop, British invasion, and so on into one high-energy perpetual-motion machine with Reed like some impish gremlin at the wheel. Here at Shake!, Roxy Music meets The Bravery, Louis XIV hooks up with T. Rex, and the Beach Boys and OutKast suck face like teenagers in the bathroom — uh, metaphorically speaking, of course. In Reed’s hands, rock no longer seems like some moribund beast kept alive with the help of an Intensive Care Unit funded by Jann Wenner’s Rolling Stone. Instead, it’s a horny, thousand-armed demon that takes hold of you and makes you move despite yourself. By day, Reed works at the ever-chic Clarendon Hotel. But come Saturday night, everyone knows Reed’s the king.

The night that Tigerface crashed its own party might’ve been the kind of mortifying experience that most musicians would rather forget, but no matter. We were damn impressed. It was a sticky July evening at Modified Arts, and the Scottsdale quartet was in the middle of its opening set for psychedelic D.C. band Weird War. The steadily swelling crowd was mesmerized by Tigerface’s Faint-inspired grooves and dark, Nine Inch Nails-worthy intensity. But we never saw Trent Reznor do a stage dive with an instrument to keep a song going, which is just what keyboardist Ari did when his synth stand fell forward into the audience. Remarkably, the show did go on; instead of missing a beat, the other band members kept rocking as Ari caught the keyboard in midair and continued to play chords, sprawled out on the floor on his stomach. Talk about dedication. It might take a bigger budget for Band-Aids (or a good set of elbow pads), but maybe Tigerface should make this feat part of its regular act.

The urge to “live fast, die young” has been around about as long as rock ‘n’ roll itself, but a certain song by the Circle Jerks made it more of a punk motto 25 years ago. Funny, then, that one of that band’s contemporaries, the Angry Samoans, spawned the legacy of Jeff Dahl, who’s evolved into the Valley’s patron saint for dirty, glammy garage punks while simultaneously keeping his career alive, both onstage and in the studio. When he turned 50 this past summer, Dahl decided to throw a killer party for himself at Hollywood Alley in Mesa, and made getting old look pretty worthwhile. After all, what better way to spend a big birthday than to be surrounded by drunken, adoring fans and guest musicians who’ll sing along to every Stooges song you can muster? Maybe 50 is the new 30.

Like a giant roulette wheel floating 24 stories in the air, the Compass Room spins atop the downtown Hyatt, adding character to our skyline. The disc-shaped building slowly completes a full clockwise turn every 55 minutes, so guests who stay for an hour are guaranteed an unparalleled panoramic 360-degree view. Since celebrating its 25th anniversary, the restaurant has been completely renovated with updated decor and an expanded wine cellar triple its previous size, offering more than 150 varieties. A reservation is suggested, especially if you’re planning to drop in around sunset, when you’ll likely find a backdrop of intense pinks and oranges blooming across the sky.

Off the beaten path of most concertgoers, this Phoenix landmark’s signature revolving stage is still spinning after all these years. With no seat farther than 75 feet from the stage, Celebrity Theatre presents intimacy incomparable to other competing concert venues. Since its creation in 1963, the Celebrity has hosted a stunning list of entertainers that includes Chris Rock, George Carlin, Smashing Pumpkins, Duran Duran, Garth Brooks, Brian Setzer, Carol Channing, and Diana Ross. But beware: Performers can be seen from every angle. We recall one night when one of Donna Summer’s slit-up-the-back costumes was cut just a bit too high, leaving us hopelessly distracted from enjoying the disco diva’s dance hits.

There’s nary a place to rest your weary feet except for a few concrete stools on the smokers’ patio, and you’ll probably have to find parking on the other side of the Mill Avenue Bridge, but if you want to see the bands with the biggest buzz, you’ll be coming to the Marquee Theatre. Many of the shows sell out, so it’s wise to get tickets in advance. You might have to stand shoulder to shoulder with sweaty fellow fans to see a hot headliner like Nine Inch Nails, but think about it this way: The atmosphere is downright intimate compared to the amphitheaters where these bands could just as easily perform. It takes patience, but if you want to get up front — or even just comfortably close — it’s not out of the question at the Marquee.

Everything else in the Valley is in a strip mall — why not a music venue? While this place has been around for years, it only recently expanded to double its previous size, with a bigger stage, a bigger bar, and a broader lineup. Plenty of great national acts have played here, but it’s clear that local rockers have made this their home. Need proof? Just take a look at the bookings calendar. On almost any given week, somebody’s throwing another CD release show here.

For years, Valley bluesman Hans Olson lobbied valiantly to establish an Arizona Blues Hall of Fame, building a list of 65 inductees ranging from ’40s bandleader Louis Jordan (who moved here for his arthritis) to local stalwarts like Small Paul Hamilton, Big Pete Pearson, and Rochelle Raya. In the end, Olson lamented, his dream of building a blues museum wound up being only “a plaque on the wall of the Rhythm Room.” But that may be fitting, since virtually all of the living inductees on the list have played the Rhythm Room at one time or another. The plain-looking, boxy little club near the center of the city may not have the prestige of Cleveland’s or Seattle’s music museums, but as the default home of Valley blues heads, the plaque’s in the right place.

Young singles who know how to make a cowboy hat and denims look bad-ass strut their stuff on the Rockin Rodeo dance floor at Graham Central Station in Tempe’s auto mall district. Part of a Texas-based chain of megaclub “entertainment complexes,” Graham Central Station combines four clubs and four distinct clubbing populations — retro, karaoke, urban dance and country — under one roof. But it’s the country club that gets the Odessa chain’s fullest attention, featuring a mechanical bull and the complex’s biggest dance floor. Recently, GCS added Thursday night Rage in the Cage fights to its weekly mix, promising “Mayhem at the Station,” along with 99-cent longnecks and beginner country swing lessons. Giddy up!

50 Cent did his two-step on the bar. Britney mingled with the regular folks on the dance floor. LL Cool J sat in the exclusive “Owner’s Booth” and signed autographs for fans. And such hip-hop/R&B royalty as Eve, Busta Rhymes, Missy Elliott, Beyoncé, and Alicia Keys have all gotten their groove on here. This is why CBNC is legendary in the Valley, because the club brings in the big names, due in no small part to owner Jodi Upton. Through her luxury car dealership, Scottsdale’s Exotic Auto Sales, and her friendship with rap producer Swizz Beatz, godfather of one of her sons, she knows everyone worth knowing in hip-hop. Upton overcame a bad rap CBNC had under previous management to make her danceteria one of the safest in the Valley, despite the high-profile Loren Wade incident that happened a few months back in the Papago Plaza parking lot, far from CBNC’s doors. This hurt CBNC for a minute, but it quickly bounced back, reestablishing itself as the premier hip-hop club in the Valley. Hats off to Upton for persevering and prevailing, and for keeping it real while the haters were wishing her ill.

Wanna see giants walk the Earth? Then check out the Blunt Club on Thursday nights at Mesa’s Hollywood Alley, where you’ll catch live spoken word, painting and performance by legends in the Valley hip-hop scene. Like that “verbal taxidermist” and last year’s New Times Best Of cover model, MC Emerg McVay of Bionic Jive fame. Or urban artist extraordinaire Adam Dumper, a.k.a. Dumperfoo, who slings the paint like no man alive save for PBS’ Bob Ross, if you count him among the living. Blunt’s also got DJs like Element One, Tricky T, and Hyder. And on the floor are such renowned dance troupes as the Phunky Phoenicians, Furious Styles, Nebellen, Future Styles Sour Patch, and Mellow Drama. The Blunt Club used to pop off at Priceless Inn (now Boston’s), but now it rocks the mic right in Mesa. Here the party’s always live, the drinks cheap, and the squalies down for whatever you got goin’ on, playa.

Downtown’s stretch of Grand Avenue has seen a lot of changes in the past few years, most notably the number of galleries and performance spaces that keep popping up in once-dilapidated shops and warehouses. All this development is a good thing, one from which even hard rockers have benefited. The folks at PHiX, once a motorcycle repair shop that’s been transformed into an art gallery/music venue, make sure to book a variety of musical talent including hardcore, metal and punk bands. Acts like Endless Nightmare, and I Am Columbine have rocked out on the black, pressed-wood stage constructed by Lee Berger, owner of the vociferous den. People of all ages congregate in this rockin’ complex to aggressively ram into each other and jump up and down to the callous rhythms. We must warn you: If you’re not sure exactly how hard you’re willing to rock, prep yourself with earplugs and maybe some kneepads hidden under your jeans.

This Grand Avenue staple hasn’t picked sides — it wants to be a gallery and a bar with live music. Maybe that’s why the Paper Heart doesn’t entirely feel like either. Instead, it reminds us of some eccentric person’s living room, or maybe a crafty kid’s clubhouse, with all these comfy old couches where you can slouch back with a cold beer. The atmosphere is friendlier than your average gallery or bar, too: no haughty curators, no meathead security dudes. All the better for making yourself at home as you’re watching a rock band, hip-hop group, acoustic guitarist, or whatever else is on the eclectic musical lineup. Don’t miss the topnotch local bands rounded up by The Shizz every second Saturday of the month, and P.A.I.N.T., held every Tuesday night, with spoken-word performers and downtempo grooves courtesy of DJ Seduce.

Without a doubt, Hollywood Alley has consistently good live music, from hardcore to Americana, on any night of the week. But the past several months have brought a lot more workweek excitement to break up the daily grind. First, Dumperfoo and Emerg McVay’s Thursday night Blunt Club arrived. And just this past July, Vodka Tonic Media got on board with its own ongoing Tuesday night party, Gimme Danger, with indie bands and DJs to please the underground rock crowd. It’s nice to see an old favorite like Hollywood Alley taking some chances. So take a risk yourself, and sneak out on a school night.

It takes more than a fresh coat of paint and some nice new booth seating to really change a place. And sure enough, a lot of changes happened at The Rogue this past year (that is, The Rogue East, sister to Phoenix’s newer Rogue West). We’ve heard rumors about what really went down, but all we’ll say is this: The Rogue made it through the drama, which is more than you could say about so many of the Valley’s now-defunct nightspots. It’s a little disappointing that this place isn’t a destination to see live punk bands anymore, but on the bright side, The Rogue has made a major comeback with one single night, Shake!, on Saturdays. It’s when DJ William Reed spins punk, indie and glam to get the eyeliner crowd dancing, and flame-haired Hell on Heels’er Katie Rose pours stiff drinks to get the barflies gabbing. And one more thing — The Rogue still has a killer jukebox.

Stephanie Carrico and JRC’s Grand Avenue art space/performance venue is sorta like Disneyland, only way smaller — it’s persistently packed with colorfully larger-than-life characters, there’s tons of fun and fantasy to be had, and it could be “The Happiest Place on Earth,” especially if you’re a fan of entertainers (from both inside and outside the Valley) who are equally weird and wired. Carrico and JRC possess a self-proclaimed soft spot in their hearts for all manner of oddballs, and the list of wacky acts the couple has booked at the Trunk include the spastic gymnastics and hyperactive tonal terrorism of one-man gigs I Hate You When You’re Pregnant and Treasure Mammal, the noise rock pollution of Father’s Day, the freakish feats of the Spellbinding Circus Sideshow, and the vampire-meets-vaudeville stylings of Count Smokula. Just as long is the list of screwball antics that regularly occur, like when the gaudy J-pop punkers of NYC’s Peelander-Z ended their February set with a game of “human bowling,” encouraging audience members to toss them at some oversize pins. Looking for any unusual suspects? We betcha you’ll find them in this joint.

Sunday night is usually spent lying low, doing laundry, and licking our wounds after not snagging that honey’s number at the club the night before. It’s a “school night,” and we gotta turn in early so we can rise bright-eyed and bushy-tailed for another week of workin’ for The Man. Well, fuck that cheese! And while you’re at it, Muck Fondays, too. That’s right, I ain’t been drinkin’ . . . yet. Muck Fondays is a Sunday night of martini swillin’ and chillin’ at Bruno Mali’s, so named to make you think of O.J. Simpson’s bloody shoe (but actually named for the owner’s relatives). If there’s a principle behind Muck Fondays, it’s this: If you have to work, why not be hung over on your boss’s time? That’ll teach that needle-dick for making you clock in at 8 a.m. At Muck Fondays, they say “Screw the system!” with kick-ass DJs spinning jazz fusion and hip-hop, and drink deals that are off the chain. Hell, there’s even a better chance of hookin’ up on Sunday anyway, we think. And if that happens, you’ll have at least one reason for smiling come Monday morn.

What do you say about a club night where one of the DJs’ names is “Squalor” and people donate detritus to the garbage-laden walls? We’d say that’s one trashy event, trashy-cool, actually, on the same level of John Waters’ early flicks like Multiple Maniacs, Pink Flamingos, and Desperate Living. They call it Sadisco, short for “Sadistic Disco.” It previously went down at Jugheads once a month, usually in the middle of the month, though Sadisco’s now calling .anti_space home. Every event has a different theme, from Fight Club and Prom Night Massacre to Psycho Beach Sadisco and Crime Lab Absinthian, with .anti_space being decked out by Sadisco’s creative team of Toby Heidebrink (DJ Squalor), Donnie Burbank (DJ Doctor Father), and their demented band of libidinous misfits. Somehow, we think Baltimore’s Prince of Puke would approve of these perved-out Children of the Revolution. The music is a combo of noise, industrial, EBM (electronic body music) and electroclash, and the dress code is one of mandatory insanity. There’s nothing else like it in Phoenix. No other club night even comes close.

Hey, we know the difference between goths and Satan-worshipers. After all, the goths may look ghoulish, but we never see them at Black Mass, taking up a collection while we’re doing the hard work of sacrificing a virgin. Sheesh! Still, one look at Steven Rogers’ glorious new space Palazzo on a Friday night, when he unveils the Goth-Romance-Trance nightclub Tranzylvania, and you know Our Dark Lord Beelzebub must be hard at work somewhere. One part Queen of the Damned, one part Merovingian’s “Hel Club” from The Matrix Revolutions, Palazzo itself is all travertine floors, gargoyles, and half-nekkid sphinxes. There’s a huge bar of carved wood and black marble, and a second-story, New Orleans-style catwalk from which the VIPs can monitor the frenzied moves of the dancers below. Tranzylvania’s clubbers come decked out in everything from leather bustiers to Vampira-style makeup, and at midnight the black lights go on, turning the chandelier purple, and illuminating previously hidden murals of erotic escapades and Dante-esque scenes of roasting sinners. Hey, if hell’s gonna be this much fun, where do we sign up?

No, they don’t have a buffet. But if there’s a club in P-town that really should have a buffet for its patrons, Club FullFilled is the one. Club FullFilled is the Valley’s premier plus-size event, held weekly at rotating locales — usually a bar or club — where Big Beautiful Women (BBWs) and Big Handsome Men (BHMs) can shake as much flab as they want and not feel self-conscious about it. Say it loud, these plump party animals are fat and proud, and they have a number of beanpole Fat Admirers (FAs) who love them just the way they are. But we ain’t dissin’ ’em. Let’s face it, the average American these days is the size of a small Zeppelin, which accounts for why we all ride gas-guzzling SUV behemoths and why trendsetters come up with genius ideas like diets made up of all meat. But we digress. Point is, big is in, and thin is so Third World, so ’80s. So grab a drink, and squeeze in next to the hefty honeys or hunks of your choosing. And while you’re at it, pass the pretzels, dawg. We’re starving.

Fetishism used to be “underground,” and the only glimpse the general public got of the fetish community at play came from movies and TV shows. But TNG (The Next Generation of Fetish & Kink in Arizona), along with local body modification outfit Horns ‘n Halos, has brought several fetish events to the Valley and left them open for anybody who was willing to wear some vinyl pants for a few hours. The AZ Fetish Balls have included musical acts like N-17, My Darling Murder, and The Year, as well as flesh-hook suspension demos, strippers, spanking demos, and leather vendors galore. But the biggest fetish shebang, the AZ Fetish Ball, takes place on Saturday, October 8, at The Sets, and this year, Florida’s vaunted fetish/metal band the Genitorturers and national act Combi Christ will rock the stage, proving that no matter how hard-core these fetish balls are, Arizona will keep raising the bar.

Phoenix’s Margaret T. Hance Park, affectionately known as Deck Park because the Interstate 10 tunnel through central Phoenix is under it, would truly be a beautiful and serene respite from downtown, except for one thing. Try walking though it on a bright Sunday afternoon, and you’ll see what we mean. On a recent hike to the Safeway on Seventh Street and McDowell Road from our digs at Central and Roosevelt, we were hit up by at least three young men begging to sell us crack cocaine, or whatever other illegal delight we desired. When we demurred, choosing instead to buy our drugs in the restroom of our favorite Scottsdale nightclub, one alleged dealer followed us all the way to the liquor aisle of said grocery store. The only way we were able to get rid of him was by threatening to hold him down and pour generic Safeway tequila down his throat. On several other treks through the Deck Park, similar events occurred. One persistent dealer even followed us back from the grocery to the Phoenix Police Department substation at the base of our building. After he was finally deterred by a burly cop peering out the window at him, the salesman looked back over his shoulder at us and inquired, “What’s a white boy doing walking through the park if he don’t wanna buy drugs?” He added that we were the first such individual that week who’d turned him down.

The point here is that you would never even realize that Autumn Court, one of Phoenix’s venerable Chinese eateries, even has a bar, so tucked away is this cozy gin mill at the back of the place. But we made a wrong turn on the way to the restroom after an early dinner and noticed the charming saloon, with tables along the walls and the large bar in the middle. We also noticed several couples, heads turned toward the shadows and holding hands, engrossed in deep conversation at the tables. Our mind naturally went into the gutter; what a great place to meet a lover who’s not your husband or wife for a quick round of drinks before you know what! Trust us, nobody you know (unless they read this item, of course) would ever guess your whereabouts when you’re late getting home from the office.

Save the steak dinner for later, if at all. What Drinkwater’s City Hall is known for is its gigantic, rectangular bar, and that’s because there are so many horny MILFs sitting around it on Friday and Saturday nights. There are other pretenders to the throne in this town when it comes to supplying desperate housewives, but nothing compares to the selection at this venerable Scottsdale drinking and dining establishment. We not only have picked up a MILF or two here ourselves, as the house band churned out golden oldies, we have seen others do it by the limo-load. But make sure you’re either a younger guy or a well-preserved older one, because these bizzatches are selective! At least, the married ones are. What they’re after is man meat, the younger the better; they’ve already got hubby at home, or out doing his own hanky-panky. But there’s another variety of female predator at City Hall: the young, beautiful kind who want to find a financially fixed older gentleman for fun and games. He gets to have his fun if he plays her game, which can include lots of jewelry and a new Beamer. (If you’re a younger potential sugar daddy in the prime of your life, try the Merc Bar. City Hall’s for well-turned-out retirees, when it comes to this latter sport.) Any way you slice it, after a night at Drinkwater’s City Hall, you’ll wake up the next morning either satisfied or horrified. (News flash: Sometimes the MILFs are prettier at closing time, when the makeup’s still in place.)

If you want to find a well-heeled date for the future, or even a Rolly-wearin’ husband-to-be, you don’t have to confine your search to Scottsdale. All you need do is head over to Phoenix’s ultra-cool Merc Bar, preferably on a Friday or Saturday night. You won’t find a hipper watering hole in New York or L.A., and the place is always hoppin’ with beautiful people. Who’re not all under 25. Because, if you’re looking for a sugar daddy, you generally want somebody who’s old enough to actually be somebody’s father. That way, he’s probably been around long enough — that is, made dolo enough — to keep you in the style to which you’d like to become accustomed. We mean, if he’s at the Merc Bar, he’s obviously able to afford those frou-frou cosmos (which ain’t cheap!) that any babe worth her knockoff Pradas expects her future daddy to be able to buy for her. In large quantities! What it may take to seal the deal, though, is a little somethin’-somethin’ extra to show how much you appreciate your tycoon with style. We know a girl or two who’s nailed her future significant other with a little trip to the Merc’s restroom for a lip-smackin’ good time. Now, take it from us, if you invite your soon-to-be lover-man to one of the bar’s loos, make sure the two of you don’t duck into the ladies’ lavatory; it’s been our experience that most women who ain’t gettin’ any get all schoolmarmish when a couple’s doing it in the powder room. Guys, well, they just like to experience whatever sexual pleasure they can — even if it’s only vicariously through the door of a bathroom stall.

Although normally it may seem unwise to traipse around the seedier sections of downtown Phoenix after 2 a.m., that’s usually when the after-hours parties at Scot McKenzie and Justin McBee’s establishment — located on the crack-laced fringes of the downtown warehouse district — get going. You don’t have to worry about either your car or your life, as there’s always someone at the door scoping out any potential thuggery. Safely inside the venue, you can kick back and relax with the crowd that’s come for one of the late-night fetes Scot and Justin throw during First Fridays or a few select dates each month. Make your way to the back where a garagelike soundscape/stage will probably be hosting a DJ, noise artist, the MadCaPs, or even McKenzie’s own group Waveformanalogueresearch. Just make sure you bring some Mace for the trip back to your car.

Okay, so last year at this time, we thought we’d pat the bad boys at the all-night party scene called the Black and Tan on the shoulders by writing them up as the “Best Worst-Kept Secret.” Hey, we were just trying to tell you guys that you rock! But what followed were more denunciations and finger-pointing than at a Stalinist show-trial. Though we only used the well-known initials “B & T,” and never disclosed the address of the not-so-secret locale, we were accused, loudly and dramatically, of betraying the underground. (Gasp!) The Black and Tan would now have to cease and desist, we were told, and tickets were printed up advertising the B & T’s last show because of the treachery of Phoenix New Times. A string of letters calling us out were received, as were some not-so-veiled threats. But a year later, the Black and Tan is still around, and hardly seems to be much of a secret. Why, they’re even listed now! Well, bully for them. Could this be a stab at respectability? Hey, it’s all good, bros. Why, we’ll even buy an official Black and Tan tee shirt whenever you’ve got ’em ready. Think we could get a media discount?

Okay, so you’re no Marilyn Monroe. Neither are we. But that doesn’t mean you don’t deserve a little wind up your skirt once in a while, honey. Casino Arizona — and we’re not talking about that big tent off Indian Bend Road, we mean the nice building farther south on the 101 — has six lounges, three restaurants, keno, 50 blackjack tables and almost 1,000 slots (and we hear pai gow poker could be on the way). The thing we like best about Casino Arizona is the air-conditioning system that blows from the ground up, dispersing cigarette smoke and, as a side bonus, sending a breeze your way, if you know what we mean.

Settle down, big spender. Just because the bank account is down for the count (and the casino has already cut up your Visa), don’t go home just yet. You need cash in a flash — but wanna avoid turning tricks in the parking lot — so head for one of ZLB’s two locations. Presuming you’re drug- and disease-free, have strong veins in each arm, lack any recent tattoos or piercings, and can keep quiet about all your illicit trysts, you’ll be getting some blood money. In exchange for a few hours — where you can watch movies or converse with other hard-up homies — and 880 milliliters of plasma (the protein-rich liquid part of your blood), ZLB’s phlebotomists will cough up $25 for your very first visit, and $40 for your second (you’ll get $20 and $30 for following weeks thereafter, respectively). Forget about a repeat bloodletting feat, though, as every plasma bank in the Valley has a 24-hour recovery period, cross-donating is verboten, and you can only get pricked twice in a seven-day period. It’s not a fistful of C-notes, but at least you can get a couple more go-rounds at the $5 blackjack tables.

After you’ve rolled the dice or pulled the slot machine handle one too many times — and you’re ready to quit while you’re ahead — ease those aching limbs over to Aji, part of the resort adjacent to Gila River Casino at Wild Horse Pass. The 17,500-square-foot spa oozes serenity, from the sleek details of the Native American decor to the sweet, warm fragrance radiating from melted wax diffusers. There’s a salon, a fitness room that’s as state-of-the-art as it gets (each treadmill and cycle has its own flat-screen TV and tiny DVD player), a pristine outdoor pool just beyond the glass doors, and 17 treatment rooms where you can indulge in all the pampering you can handle. Try the “Juhk” Aji Rain Facial, 50 minutes of slathering and massaging that’ll relax you as well as a full night’s sleep, or the “Thash” Native Sun Wrap, where you’ll lie in a futuristic steam capsule (something new to the Arizona spa scene) to let exotic oils melt into your skin before a massage therapist works you into submission. Save a few quarters for video poker, then start all over again.

Hey, loser. Having bet your bottom dollar (plus whatever other cash you’ve “borrowed” lately from kith and kin) and busted yet again, maybe it’s time for that intervention everyone keeps casually mentioning. Consider the shrinks at the Tempe-based WinWay Center, if for nothing else but its oh-so-clever name. While other gambling addiction outfits around town offer touchy-feely terms like “hope” and “wellness” in their monikers, WinWay scores the jackpot with its handle, telling you right off the bat its staff of licensed psychologists and social workers will do their damnedest to keep you away from casinos, dog tracks, and even the Texas Hold’em night at the neighborhood tavern. After completing the intensive 24-session outpatient treatment plan of cognitive behavior therapy, we’re willing to bet you’ll be back on the road to fiscal solvency and a more responsible lifestyle. Sure beats ignoring calls from friends wondering why their high-def TVs have suddenly disappeared.

Long before the Valley began blowing its collective wad out on the reservations, bingo was king. While some might call it a quaint throwback, a few local venues still offer up the old-school game of chance, with St. Daniel’s being the best. This Scottsdale house of worship, which offers games at 7 p.m. on Wednesdays and 1 p.m. on Sundays, offers jackpots ranging from $48 to $1,000, with more than 100 players turning out. They’re a memorable bunch to boot, like one elderly English expatriate who’s been dubbed “Queen Elizabeth” by organizers (because of her resemblance to the matronly monarch). It’s not all members of the septuagenarian set, though — a few ASU hotties have come with their grandmothers, as have one youngish Hispanic couple dressed in some ghetto-fabulous gear. So if you’re up for trying to beat the pants of the elderly, give it a shot. Just remember, the big J.C. is watching you.

Willo rules as a trash-picking destination because it has become a neighborhood of upper-middle-class strivers who repeatedly replace their old stuff with new, more upscale stuff. Their grail: turning enough of a profit from the eventual sale of their remodeled Willo house to move across Seventh Avenue to tonier Encanto-Palmcroft. Luckily for the poorer among us, the path of Willo’s upward mobility is littered with household goods cast aside for no other reason than they didn’t come from Pottery Barn. Recent trips through Willo alleys yielded a solid wood front door and an oak table. For best pickings, go the week before Willo’s quarterly bulk trash pickup, the last weeks of February, May, August and November. Oh yeah — technically speaking, Dumpster diving is illegal. And nothing pisses off Willo residents like people trolling through their trash. Watch your back, and don’t pull items out of bins and throw them in the alley. Courtesy counts, even for Dumpster divers.

This is what Phoenix has been waiting for. When Bentley Projects opened its doors a while back, we knew something special was happening. If you haven’t been yet, go immediately. Don’t be swayed by the “un-Phoenix” location, so far off the beaten path it’s actually south of Bank One Ballpark. The Bentley folks wisely enclosed their small enclave and provided plenty of parking. Particularly in the light of day, you’ll laugh at yourself for worrying about your Benz, once you arrive. And once you arrive, make sure you first walk through the airy, industrial gallery space, home to some of the most insightful, sophisticated (and expensive, but don’t worry, you’re just looking) art in the Valley. Then head through Poisoned Pen bookstore (again, don’t worry — the managers have wisely included non-mysteries among their collection, as well as kids’ books and a small stationery section) to City Bakery, Arcadia Farms’ latest outpost. Arcadia Farms is everywhere in Phoenix — including the Desert Botanical Garden, Phoenix Art Museum, and the Heard Museum. But that hasn’t diluted the quality of operations, at least not at City Bakery, where the staff is friendly even as the line reaches out the door, which has started to happen at lunchtime. City Bakery is wireless, so if you can find a table, you can park with a laptop and a bottomless glass of apricot iced tea. When it’s time to eat, your biggest challenge will be choosing between the curry chicken salad and the PLT (prosciutto, lettuce and tomato). Be sure to leave room for a cupcake or another treat from the bakery case. And knock yourself upside the head, hard, when you leave. Yes, you’re really in Phoenix!

Built in 1949, the “first television studio in Arizona” was once home to KPHO-TV and is headquarters for the most creative collective in town. The building currently houses 15 businesses, including Forsmo Design Works, True Story Films, Rhonda Graphics, and Randy Murray Productions. Lookee-loos are welcome to wander the halls, which are painted a deep red and adorned with original artwork, including the “abstract feminist” paintings of resident artist Jenny Ignaszewski. (Check out her work in the La Vida section of “Best of.”) Our favorite stop — a peek in the window of the colorfully decorated office of Darlene Wyatt Casting, in Suite 106, which looks just like we’ve always imagined a casting agent’s office would look.

It was once the lair of Walter Bimson, the late Valley National Bank president and philanthropist whose love of money was equaled only by his love of art. And, beginning this fall, the penthouse at the top of the 77-year-old Security Building will be ground zero for Arizona State University’s Phoenix Urban Research Lab (PURL), filled with busy minds looking to redesign Phoenix’s core, with the interests of commerce, higher education and creative types at stake. Owned by Maricopa County, the space — featuring exposed brick walls and tiled terraces — will be used as offices for ASU faculty and researchers, including two representatives from the Morrison Institute, and as a hub for issues related to the design of ASU’s downtown campus. From its grassy (okay, it’s Astroturf, but it looks pretty) and lengthy rooftop patio, PURL visitors chatting it up with ASU prez Michael Crow can see clear past the Westward Ho all the way to Cave Creek. But, more important, they’ve got a great front-row seat for downtown’s transformation. Below, on the eighth floor, an old ballroom has been transformed into a work and meeting space, its old wood floors buffed and painted, crumbling ceilings complemented with steel pipe and modern lighting — a reminder of the need to preserve the old while racing toward whatever’s new.

This new public market offers an eclectic and always-changing range of Arizona-grown products. Choose from foods such as organic fruits and veggies from Queen Creek’s One Windmill Farms, cactus jellies over at Cotton Country Jams, and diabetic-friendly sweets from TJ’s Good Cookie — and that’s just a start. Navigate around dog owners and mothers pushing strollers to the beat of a rotating cast of musicians and check out a number of booths offering handcrafted jewelry, photographs and ceramics. Lisa Takata is just one artist who has offered original art prints and other unique items each week. Other tables feature flower arrangements from Maya’s Farm, on-the-spot customized leather belts, and the occasional specialty product such as handcrafted cigar box purses. Tents shade a majority of the blacktop parking lot, and giant coolers are brought in during the summer. It’s a breeze to create a morning full of activities with Circles Records and Matt’s Big Breakfast nearby. Hours are every Saturday from 8 a.m. to noon, and from 4 to 8 p.m. during First Friday’s cooler months. Parking is plentiful, and admission is always free.

This tiny parking lot market closes during the hot months (June through September), but when it’s up and running, it’s one of the best reminders of why we live here. Where else in the country can you relax outside on a sunny morning in, say, March, contemplating the state of the world over coffee and some chocolate soufflé, or a glass of wine and a pesto-drenched panini? Camelback Market capitalizes on simple pleasures, with a handful of vendors peddling all the necessities of the good life: gorgeous, ripe produce; a strong selection of imported cheeses; some well-priced, good wines; and more varieties of olives and honey than you’ll find in almost any gourmet shop. A big highlight is the homemade crepes — savory ones with veggies, chicken or shrimp, or sweet ones with Nutella — that are cooked to order and big enough to share. Just don’t party too hard the night before you go; the market only runs from 9 a.m. to 1 p.m. on Saturdays.

Thousands of people head to Tempe each year to learn. Arizona State University’s campus is a hotbed of artistic and engineering ingenuity. Just think, you can even learn something new on the free ride around campus. The Tempe Free Local Area Shuttle (FLASH) is the perfect spot to get an education on ligers. Now, during the time it takes you to travel between University Drive and Apache Boulevard, you can learn that the cross between a lion and a tiger is renowned for its skills in magic — or so says Napoleon Dynamite in the film of the same name. The FLASH is the ideal place to make commentary on cult films and hit it off with other Napoleon aficionados. After all, everyone knows a liger is just about Napoleon’s favorite animal ever, but you’re so smart you probably knew that.

Downtown Phoenix’s answer to Scottsdale’s James Hotel snags the above category not because you might get busted by the po-po if you have one too many of Carson Quinn’s martinis at the Camus bar/restaurant and then try to drive home. There’s another reason. In the lobby of this newly renovated, baby-blue boutique hotel is a lifelike bust of AZ’s legendary journalist-martyr Don Bolles, whose white Datsun sedan was torn apart by six remote-control-detonated sticks of dynamite on June 2, 1976, while parked in the Clarendon’s lot. Bolles was in the car, and died from his wounds 11 days later. The crusading reporter was at the hotel to meet a source for one of his many exposés of the corruption in Arizona business and public life. The meeting never took place. It was a setup to draw Bolles away from his car while the bomb was planted underneath. To this day, questions linger about the assassination and who was involved, but there’s no question about Bolles’ bravery and his doggedness as a reporter. So the next time you stop by the Clarendon for a drink, pause a moment at the Bolles bust and raise a glass to a reporter who showed us what journalists should be like, even if they rarely live up to the standards Bolles set.

At $179 for a year’s subscription, former state senator Stan Barnes’ biweekly newsletter is no bargain. But the deftly titled West Washington is a good source for inside-the-statehouse gossip, particularly if you’re looking for the skinny on Barnes’ GOP pals and the political minutiae of who voted which way, and why. Barnes, who most recently lost a bid to take out fellow Republican Congressman Jeff Flake, currently runs the Copper State Consulting Group, which means lobbying for everyone from the Southern Arizona Homebuilders Association to Philip Morris. And while his newsletter occasionally strains a bit too hard to crack wise, considering the tedious political coverage we’re used to, that’s something we can forgive. We’ve also gotta give the guy props for his Q&As: Somehow, he makes our state legislators sound human.

Sure, we’ve picked on Governor Janet in the past, but only because we have such high expectations for our favorite daughter. The 47-year-old University of Virginia law school graduate is on track to become the next major national political figure to emerge from our fair state. She’s already served as the U.S. Attorney for the District of Arizona and was elected as Arizona Attorney General in 1998. Last year, she scored points with Senator John Kerry during the presidential campaign. Since she was elected governor in November 2002 — no small feat for a woman with a D after her name — the maven of moderates has made mincemeat of the state’s GOP-ized Legislature. Her supercharged intellect, quick wit and take-no-prisoners style has scared off any serious contender to challenge her bid for reelection in 2006. We won’t be surprised to find her in the U.S. Senate one day soon. With Sandra Day O’Connor retiring from the Supreme Court and Senator John McCain entering into the twilight of his career, Napolitano is Arizona’s best bet to carry forward the Grand Canyon State’s long and impressive performance on the national political stage. Go, Janet! We’ll be watching.

Is Phil Gordon really the mayor of the fifth-largest city in the nation? If so, why does his “vision” for downtown look strangely like Ahwatukee? Whether it’s making sure Phoenix library computers are filtered, the endorsement of wing-nut County Attorney Andy Thomas, or the addition of “front porch” benches at Sky Harbor Airport — part of his cornball campaign for a family-friendly utopia where we all sit on our benches in the 100-degree heat and keep an eye on our neighborhoods — it’s all about turning Phoenix into Mayberry, RFD. Doesn’t Mayor Goober, er, we mean Gordon, realize that many of us would rather live in a real city than in the kind of Podunk paradise he prefers? Apparently not.

Halfway through our huevos rancheros, he walked through the door, like a prune-faced version of Clint Eastwood in High Plains Drifter: a ghost of Christmas past embodying all the corruption, avarice and prudish anti-porn politics of the Reagan years. Could it be, out from whatever rock he’d been hiding under since serving four and a half years in the federal pen for chiseling elderly investors out of hundreds of millions of dollars, that here was Charles Keating in the flesh? The same swindler who stuck the American people with a bill of billions when his Lincoln Savings went belly up in 1989 as part of the S&L scandal? The guy who had U.S. senators in his pocket back in the day, and spent his free time in futile crusades against porn magnates such as Larry Flynt? Hey, who knew he liked rice and beans? Come to find out, Keating wasn’t just there to pick up a few tacos to go. According to a recent column by our own John Dougherty, Keating is helping powerful Maricopa County Supervisor Mary Rose Wilcox, the owner of El Portal, to develop a parcel of land near her restaurant, which she and hubby Earl bought at fire-sale prices from the Arizona Public Service Company. You never know, with all of the real estate speculation in downtown these days, maybe the Keating-Wilcox partnership is a harbinger of those bad old times being new again. Care for some real estate shenanigans with your machaca? Well, I don’t mind if I do . . .

If dodging and delaying are the hallmarks of a great director of communications, then Lisa Allen MacPherson is the grand master of flackdom. It’s MacPherson who is responsible for turning Maricopa County Sheriff Joe Arpaio into a worldwide celebrity, with an endless stream of ridiculous publicity stunts meant to advance Joe’s tough-guy persona, ranging from pink underwear to starving inmates inside the Tent City jail. MacPherson will stop at nothing in her eternal quest to pimp her media whore of a boss, and is willing to do anything to get Arpaio on television, including help entrap an innocent man charged with attempting to bomb Arpaio’s car. (The man was finally acquitted after being locked in the county jail for four years, and has now filed a wrongful-arrest suit against Maricopa County.) MacPherson routinely refuses to provide accurate, timely and — most important — honest information about activities of the fourth-largest sheriff’s office in the nation. But despite her title, Arpaio didn’t hire MacPherson to direct communications. He hired her to make him famous. And she’s succeeded beyond Arpaio’s wildest expectations. How many other county sheriffs can you name?

We certainly don’t begrudge this up-and-coming pal of County Attorney Andy Thomas for her striking good looks. Cool-looking blondes in business suits actually do something for some of us. Nor do we care much either way about her political persuasion, which runs along the lines of fellow onetime “Republican BABE of the Week” honorees Ann Coulter and Laura Ingraham (go to jerseyGOP.com if you don’t believe us). But Rachel, pleeeease, did anyone ever teach you the phrase “full disclosure”? In her book review of Mr. Thomas’ latest tome for a Web site called intellectualconservative.com last May, Rachel wrote that “Andrew Peyton Thomas, the district attorney for Maricopa County, Arizona, and a graduate of Harvard Law School, has put together a well-written, intriguing exposé on the state of free speech at his alma mater, providing an insider’s perspective of the top law professors in the country.” Never mind that, for God’s sake, Rachel, the guy hired you as one of his SPECIAL ASSISTANTS. Even your narrowly focused audience might have liked to know that tidbit, don’t ya think? Still, you look pretty good in that business suit . . .

He’s looking a little bit grumpier these days, and we like it! Maybe ol’ Lew misses his pal Kent Dana. Or maybe Channel 12’s got him doing double duty with the “Storm Team.” Nevertheless, having the Valley’s top TV newsman getting a little bit ornery in the twilight of his career is a great thing for local news. Lew’s smart, concise, and uses his voice with an authoritative elegance. And with Kent’s move to CBS 5, Lew is the best thing Channel 12 has to offer.

If local TV is a numbers game, Kent Dana wins hands down. Take, for instance, the five-year deal he signed with Channel 5 last October, rumored to be for an astonishing $650,000 a year. In May’s Nielsen ratings, a month after Dana officially defected from NBC affiliate KPNX Channel 12 to take over the anchor chair at CBS-5, KPHO was up 35 percent in its ratings from a year earlier. In July, the Nielsens showed an additional 21 percent increase. And KPHO’s 10 p.m. newscast, which four years ago was fifth in the local rankings (that’s out of five stations, by the way), is just one point away from the top spot with Dana on board. “We’ve been on a growth pattern for a few years,” says CBS-5 general manager Steve Hammel, who refuses to confirm Dana’s allegedly astronomical salary. “But Kent has certainly accelerated that pattern. What people like about him most is that he could be your next-door neighbor. He just has this aura about him that is very down-to-earth.” What do we like most about Kent? It’s pretty simple: As opposed to the competition, he seems to enjoy reporting the news more than just listening to the sound of his own voice.

Before Howard Stern and the emergence of shock jocks, morning DJs actually relied on shtick to keep listeners tuned in. The Morning Ritual crew at The Edge must be some old-schoolers, because from 6 to 10 a.m. Monday through Friday, ringleader Chuck Powell and sidekicks Vince Marotta, Drew Hutchinson, and obligatory hot chick Heather Lewis (who does not, in fact, have a face for radio) turn listeners on their ears with a hit parade of hilarious gags, skits and general goofiness. From the MR’s staple “Last Character Standing” to “Freak du Week,” Powell and the gang have a knack for turning the crazy shit we’re thinking on our way to work into the best damn material on local radio.

We’ll admit that KXXT, the local Air America affiliate, has a bit of a bias. Okay, it’s a self-proclaimed liberal station. But the bleeding hearts still deliver the news in this town with more fervor, passion and personality than the stiffs at the other two big AM news stations or even the brilliant geeks on the local NPR affiliate. (And at least KXXT doesn’t pretend to be objective!) Whether it’s local news, in conjunction with local TV station Channel 3, or national news from CNN or the BBC, KXXT dishes the most relevant news when we count on it most.

We didn’t tune in to David Leibowitz as much as we knew we should. The ads on KTAR are just too obnoxious. But recently, we forced ourselves to sit through demands that we refinance our home or eat at P.F. Chang’s, just to hear Leibowitz bat it back and forth with callers who wanted to complain about the victims of Hurricane Katrina. Man, we know Katrina was a bitch, but some of those callers were real assholes! And we loved hearing Leibowitz put them in their place. The other day, Leibowitz dressed down a listener who e-mailed to say that he felt strongly that those people were mooching in New Orleans and now they’re mooching in Arizona — and they should get the hell out of our state and quit “stealing” from us. Leibowitz happily informed the guy that he plans to call the Social Security Administration and tell them to cut off the listener’s “handouts” from the government. “Grandpa, Wal-Mart’s hiring!” he said, with obvious glee. There’s nothing more satisfying than getting in the last word, and Leibowitz always did. And while we loved hearing him tell racist callers to go blow, we were even more impressed this past spring, when Leibowitz deftly handled callers who wanted to lament Terri Schiavo’s death. He made sure his opinion was known (he favored pulling life support) but was empathetic to all, and kept the conversation on a lively, productive level. We’ve watched Leibowitz grow from a kid writing columns at the Tribune to a smart, funny man we’re glad to have around. “Real Life With David Leibowitz” vacated the airwaves suddenly, days before BOP went to press. We hope you stick around town, Dave.

It’s easy to remain the city’s best classical station when you’re the only game in town. But KBAQ takes an active role as the Valley’s sole classical connection, operating one of the most active production studios and mobile recording units in NPR land, and offering live performance broadcasts by visiting international artists as well as showcasing members of the ASU School of Music and the Arizona Opera. For a station playing the ultimate in old-school, KBAQ also makes great use of current technology. Every station offers an online playlist today, but KBAQ’s minute-by-minute database, storing years of information on what was played, is unbeatable when you make a mental note to find out who was conducting that Tchaikovsky serenade you heard at 3:19 a.m.

Power 92.3 dominates hip-hop in the Valley of the Sun, dropping the livest mix of what’s popular now, from the Ying Yang Twins and David Banner to Mike Jones and Pretty Ricky, while staying true to the old-school, like Dr. Dre, Snoop, N.W.A and others. They keep it poppin’ with radio personalities that could easily make it in a bigger radio market than the PHX, whether it’s those clowns on MG’s Morning Madhouse, Da Nutz in the afternoon with the always hilarious 3:30 Dirty Dirty, JX3 on the mic from 7 to 10 p.m. weekdays, or Melissa the Midnight Mamacita playing the “slow jams that make you say damn” in the late evenings. They also employ killer DJs like Fashen, Robby Rob, and M2. True, they probably go a little too heavy on the NB Ridaz and the Lil Rob for our tastes. They’re okay, but we’ve got some of those tracks playing in our sleep, y’all. Ease up, please! But, hey, no radio station is perfect.

The Edge takes its “Independent Radio” tag line seriously, giving its DJs leeway to spin little-played alt-rock oddities and aggressively seeking input from listeners. The “Insider Lounge” feature on the station’s Web site, promising listeners a say in what gets played on the station, too often ends up functioning like a telemarketing survey, but the Edge Insiders Download offers exclusive tracks from local artists that are worth the free registration. As further evidence of the station’s support of emerging local bands, its 11 p.m. “Local Frequency” show gives exposure to bands like Army of Robots, Peachcake, and Greenhaven; promotes live showcases featuring the artists; and maintains a comprehensive list of Web links to roughly 150 of the city’s hardest-working bands.

Shortly before his passing in February of 2002, Arizona outlaw country legend Waylon Jennings memorably schooled KNIX morning personalities Tim and Willy on the air. In answer to the duo’s mock “We’re not worthy!”, Jennings replied, “Then why don’t you play my music?” Jennings still doesn’t get much play on KNIX, which continues to favor the mainstream country-western fare of Kenny Chesney, Tim McGraw, and Rascal Flatts. But Tim and Willy have grown a little sharper, able to poke sly fun at some of the dreck on the country playlists while keeping up the easy banter that nabbed the duo a 2005 ACM Personalities of the Year award. They carry Waylon’s sting well, even if the only Jennings song likely to make their playlist this year will be a movie tie-in revival of his “Theme From The Dukes of Hazzard.”

The station may have long ago lost its Morning Mayor, Dave Pratt, but John Holmberg has proven a worthy successor to this FM-dial throne. His “Morning Sickness” reality program has helped build a loyal listener base rivaling Pratt’s in just under four years. The music is still pure Ozzfest fare, with bands like Nine Inch Nails, Sevendust, Velvet Revolver, and Audioslave scoring heavy rotation. But with features like the “Mother’s Day MILF Contest” and near-nightly airings of the syndicated “Loveline,” the Big Red Radio continues to speak as loudly as ever to its party-hardy crowd.

By day, Valley jazz fans must rely on their iPods, or make do with the inferior smooth jazz served up on KYOT, until KJZZ switches over from its National Public Radio talk feed at 7 p.m. From then until 3 a.m., though, it’s all smooth sailing, with the station’s “acoustic jazz” format giving blessed airplay to Miles, Byrd, Coltrane, Dizzy and even a few lesser icons who must go by two names (Tommy Newsom, anyone?). On Sunday nights, the blues takes hold, with Bob Corritore’s venerable “Those Lowdown Blues” bookended by Drew Verbis’ “Blues and Beyond,” dedicated to newer blues-influenced artists, and the Chicago-based program “Portraits in Blue” winding down the night. Cool.

Operated out of local sci-fi writer Michael Mennenga’s crowded home office in northeast Phoenix, “Wingin’ It!” is a freewheeling weekly gab fest hosted by Mennenga and his pal, Web designer and practicing herbalist Evo Terra. Ostensibly a show dedicated to science fiction and fantasy books, “Wingin’ It!” takes off on any number of geeky tangents, often rambling about podcasting itself, which has narrowed from an anyone-can-do-it field to one where only the strongest personalities thrive — much like regular radio, only with more freedom and fewer commercials. For Mennenga, who until recently co-hosted a similar show on talk-radio KFYI-AM 550, and Terra, author of an upcoming book called Podcasting for Dummies, this is a dream gig — one they’re happy to share with local podcast geeks everywhere.

Unlike other blogs where people yammer about what they had for breakfast or who they ran into at the mall, “Jon’s Jail Journal” is worth reading, thanks to its dry British wit and clever word play. The author is convicted Arizona ecstasy ring leader “English” Shaun Attwood. Convicted in 2002, the yoga-practicing, book-loving former stockbroker has been penning his ponderings to keep his sanity while residing in Sheriff Joe’s jail. Don’t believe us? Here’s an excerpt from a March entry:

Anal Virginity Threats: Adam’s Shocking Fetish (Threat level: medium) My hairy posterior is now dodging a triple threat: Frankie and George have been joined by Adam . . . The three contenders for my excretory opening are preparing to square off in what is fast becoming a Wild Western poop-chute shoot-out in the bird-brained belief that the best man will get to warmly receive my tight lower crevice. The fact that my cranny pack just wants to be left alone seems to have impassioned the lusty blokes who are now more gung-ho than ever, and further stimulated by the competition between them . . .

See what we mean?

We’re big fans of the Republic‘s “Today’s News Briefing” section, with its super-short stories about global hot spots keyed to a world map. But the paper’s effort on May 11 was off the map — literally.

One of that day’s briefs informed us that “President Bush brings words of support for Georgia’s democracy and its wish to join NATO but no firm promise of assistance to help it wrench itself from Russia’s influence.”

When we saw the arrow was pointing to an area near Atlanta, fear reverberated. Russia’s influence? Russkis in the Old South? And how had democracy hit a trouble spot in the state that brought us Jimmy Carter and Newt Gingrich? We were relieved to see a correction the very next day — the Georgia that Bush visited, the Republic informed us, is actually near the Caspian Sea south of Russia.

Did they have to scare us like that? Reading that paper is frightening enough as it is.

Way back in 1986, the late Mr. Thompson showed up at our fine offices on East Jefferson Street with a beer in one hand and a joint in the other. He had this comment: “I want to find out who killed Don Bolles, and I want to start at the dog track.” (Or words to that effect; memory does fade.) Bolles was a reporter who got murdered by some local thugs in 1976. Thompson’s momentary obsession with all things Bolles had been fueled by Thompson’s girlfriend, a young west Phoenix woman who had run off with him a year or so earlier. Off we went to the track, down on 38th Street and Washington. Wouldn’t ya know it, the pickled scribe picked the longest shot to win the first race, betting $100 and collecting about $1,000. Suffice it to say, that money was dumped on liquor, food and much more betting within the hour. “No big deal,” he announced to everyone within shouting distance. “I was gonna expense all this anyway.”

These two court watchers from Tempe never meant to insert themselves into the middle of the Scott Peterson trial. Really. They were just in Redwood City, California, trying to get a coveted seat in the courtroom — the next logical step for two Court TV obsessors, who’d made names for themselves as frequent posters on the Court TV Web site — and figured that while they were in town they’d cruise around in their rental car, take a self-guided tour of the scenes of the crime. When McCallie took a photo of a bag of cement in Scott Peterson’s driveway, then posted it on the Web, suddenly both “Jordie” and “Katie” (their screen names) were in the middle of the story they loved to chat about. McCallie was under a gag order for weeks, and while ultimately she was not called on to testify (the jury issued its “guilty” verdict before that), prosecutors say the photo was key evidence, useful in their courtroom strategy.

McCallie and Monkman are still avid court watchers, and New Times‘ story about their antics has drawn attention from screenwriters and television producers. We’ll say we knew them when.

So there we were, holed up in the dentist’s office on a hot afternoon in June, having waited for hours and having read the last six issues of The Atlantic cover to cover, when, out of desperation, clean out of anything smart to read, we picked up a copy of People.

Oh, who are we fooling? We bought People in the grocery store and rushed home to read it.

Okay, where were we? We flipped through the pages, past Britney and Tom and Katie, to the good stuff: Mary Kay Letourneau’s wedding to Vili Fualaau. You remember those two. She was his teacher, they slept together when he was (gasp!) 12. They had two children together and she served several years for child rape. A romantic tale.

As it turned out, Letourneau and Fualaau are living happily ever after — at least, they were upon the occasion of their wedding, at a winery in Washington state. (He’s 21, finally old enough to drink.) And one of Letourneau’s friends, quoted right there in People magazine, a witness to the happy couple’s nuptials, was Wendy Cracchiolo, Mary Kay’s college roommate at the University of Arizona.

We almost dropped the magazine. We actually know Wendy Cracchiolo. She’s the daughter of a well-known Phoenix attorney, Dan. She regularly makes the society pages here. She was Mary Kay Letourneau’s roommate? Who knew?

Alas, we scanned the article for sordid details, but there were none. Cracchiolo only reported that there wasn’t a dry eye in the house. No word on whether Cracchiolo, a Phoenix florist, had anything to do with the wedding flowers.

Laurie, we hardly knew ya. That’s so totally a lie. After countless years as a columnist at every rag in town (but this one) from Planet to the Arizona Republic, and — count ’em — four books of essays, we know everything about Laurie Notaro. Everything, from the time she tried out to be a Playboy bunny to the time her mother got a cockroach stuck in her ear. We’ve never laughed as hard as the night Laurie read the essay about the time her brown corduroy pants split, then offered them up as Exhibit A. When her first book, The Idiot Girls’ Action-Adventure Club, hit the New York Times best-seller list, we figured Laurie wasn’t long for Phoenix, and we were right — last year she moved to Eugene, Oregon. We miss Laurie, but we can’t wait to read her tales of life in greener pastures. We won’t have to wait that long for our next Laurie fix; An Idiot Girl’s Christmas: True Tales From the Top of the Naughty List will be released in November. Laurie promises she’ll come home to do a reading.

What’s a nice Jewish girl like Tania Katan doing in a place like Phoenix? Very well, thank you. Katan was raised (at least partially) in the Valley, a proud graduate of McClintock High in Tempe, and she escaped to assorted environs including San Francisco and Long Beach, according to her book, My One-Night Stand With Cancer, which you really should read. Now she’s back, and we’re glad to have her. Katan is a fantastic writer; reading her book is like sitting down for a glass of wine with her — although you’ll be giddy enough from the literary ride she takes you on (even considering the subject, which you’ve guessed from the title). She’s also a playwright and performer, and we hope to see her on a stage near us soon. For now, you can catch a glimpse of her when she runs in several races this October. We won’t tell you why, but you won’t be able to miss her.

Even before its publication, Martha Beck’s Leaving the Saints: How I Lost the Mormons and Found My Faith was causing cramps among Latter-day Saints around the globe. Which is one of several reasons we’re proud of Beck’s Phoenix connection (she now lives here), right up there with her “I’m not gonna take it” attitude, her regular column in O magazine, and the smooth, amusing style with which she wrote about a painful subject. Beck’s memoir describes sacred Mormon ceremonies and accuses her recently deceased father, Hugh Nibley, a well-regarded authority on Mormon teaching, of sexually molesting her as a child. We’re just plain proud of Beck for standing up for herself in such a big way, and for dodging the physical threats, lawsuits and smear campaigns launched against her. We’re delighted to call her our neighbor.

We’ve gotta tell you, if we have to go to one more charity luncheon, we’re going to puke up our chicken plate. We gave at the office, sweetie — now can we go to the mall and shop? Here’s exciting news from the society scene: Now there’s a charity luncheon where you can actually pick up a fabulous handbag (one that might even have some history) and give to a very good cause at the same time. The Old Bags Luncheon, sponsored by Homeward Bound, a Valley organization that provides transitional housing for the homeless and victims of domestic violence, features a silent auction of vintage and designer purses. Some are donated by department stores, but others come from celebrities: Last year’s auction featured a vintage Hermes bag given by Sofia Coppola, and even Oprah made a donation. So did Cindy McCain. We’re not so sure we want her baggage, but we hear there were bags by Chanel, Louis Vuitton and Ferragamo. Certainly worth choking down some rubber chicken, and since the luncheon’s scheduled for November 8 at the Arizona Biltmore, the food might not be so bad.

Her Web site doesn’t provide hook-ups for the lovelorn, because Madame Matchmaker says the best way to meet your one true love is by exploiting her peculiar talent for tying people’s knots. And if Bonnie Wills should maybe disdain online dating services, who are we to judge? She is, after all, responsible for hundreds of local marriages, and, if she happens to (God forbid) hook you up with the wrong person — which she almost never does — she’ll go back and start over again, on her dime. This is matchmaking the old-fashioned way, with Bonnie interviewing prospective lover boys and gals, then arranging dinner dates that, she swears, more often than not result in true love. Losers and schlemiels? Not to worry when it’s Bonnie doing the matchmaking — she does criminal background checks on each client.

Mazel tov!

L.A. has Hustler. Chicago has Playboy. New York has Penthouse. So what does P-town have in response? Playtime, fool. If you haven’t seen it, Playtime is glossier than 944, with content we’re a hell of a lot more interested in perusing. Its purview is the PHX’s extensive strip-club scene, one of the largest in the nation, as well as all things adult in the Valley of the Sun. Not only does Playtime do features on local strippeterias, it also publishes Penthouse-style pictorials of local dancers in their birthday suits, and informs you of where they usually dance. A stalker’s delight! Fortunately, like Chauncey the Gardener in Being There, we just like to watch, officer. And the price is right for our pockets: free if you stop by one of the many strip clubs in town that have a rack of ’em waiting for you at the door.

The “Women Seeking Women” and “Casual Encounters” personal ads on the Phoenix Craigslist Web site overflow with headlines like “Woman seeking woman for first lesbian encounter”; “Yet another bi-curious twenty year-old”; “dying to have my first experience with a woman”; “looking to learn”; “Bi Curious/Can’t get it out of my mind”; and “would like to try something new.” The faceless meat markets of the Internet tend to invite misrepresentation and even predators, but luckily Craigslist keeps everything anonymous — there are no names or e-mail addresses in site posts — so unless you respond to a post, the poster won’t have your e-mail addy. And if you post a personal ad, anybody who responds does so through a generic Craigslist e-mail address, which forwards the message to your real e-mail. So what are a straight girl’s chances of dining at the Y with an experienced cook? Judging by posts like “Lesbians seek women,” “Looking for cute wild child,” and “Looking for HOT femme blondes,” chances are pretty good.

Geeky guys of the Valley, take note. Ever seen those licentious late-night commercials for local interactive date lines? Usually they’re squeezed between the oh-so-mockable Goldberg & Osborne advertisements, starring hot-to-trot hotties who probably wouldn’t let your unphotogenic ass buy them an overpriced martini at Myst. While these intimidating adverts have kept you from calling, the truth is that these beauties are in the minority on Livelinks, the most popular of the local chat services. Populated by plenty of dog-faced desperate housewives and other less-than-lovely ladies, the line’s a veritable sexual smorgasbord of females looking for phone fun or an overnight rendezvous. Stay alert for ladies on the lookout for “generous gentlemen” (read: prostitutes) or trannies out to play the crying game (not that there’s anything wrong with that). So if you can somehow sweet-talk some honey into slipping you her location, give it a shot, Ace, ’cause he who hesitates, masturb . . . well, you know the rest.

If you’re a lad on the lookout for some no-cost titillation, break out your rabbit ears and tune to KGF Channel 53, the UHF Spanish station, which runs amazing infomercials for Prieto’s Auto Sales that air at varying times Thursdays through Sundays. We’re talkin’ some real skin on a real skinflint’s budget. Broadcast from each of the used car dealership’s three lots in south Phoenix, the 30-minute adverts show off a bevy of barely dressed buxom barrio babes, usually wearing nothing but a skimpy bikini top, micro-minis, and high heels, who fondle various auto interiors and exteriors while pimping Chevy SUVs and Mitsubishi Eclipses. It’s like an issue of Lowrider magazine come to life, and brings new meaning to the word “autoerotica.” What really sets this stuff apart from the carnal content on Univision is how the cameraman, God bless his soul, will occasionally linger on the ladies a little longer than necessary. Better than watching scrambled porno, we say.

There was nothing good on television the other night, so we started surfing through all 550 channels of dreck until the sight of some skinny teenagers smacking each other around with kendo sticks caught our eye. It looked like an episode of Viva La Bam, but it turns out we had just tuned to local public access (Cox channel 98 and Qwest channel 24), and, more specifically, SWWF Rampage, the weekly showcase of the Valley’s quasi-backyard rasslin’ group, which airs Tuesdays at 7 p.m. While it’s way more raw than WWE RAW with below-bargain-basement production values, the violent exploits of all the wrestling wanna-bes on the roster are inherently viewable. Just like the I-fear-to-look-yet-I-cannot-look-away mentality of a car accident video, the over-the-top “superstars” like Cris Anarchy, Doc Fairday, Havok, and the Suburban Ninja keep our eyes locked on the screen. Call it a guilty pleasure that’s gonna keep us tuning in next week, same mat time, same mat channel.

A few days before Penny Long made her reality TV show debut last January on CBS’ The Will, the Arizona Republic ran a feature on the Cave Creek woman predicting that “You will read about her in Us Weekly, . . . spot her on Access Hollywood, and come into work on Monday morning and talk Penny, Penny, Penny . . .”

The Republic was dead wrong. The Will was to have followed Penny, fourth wife of local developer Bill Long, as she battled a gaggle of relatives over who would inherit a ranch owned by her ancient and very wealthy (but not yet dead) husband. Instead, the network canceled the series after just one episode, making The Will one of the biggest flops in TV history. See ya later, Penny.

Owned by local real estate investor Michael A. Pollack, this funky modern theater boasts a lobby filled with video games, autographed photos, and life-size cardboard figures of celebrities, which patrons love to use for funny photo ops. But the truly edgy stuff happens on the big screens, where award-winning indie films make their Valley premières, and artsy repertory films get exposure, too. Every summer, the theater hosts the “One Night Cinema” series, which presents first-run, award-winning foreign films such as Moolaadé, Lost Embrace, and Vodka Lemon. In January and February, the cinema hosts the Sun Lakes Jewish Film Festival, where acclaimed yarns such as Left Luggage and Zahor get a chance to shine on the silver screen. Tempe Pollack Cinemas is also a great place for local film companies to share their works; the theater recently hosted the world première of Phoenix Film Project’s Laws of Deception.

We’re happy to see one brave soul go up against the Valley’s movie monopoly.

Turns out Phoenicians prefer Ferris Bueller to The Birds. This completely unscientific observation took place this summer, during Phoenix City Councilman Tom Simplot’s Moonlight Movies series. The movies, shown in the amphitheater at Steele Indian School Park, drew revelers of all ages, who picnicked before the movies, and munched on popcorn and ice cream for sale by vendors through the evening. Ferris Bueller’s Day Off drew the largest crowd of the summer, with The Princess Bride a close second.

Simplot was there to canoodle at every showing this summer. He marvels at the diversity of the crowd — single, married, gay, straight — but yes, mostly families. (Who else really wants to see Shrek 2 again?) “Young families love these movies,” Simplot says. “Date night with the kids, and nobody cares if the kids are rowdy.”

We curse Dan Harkins every time some kid asks us to upsize our popcorn (didn’t the movie magnate see Super Size Me?), but Dan, we’re still glad your mother gave birth to you in the Valley Art Theatre, and that you held onto the space — and the more than 200 theaters Harkins Theatres has subsequently opened since 1933.

Camelview in Scottsdale is consistently the best place to see that hard-to-find movie, and while we lament the bulldozing of the Ciné Capri, we have to admit that the new one’s not so bad.

But the best part about Harkins is its ubiquity. We love knowing that just about wherever we are in the Valley, Harkins is there. (Try downtown Phoenix next, Dan — hint, hint.)

This is a chain even Arizona Chain Reaction can love — and it does. Harkins is a member.

Yes, sometimes more is more. Except when it comes to concessions. Tell your clerks to stop pushing Pepsi by the gallon, and we’ll love you even more, Dan.

The director, star and co-writer of Never Been Thawed, a tiny masterpiece of an indie film, deserves nods not only for creating a sweetly acerbic, nicely acted local film, but for helping to bust up the post-PC etiquette that’s still dogging us into the new millennium. Anders’ snarky send-up of all things sacred about a collection of young losers who obsessively collect frozen TV dinners and hold meetings to discuss them, started small and built big all last year. Never Been Thawed made the film-festival circuit, played local art houses, and wound up going multiplex at Harkins Centerpoint, largely on the strength of Anders’ (and co-writers Chuck LeVinus and John Morris) sly reinvention of the mockumentary, not to mention his hilarious performance as sexy nerd Shawn. Here’s to Never Been Thawed II — or at least another deeply irreverent feature from Anders and company.

When VH1 asked the musical question “Doesn’t Somebody Want to Be Laurie?”, Phoenix ponied up with lovely young Emily Stone, who took off on a race to be the next Laurie Partridge. First, she appeared on the music network’s In Search of The Partridge Family, a quasi-American Idol in which the original cast of the ’70s sitcom introduced kids (and middle-aged Shirleys!) who competed to replace them. Emily easily whomped the hundreds of would-be Lauries competing against her, becoming the country’s cutest air pianist and winning the chance to record a new Partridge single (which really sucked) and to appear in a pilot for The New Partridge Family (which aired, but wasn’t picked up by VH1 or any other network). It didn’t hurt that La Stone grabbed her lovely bosom during the acting contest and sang a memorable cover of Meredith Brooks’ “Bitch” (as introduced by Shirley Jones, much to the horror of Partridge prudes everywhere). Even if the new Partridge program did lay an egg, we’re confident that the lovely Miss Stone will be the next Lindsay Lohan. If not, there’s always the adulation of thousands of weirdly obsessed, middle-aged Partridge fans to look forward to.

You’ll only find a small picture of Scottsdale native George Mang on his own Web site, but you will see a bevy of the hottest stars in Hollywood — and they’re all wearing Mang. In the last year, the self-taught shoe designer has shod everyone from Halle Berry to Kate Bosworth, and he’s got the press clips to prove it. Not many designers launch their line for the first time at age 50, and not many have the chutzpah to feature only stilettos. (“There’s not a low heel in the bunch,” he told Zink magazine. “That’s not where I’m going with this.”) But then again, most fledgling designers don’t wind up with Desperate Housewives wearing their shoes in the pages of Entertainment Weekly, either.

Perky and blonde, Holly Dunlap could easily pass for a Scottsdale soccer mom with a taste for cute shoes. But while she’s a Scottsdale native, and while the shoes are adorable (hey, don’t take our word for it — ask the editors at Vogue), Dunlap is actually one of the hottest young designers in Manhattan. (Once again, see Vogue.) The Saguaro High grad’s company, Hollywould, started with bags and shoes to die for, and made the big leap last fall into clothing with a line of flippy, sexy dresses made exclusively for Saks Fifth Avenue. Dunlap’s inspiration? The dresses her mom wore in the 1970s while entertaining poolside, back in Scottsdale.

If we could afford them, Holly, we certainly would.

Everybody from Target to Home Depot sells plants, but only Tera Vessels can tell you the secrets to making them thrive here in the world’s most populated oven. Vessels runs a nursery in an old downtown bungalow, selling plants, gardening accessories and art. But it’s the garden surrounding the house that signals you’re in the presence of someone who could grow coreopsis in concrete — an apt metaphor for gardening in Phoenix.

Butterflies and hummingbirds flit through towering Maximilian sunflowers. Drifts of blanket flowers surround wands of hollyhocks, and koi swim in cool ponds. Vessels, wiry and tan from spending so much time working in her beloved garden, is a veritable plant whisperer. Have some coffee with her and tell her your garden troubles. Penstemons stunted? Tera can help. Aphids gobbling your hibiscus? Tera can help. Worried about the state of the world? Tera can’t help you with that, but remember, growing something — or trying to, at least — always makes you feel better.

Although Roosevelt Street sometimes seems like a teenage wasteland during First Fridays — especially since those darn kids do nothing but bum cigarettes outside Modified Arts — adolescent phenom Legend Logsdon is proving that assumption incorrect. Though only 13, Logsdon has a keen eye for turning trash into amazing 3-D found-object treasures, transforming such finds as an eight-foot-long saguaro cactus rib into an artful alligator. One of his latest works is “Monsters and Machines,” a series of mixed-media paintings incorporating devices like electrical meter boxes into hybrid creatures equal parts ogre and automaton. So far, this boy wonder’s shown his work at Seattle’s Hugo House Gallery and Holga’s, the downtown Phoenix artist commune where he resides with mother and former graf artist Tara Logsdon. Let’s hear it for the boy.

The Wares, Vivian and Derek, are the ultimate power couple when it comes to nightlife in the PHX. Not only do they regularly help bring major acts to the Valley, like the Ying Yang Twins, they also promote, do ad buys for, or in some manner represent a multitude of the flyest events out there, whether it’s a club night downtown or an erotic male revue at the Celebrity Theatre.

Hubby Derek Ware is a former pro football player who’s worn the jerseys of the Cardinals, the Bengals and the Cowboys at different points in his career. His wife Vivian personifies the height of media savvy and beauty, a class act all the way. Together they’re an unstoppable team, one that can be counted on to be competitive, yet brutally honest in their business dealings. Their Web site has become the 411 for urban Phoenix, a place to go when you need to know what went down or is about to go down in town and beyond. And on a personal level, they’re down to earth, and not at all stuck on themselves. Phoenix could use more folks like them, for real.

Everyone needs friends like Chris and Jim McLennan. Not content to sit in the audience and enjoy their favorite filmmakers, professional wrestlers, comedians and performance artists, this Scottsdale couple has helped bankroll the efforts of Valley creative types using profits from their Web-based bead business since 2001. In addition to funneling financing, these funky philanthropists also provide promotional assistance to the likes of auteur Zach Yoshioka, and the ring warriors of Impact Zone Wrestling, as well as such bands as Radiance, and The Strand. If that weren’t enough, the pop-cultural patrons also help organize their ongoing Comedy SlamFest, and provide the booking at nightspot The Sets in Tempe. So far they’ve been backing the right horses, as The Strand recently inked a deal with a major distributor who got their stuff into Tower Records and Best Buy, and Yoshioka’s busy making music videos and DVDs for the artists of Subnoize Records. So artists of the local scene, take note: Mom and Dad may not open their wallets anymore, but Uncle Jim and Aunt Chris just might.

Good old Bikini Lounge will always be one of our favorite downtown nightspots, and we’ll still head west on Grand to 15th Avenue and beyond for our fill of arts and amusements. But lately we’ve been digging the great vibe just down the street, where a whole new generation of gallery spaces and hangouts has cropped up: the Cone Gallery (for art and experimental noise), the PHiX (for lots more noise), the Red Door (for more art, plus wigs, racks of vintage clothing, and thrift-store finds), and plenty of others. At long last, Roosevelt Row doesn’t have a monopoly on walkable First Friday neighborhoods. And, dare we say it, this stretch of Grand Avenue has the colorful, laid-back vibe that First Fridays used to have on Roosevelt. You’ve come a long way, baby!

While downtown Phoenix First Fridays have turned into a gallery-hopping parade of thousands, Tempe’s Final Fridays are still relatively intimate. It has a lot to do with the lay of the land — the area around Mill Avenue is more about bohemian hangouts (with cool art on the walls, of course) than full-on art spaces. The anchor of the action is still Wet Paint, an art supply store convenient to the Arizona State University campus that transforms into a happening hipster central one night a month. Shelves of markers and canvases make way for a young, savvy crowd that shows up to browse paintings, graf art, and photography from local artists. Meanwhile, a host of entertainers — bands, MCs, DJs, and even local b-boys and b-girls — come out to perform, giving visitors enough excuses to stick around for a while.

The easiest way to figure out the best galleries in town is to ask the artists. These days, plenty of people are name-dropping the Chocolate Factory, an impressive new offering from local artist Hector Ruiz, whose provocative exhibition of sculptures, carvings, and woodblock prints, “La Realidad,” is on display at the Heard Museum until next spring. Also home to Ruiz’s personal studio and two other artist workspaces, the Chocolate Factory showcases all kinds of media, including paintings, installations, and video art, from both local and out-of-town artists. While Ruiz has worked with curators and individual artists to put together the monthly shows, he doesn’t represent a set roster of creative talent. “Really, this is for art’s sake,” he says. We’re impressed.

We ambled through dozens of studios during Art Detour, the downtown Phoenix art walk sponsored by ArtLink that’s held one weekend each year, usually in March. Months later, we have to admit, our recall of this year’s now institutionalized city art event is just all one big beige blur — except for a very distinct spot that stands out in our memory. It’s the shared studio space of Carrie Marill and Matthew Moore — a well-tended Grand Avenue, by-appointment-only studio at the very back of a series of artist studios leased out for years by art doyenne Beatrice Moore.

Husband and wife, Marill and Moore peacefully and productively co-exist in their joint studio space, and, while their work is very different, you get the feeling that, in many ways, they share not only physical space, but the same basic aesthetic as well. Moore’s work is land-based, inspired by his day job as manager of his family’s fourth-generation farm in the West Valley. Marill’s stylistically stripped-down yet elegant paintings and drawings of various landscapes explore the idea of the sameness that pervades society.

As we stood gazing at Marill’s beautiful paintings, an artist we trust whispered, “Buy something — she’s getting big in L.A.” (See our “Fun and Games” section in Best of Phoenix for examples of Marill’s work.) So we did, after which Moore offered us a gigantic home-grown carrot, which, along with the couple’s artwork, was the sweetest thing we’d tasted all weekend.

First Fridays was a mere zygote of a scene when local artisans Dayvid LeMmon and Jerry Portelli first rolled the 2 Kaotik Gallery through downtown in 2000. The pair rented a U-Haul, loaded up a generator for lighting, and made stop ‘n’ parks throughout the downtown district, usually planting themselves in the dirt lot across from Modified Arts on Roosevelt Row so they could show a wide selection of paintings, sculptures, photos and drawings by Valley artists. Although the pair halted their roving artmobile in January, they plan to resume roaming the streets with the 2 Kaotik Gallery on First Friday in November. Once the duo stakes out their stops, they’ll post their mobile gallery positions on the 2 Kaotik Web site. But if you don’t find them, don’t worry — they’ll probably find you.

We’ve always considered beading strictly a consumer endeavor — as in, we don’t want to look at them, we just want to buy them. And it is true that we were immediately sidetracked by the Bead Museum’s large (perhaps larger than the exhibit space itself, although, to be fair, it’s under construction) gift shop. But after we were done shopping and plunked down our very reasonable $4 admission fee, we had to admit an instantaneous appreciation for the history of the bead. It’s a mind-boggling chronicle dating way back to prehistoric times, when superstitious but fashion-conscious cavemen first strung seashells, seeds and animal bones into personal adornment for ritual and talismanic protection against stone-age evils, like man-eating mammals, marauding enemy clansmen and your run-of-the-mill natural disasters. Glendale’s Bead Museum is one of the few in the world actually devoted solely to the bead. And, even with its exhibit space under renovation, we got more than an inkling of the historical and cultural importance of beads. Museum organizers have arranged their carefully culled collection in glass cases, which include well-labeled pull-out drawers in which artifacts are arranged by subject matter — a great way to observe not only single beads, but beaded jewelry and ritual objects from around the globe in bite-size chunks. Both antique and contemporary beads and adornment from various cultures in Africa, East Asia, Europe, Latin America and India fill cases and drawers, all with engaging photos and text explaining what you’re looking at and its basic significance. As we left Glendale, we vowed that our next outing will be to the Arizona Rock and Mineral Museum in downtown Phoenix. Just what goes on in that giant claw outside the museum, anyway?

We love the Desert Botanical Garden, but not everyone has enough passion for cactus to make it through a two-hour tour. Which is why Paradise Valley’s Barry Goldwater Memorial is so damn cool. Not only does it feature a big bronze version of the father of American conservatism himself, but it’s got a great variety of succulents, each painstakingly attended and identified by plaque. At the Goldwater memorial, you can stroll along the little dirt path and see most of the botanical garden’s highlights for free, including agave, two types of barrel cactus, ocotillo, and even a boojum tree, which looks like it belongs in a Dr. Seuss book but really hails from Baja California. It’s the perfect intro to desert plant life.

John Peirce’s 1920s English Tudor revival home in the F.Q. Story historic district is the antidote to KB Homes bland. A five-foot winged dragon of copper weathered to a cool, reptilian green clings to copper vines covering most of the front porch. The beastie grins through razor teeth, and his eyes glow red at night. The Dragon House, as some neighbors have dubbed Peirce’s place, also has a biomorphic green copper cap atop the chimney, and whimsical copper window frames and rain gutter spouts. The place looks like a set for a Lord of the Rings movie. Peirce’s creations adorn other homes in the area, too. Drive around and look for more of his chimney caps and window frames on houses. Peirce’s studio, behind his house, is open to the public Sundays from noon to 4 p.m., so you can drop by and meet the dragonmaster.

There’s a lot of local history in this gas station turned sandwich shop. The deli sits right next to the Pioneer Memorial Park and Cemetery, where some of Arizona’s first settlers and political figures are buried, and the building has been a presence on Jefferson Street since its birth as a Mobil gas station in 1926. The inside walls are decorated with vintage metal signs and old photos, but the most striking decoration is the collection of Arizona license plates that covers all four walls. There are dozens upon dozens of rusted old plates, in various colors and stages of decay, dating back to 1912, the year before Henry Ford started mass production of automobiles. So while you’re waiting for your sandwich, you can look up and wonder how it must have been to drive in Phoenix before there were freeways.

We can’t recall when we first noticed the signs stuck in the grass where Mill Avenue veers into Apache Boulevard, curving around Gammage Auditorium at Arizona State University in Tempe. But we figured they had to be a prank, since one of the poster-size boards — designed to look like a green chalkboard — held the message: “Always have at least 5 boyfriends.”

Other signs read:

“The most important things can’t be taught in a classroom.”

“Network. It’s not what you know it’s who you know.”

“Learn to Draw.”

“Be kind to your knees.”

“Don’t talk about yourself too much.”

“Don’t eat tuna fish more than twice a week.”

The signs made us think — enough to call around and try to figure out what the heck was going on. Turns out, the public art project was a collaboration between ASU and the City of Tempe, the brainchild of an artist named Mary Lucking, who collaborated with members of the community to come up with the modern-day truisms.

ASU’s Dianne Cripe reports some interesting reactions:

“Some people initially thought they were ‘Burma-Shave-type’ signs and were supposed to be read as a single message,” she says.

One ASU music professor reported that he watched a woman pull up in her car to get a closer look at the “5 boyfriends” sign. She told him that was disgusting and changed it to read “1 boyfriend.”

Cripe says: “Mary, the artist, thought that was amusing and then fixed it.”

Phoenix is notorious for bulldozing its own past faster than you can say “custom homes from the $550s.” That’s why you should cruise west on Grand Avenue/U.S. 60 right now and look at the gloriously tacky sign for the defunct honky-tonk Mr. Lucky’s, before it ends up existing only on Web sites devoted to roadside kitsch. Both the 50-foot-tall neon joker that leers at passing traffic and the club it advertised date back to 1966, when LBJ was president, cigarettes were cool, and a guy named Waylon Jennings used to play at this country joint on the dusty western edge of town. The bar closed in 2004, and this sad old sign is one of the few relics remaining from the days when Phoenix was still rough, rowdy and Western.

How we love art that happens to be functional as well as visually arresting and entertaining. That’s why we’re particularly enamored of artist Kevin Berry’s “Tributary Wall,” which undulates its way along the west side of Goldwater Boulevard between Camelback and Indian School roads in Scottsdale.

Berry’s rusty metal fish-out-of-water, swimming placidly on a rippling wall toward a canal originally built by the Hohokam Indians, does double time as a sound barrier for an adjacent residential area affected by nearby commercial development. The fish, one of which swims upstream, are set against glass blocks that allow light to stream out against the wall, which is lined with a metal grid fence stuffed with smooth river stones.

Conceptually, this is Berry’s “tribute” to our Native American forefathers who first tamed water in the barren desert of the Valley, as well as to the very headstrong nature of Arizonans themselves, who are notorious for going against the flow.

The folks in the Maple Ash Neighborhood Association have one heck of a pipe dream. Over the past two years, the inhabitants of the sylvan residential area located just west of Arizona State University have mixed a deluge of grant money from the City of Tempe with the torrential creativity of Valley artists Nina Solomon, Ruben Valenzuela, and Chris Rowley in order to change two of the monolithic irrigation standpipes that dot their district from graffiti-tagged eyesores to lush eye candy. Both of the cylinder-shaped concrete constructions, which control the irrigation system flooding their yards monthly, have been covered over with an earth-toned mosaic montage of river rocks, ceramic tiles, and metalwork.

Each work is separately themed, as well as sharing an ample offering of plant and water imagery symbolizing the role both have played in their stomping grounds. The first piece, located at Ninth Street and Maple Avenue, is dedicated to the architecture unique to the homes in the immediate vicinity, with earthenware representations of windows, doors, picket fences, and a curlicue of wrought iron crowning the top.

The second, at 13th Street and Ash Avenue, is a mini-museum of the canal system of the Valley, featuring tiles imprinted with historic photos of swimming in drainage ditches and anecdotes about hunting. There are also seats made from carved-up pipes, as well as a stream-shaped landscaped path. MANA’s organizers are planning to redecorate most of the neighborhood’s standpipes and keep the creative juices flowing. Other neighborhoods should take note.

Public art in your wallet? It’s enough to make you want to move to Tempe — which is where you’ll have to go to get one of the groovy new artist-designed library cards that the city’s libraries made available this summer. The City of Tempe Public Art Program commissioned four Arizona artists to produce art that was then reproduced onto Tempe library cards, turning that city’s readers into card-carrying art fans. The artists, chosen from across the state, were Jennifer Kiraly, of Fountain Hills; b royalty, of Tempe; Mary Lucking, of Tucson; and Kate Timmerman, of Phoenix, each of whom produced a work tied thematically to reading or to the Tempe in Motion “bus, bike and walk” campaign. Take note, Phoenix Public Library folks: Those flat, yellow plastic library cards work fine, but we want what our neighbors have: a little art with our check-out.

Here’s the straight poop: When hip screenwriter and novelist Jerry Stahl visited Perihelion Arts last year to sign copies of his latest tome I, Fatty, turns out the ex-heroin junkie also purchased one of mixed-media maven Erastes Cinaedi’s artfully decorated toilet seats on display at the Grand Avenue bookstore and gallery. The story goes that Stahl acquired this particular throne, which featured the space-bound heroes of Star Trek: The Next Generation, for actor and Trek fan Ben Stiller, who’s been a bud since he portrayed the former opiate addict in a 1998 biopic version of Stahl’s Permanent Midnight. Quick, someone call InStyle magazine! Stahl and Stiller aren’t the only celebrities appreciating Cinaedi’s kooky crap chairs, which are created by decoupaging cutouts from pop cultural ephemera like comic books and magazines to wooden toilet seats that focus on a central theme like Barbie or Batman. Dan Aykroyd bought three for his House of Blues chain, while George Steinbrenner’s wife Joan Zieg ordered a custom Yankees seat for her hubby’s office. Whether the icons are using these poop hoops as objets d’art or as a place to do their business, we’ll never know.

It takes a lot to get our attention when we’re driving, but the wildly colorful, Fauve-style mural painted on a wall in front of Maie Bartlett Heard Elementary School does just that. In fact, the first time we saw the block-long art project, we cruised by several times to determine what was going on. After a number of drive-bys, we finally asked, and determined that, as part of “Phoenix Youth Makes a Difference Day” in 2001 and 2002, students and staff at Heard Elementary, headed up by the inspirational Ms. Dehner, painted different vibrant scenarios that merge to create a pastiche of the splendiferous world around us. You’ve got your seaside scenes, your mountain and meadow scenes with farm animals and barns, and, of course, you’ve got a creative blend of Washington, D.C., and New York, with the Capitol Building appearing next to the Statue of Liberty, the Brooklyn Bridge and a bunch of off-kilter skyscrapers (maybe the skyscrapers are from L.A.). Cactus-crowded mesas morph into tropical vegetation and brightly colored fish, which swim toward planets in outer space in a continuum that ends with a cheerful school bus on a busy street of charming little houses and a large American flag.

Now we know where Phoenix’s Phuture Picassos hang out. Go, Heard Vikings!

Those in the Phoenix art scene love to recycle, and it’s not just because of their hippy-dippy lifestyle. No, these arty people are all about reusing refuse because it provides them with tons of debris to either use as canvases or as part of a found art sculpture or two — especially the kind of junk that can be unearthed in downtown’s Evans-Churchill Neighborhood along Roosevelt Street, between Seventh Street and Central Avenue.

Ask any of the area’s groovy garbage pickers about it and they’ll regale you with tales of scoring plywood, broken electronics, window frames, cardboard, and other castoffs. Isaac Fortoul likes to chop up old doors from the alleyway behind his digs, which currently houses MADE Art Boutique, for use in his paintings. Ian Wender incorporated more than 1,000 beer tabs he found in the Holga’s parking lot into mixed-media collage. (Hey, all that underage drinking on First Fridays is finally paying off!) His neighbor Kim Bridgford also acknowledges that she’s swiped Masonite panels and cabinet doors from nearby rubbish receptacles. The only complaint of these local artisans: “All the crackheads take the good garbage.”

Often, when we ask friends and colleagues for a recommendation for a particular “Best of,” we’re overwhelmed with choices and a lot of hemming and hawing. After all, there are a lot of places in this town where you can get a good margarita. But when we asked about art supplies, the answer came back quickly, always the same, and from professional artists as well as neophytes: Arizona Art Supply.

The masses have spoken, and they’re right. Nowhere else in the Valley can you find the selection and quality of supplies — as well as professional advice to go along with them — as at Arizona Art Supply. There are now locations in Scottsdale and Tempe, along with the well-known spot in the center of town, or you can order online.

All we ask is that you thank us profusely in your “artist’s statement.”

You think you’re too busy to acquire a new art skill? Well, we’re not impressed. Got a day? Get artsy with Alchemy Studio’s one-day workshops conducted in, as they put it, a “small but rich time frame.” An eclectic mix of classes ranging from figure drawing and playwriting to hand-sewn scrapbooks and Polaroid transfers (where the emulsion creates a print on non-photographic surfaces) is offered within the convenience of a weekend afternoon.

Experienced art professionals teach the seminars, including Mary Virginia Swanson, whose credentials include directing special photo projects for the famous NYC photojournalism collective Magnum. A brand-new space, slated to open later this fall, will house a darkroom and more etching equipment that will allow for additional printmaking techniques and 19th-century photographic processes. So fold your laundry later. You’ve run out of excuses, pal.

When a post-secondary school has a voluntary three-year waiting list, you know it must be a great institution. You also know it’s full of some serious geeks. For more than two decades, the Conservatory of Recording Arts & Sciences (CRAS) has been teaching audio fanatics the ins and outs of the recording world. From analog and digital sound manipulation to production mastery and music business management, CRAS’ 30-week real-world approach allows for success in many different entry-level positions in audio. Together, the Tempe campus and newer satellite campus in Gilbert contain eight full analog/digital recording studios, six practice labs, and, in the latter location, a 6,000-square-foot concert venue that allows for live sound recording. Recent graduates have won Grammys for their work on popular albums such as Radiohead’s Hail to the Thief and OutKast’s Speakerboxxx/The Love Below. There is a 12:1 student-to-teacher ratio with a year-round rolling admission policy. A geek heaven indeed.

For anybody who needs a fill of “out there” improvisations, unconventional time signatures and syncopated dissonance, the Phoenix Creative Music Movement (PCMM) is just what the ear doctor ordered. Influenced by Chicago’s Association for the Advancement of Creative Musicians and New York’s Jazz Composers Collective, Jennifer Rogers and Marvin Scott established the PCMM to provide a place for creative musicians to meet and première original pieces. April’s inaugural performance showcased an ancient sound narrative performed entirely behind a white sheet, a hip neo-groove jazz quintet, and a solo drum collage of hyperactive sounds using — among other “instruments” — children’s toys. The bimonthly concert series at Modified Arts is known to incorporate theatrical elements, mixed-media installations and electronica DJs into the programming. The forum tends to concentrate on artists working in avant-garde jazz and progressive classical compositions. However, as past shows have displayed, the PCMM is open to just about anything and everything — and beyond.

Contrary to popular belief, some pretty happening things got their start in Phoenix — like the chimichanga (reputedly), Steven Spielberg, and, dare we say it, the New Times chain. But the coolest thing to come out of this town in a long time is First Fiction, the authors’ tour created by Cindy Dach, marketing guru for Changing Hands Bookstore. A few years back, Dach noticed that David Sedaris had suddenly made the memoir mesmerizing, but no one, it seemed, was hip to the whole fiction thing. Dach came up with the idea of bringing together several first-time fiction authors to read short excerpts, for one night. The key to success: cheap drinks.

First Fiction was born. It was such a smash hit, on its 2003 debut at the outdoor patio at Monti’s La Casa Vieja in downtown Tempe (including a reading by Nell Freudenberger, that year’s It Girl of the fiction world), that Dach had requests to expand First Fiction outside Arizona.

So she took the authors on the road. Last fall, five debut novelists (including Joshua Braff, brother of Zach, whose New Jersey-set coming-of-age tale The Unthinkable Thoughts of Jacob Green is an amazing companion piece to Zach’s Garden State) ended a six-city tour at Monti’s in Tempe, laughing and joking and acting like teenagers who’d just returned from summer camp together. It was standing room only; the authors felt like rock stars. A tour this spring skipped the Valley, but in October, First Fiction starts in New York City and winds up back at Monti’s, this time with three female authors whose work includes a fictitious take on the life of Rudyard Kipling.

We can’t resist saying that this was a novel idea. And we’re glad First Fiction can call the Valley home.

Modest Proposal Presents is the place to see a rotating cast of young, creative, totally off-the-wall talent doing sketch and standup comedy. And did we mention that it’s only five bucks? Hey, that’s no joke.

We gotta say, we didn’t think it was funny at all when Ron Babcock and Ryan McKee, the dynamic duo behind the Modest Proposal mother ship — which encompasses a magazine, short films, and a music night as well as this Third Saturday comedy showcase at the Paper Heart — fled Phoenix for the L.A. scene. We certainly don’t begrudge their career opportunities, but it’s still nice to know that they’ve kept their ongoing comedy gig intact — in downtown Phoenix.

The first time we stumbled upon Raymond Shaw and his weekly, televised distance-learning class, we thought we were watching a Mad TV sketch. Shaw’s teaching techniques were so delightfully bumbling, so very way out there, that we couldn’t believe that Arizona State University — or the man himself — could possibly be serious.

Au contraire! Shaw’s three-hour-long Dance in the Movies was the real thing, even if it never — even for a single minute — got around to teaching anything about dance. Or the movies. Or dance in the movies. Although we watched faithfully, week after week, Shaw never once discussed Rogers and Astaire; never uttered the names “Hermes Pan” or “Gower Champion” or even “Gene Kelly.” There were hourlong discussions about how to turn in a term paper, and endless screenings of the most excruciating “student films” ever seen, and repeated references to something called “the male gaze.” But nothing about the evolution of the MGM musical or Busby Berkeley’s influential Golddiggers films.

Our favorite moments include the time Shaw had a guest speaker, a profoundly effeminate baldy who muttered for two hours about Marxism and sexism but who — because this is Dance in the Movies! — never got around to talking about choreography or the cinema. And then there was the single occasion that Shaw mentioned a movie musical and got all the facts wrong, claiming that West Side Story was a stage musical based on the movie and starring somebody named “Chita Moreno.”

Sadly, we’ll never see the likes of this sort of sidesplitting bon mot again, as Shaw’s show was canceled after a single 13-week season, leaving us to watch ASU-TV also-rans like Learning Math and Essential Science, neither of which is as fun as Dance in the Movies, but both of which are nearly as enlightening about the art of dance on film.

We’ve been attending theater in this town for longer than we care to tell you, and if there’s one thing we’ve learned, it’s that smallish companies tend to either vanish after a couple of seasons or wind up doing crap to keep their doors open. Not so with Stray Cat Theatre, whose mission seems to be taking big risks with dicey, often untried material, and the hell with ticket sales. How else to explain its choice to do something called Poona the Fuckdog, a fable about, well, a fuckdog? And then there was [sic], a difficult, talky little dramedy that–thanks to superb performances and expert direction–turned up a smash. And while the kids at Stray Cat had a near-miss with Larry Kramer’s The Normal Heart, it was a production dotted with fine acting, and followed up by the excellent Stop Kiss, a spotty drama that these young thespians pulled off with hardly a hitch, ending Stray Cat’s season on a high. Hats off to this stalwart company’s casts and crews, who rarely disappoint us, and whose new work we’re looking forward to this season.

They gave it a go, but, sadly, TheatreScape — like so many little local troupes before them — folded halfway through their second season. Too bad, because these folks pulled off a couple of smart, skillful programs while they were around. Although they’re gone, we’re still talking about their letter-perfect Eleemosynary from two seasons ago, and about how, even when TheatreScape turned out a dud, it always contained at least one amazing performance. Like Dion Johnson’s in the title role in The Elephant Man, or John Sankovich’s as a greedy meany in Glengarry Glen Ross. Farewell, TheatreScape, and thanks for the memories.

They’re ambitious, giving us the naughty fun of The Rocky Horror Show and the deeply troubling misogyny of Hurly Burly in the same season. And they’re showy as heck, offering up French drawing-room comedy with Les Liaisons Dangereuses and revisions on Christopher Marlowe with E2: A Heretical Adaptation of Edward II. But mostly, what Nearly Naked Theatre is is a whole lot of fun to attend, and not just because they manage to work dangling penises and curvy hooters into every single thing they stage. Anyone wondering if the time for oddball, black-box theater has come and gone need only attend a couple of Nearly Naked shows — which, by the way, are seen these days on the stage of a children’s playhouse at one of our larger Equity theaters. We can’t think of a better argument that proves that black-box theater — at least when it’s as good as Nearly Naked tends to be — is here to stay.

Whether playing a pompous, pomaded pirate or a foppish French schemer, actor Joseph Kremer was nearly perfect in numerous stage roles this past season. Whence this talented newcomer sprang is anyone’s guess; his playbill bios don’t mention acting academies or years spent in summer stock. But Kremer’s talent spoke for itself, as he assayed a puffy baron in a sniffy French drawing-room comedy (Les Liaisons Dangereuses); a blustery buccaneer in a Gilbert and Sullivan musical (Pirates of Penzance); and the lead in a bizarre two-act that he all but stole from his castmates ([sic]). Perhaps Kremer is animatronic, in which case his builders should be commended for sending their newest model here to enhance our humble stages.

Being the only saving grace in the horror that was last summer’s Menopause: The Musical would have been enough to win her our deep gratitude and affection, but then Cathy Dresbach appeared in the lead in Actors Theatre’s Nickel and Dimed, playwright Joan Holden’s comic adaptation of Barbara Ehrenreich’s nonfiction best seller, and we were reminded what a local treasure she really is. As Ehrenreich, Dresbach was utterly convincing as a confident journalist and a deeply humbled activist, and director Kirk Jackson wisely let her show off her ample clowning skills, as when she pitched a comic fit in a Wal-Mart clothing department — a bit so funny it received an ovation on opening night. We look forward to many more such moments from Dresbach, Phoenix’s very own first lady of theater.

This past season, someone named Teresa Ybarra walked off with an entire play, and then — as far as we can tell — vanished into thin air. Despite her rather limited acting experience, Miss Ybarra saved the sinking ship that was Alternative Theatre’s A Night in Vegas, an otherwise untidy muddle of playlets by local playwright Joe Marshall, with her appearance in a single scene. In a skit titled “Helen and Jack,” Ybarra delighted audiences as the anxious mother of a man who’s about to wed a fellow nearly twice his age. Her hilarious monologue, spoken mostly into a telephone receiver, accelerated into an aria of nervous laughter and warm twitterings, then recoiled into a tearful fit of anger and fear. It was a performance as moving as it was hilarious, and one worth the price of admission to this otherwise also-ran production. Come back, Teresa Ybarra. We want more.

We’re counting our blessings that Sarah Wolter wound up impersonating ’70s-era Cocaine-and-Leotards Liza Minnelli, rather than, say, ’80s Post-Rehab Pet Shop Boys Liza, or New Millennium Married To A Scary-Looking Homosexual Liza. But still, the truth is that Wolter didn’t so much play Sally Bowles in Phoenix Theatre’s messy and ultimately dull Kander and Ebb rerun as she did impersonate Minnelli’s performance in the film version of Cabaret. Okay, so Wolter nailed every one of Minnelli’s odd facial twitches and limp-wristed stances from the movie, but if we wanted female impersonation, we’d head over to Pookie’s. Wolter’s Liza impersonation didn’t make us want to put down the knitting, the book and the broom so much as it made us want to go home and play our Liza With a Z! album.

Once upon a time, a guy named Steve Almond (really, that’s his name) wrote a book about chocolate. He traveled to candy factories all over the country, cataloguing his funny experiences and funnier insights in Candy Freak, an odd but compelling memoir that became a smash hit.

This is a man who has spent a great deal of time lamenting the existence of the white chocolate Kit Kat. Almond came to town to promote his new collection of short stories (his true passion, next to chocolate — although, sadly, short stories apparently don’t sell as well as chocolate stories, even if the former includes many mentions of oral sex) and an idea was hatched: What if someone designed a piece of chocolate to Steve Almond’s very picky specs? Almond was game (who wouldn’t be?) and offered his blueprint for the dream piece of chocolate: caramel infused with dark chocolate and cinnamon with Rice Krispies and a dark chocolate shell.

That was no problem for Colin Redding, who works for his family’s business, Granny’s Chocolate Creations, a real chocolate factory in Gilbert. Almond came to town and read both his oral-sex-laden stories and some bits from Candy Freak, then everyone tried the Steve Almond, which you can try at Granny’s or in a “book of chocolates” for sale at Changing Hands Bookstore in Tempe. Here’s what Almond himself had to say about the candy, later:

“It’s a TONGUEGASM. I LOVE how the cinnamon infusion blooms on the tongue, the soft, buttery texture of the caramel as it plays against the dark chocolate. . . . It’s unstoppable. Like licking the brownie bowl and having tantric sex, all at once.”

Guess he liked it.

If nothing else, Angela Pulliam and lesbian burlesque troupe Lezbos-A-Gogo prove that even girls who just love girls can appreciate a good wiener from time to time — as evidenced by the hot dog stand the lusty ladies run every First Friday from 7 to 11:30 p.m. outside Holga’s, a popular art house/apartment complex just off Roosevelt Row. As if hot girls who dig hot girls serving up all-beef plumpers weren’t enough, Pulliam offers patrons the “Horny Dog” combo — a voluptuous hot dog with all the fixin’s, chips and a drink for just five bucks. But, as Pulliam says, “It ain’t our hot dogs! It’s our buns!”

Feeling guilty because you downed that Colorado pork stew with a little too mucho gusto? Head for the ladies’ room. No, not to stick your finger down your throat. Look around, girlfriend. You’re in good company. The stout figures adorning the walls are repros of the work of Fernando Botero, the Colombian artist who made his name painting chubbies. Even the mirror is pointed upward, so you can get a good glimpse of your face but skip your thighs. See, you look great! Go have dessert.

Most every day, at the intersection of Central and Indianola avenues from about 8 a.m. until 1 p.m., you’ll find a rabid, dancing, human-chicken hybrid spazzing out in hopes of luring us into nearby Le Peep Restaurant. The masked bird, decked out in a mismatched yellow tee shirt, shorts and a giant costume chicken head, has been shaking its tail feathers on this spot for the past three years. We’ve only been made privy to some of the scoop on this vainglorious bird, but we do know that two different men share the chicken run, one of them more nonchalant in his coaxing waves, the other so hyperactive you’d think he’d been pumped full of growth hormones. On Wednesdays, the mascot wears a sandwich board proclaiming a $5 hamburger/fries/drink meal deal that spites his fellow livestock. (We suspect he’s pleased that poultry isn’t the special of the day.) The bird does accept tips (but not bribes for identity information), so stop by with a big “Cluck you!”

You’ll have trouble spotting a single saguaro in Encanto-Palmcroft, a lushly landscaped district of upscale, period revival homes in central Phoenix. The neighborhood was developed between the 1920s and the 1940s, when the desert was a wasteland to be conquered, not an ecosystem to be celebrated. So Encanto-Palmcroft is full of homes mimicking the architecture of Italy, England, Spain and France sitting on lawns so green they could have been airlifted from Ohio. These yards, with their roses and hostas and spongy Bermuda grass, scream “$300-a-month water bills.” Throw in the attractive middle-aged women walking tiny, yappy dogs on the sidewalks, and you would never know you were in the middle of the Sonoran Desert. Which is precisely the point.

Reservation casinos and poker nights at the pub are all well and good, but we need a taste of the real action that only Sin City can supply. We wanna Viva Las Vegas double quick, so we’re looking for a sure-fire escape route that’ll allow us to blow town and speed toward America’s playgound like yesterday. Sure, you could take so-called scenic routes by way of Flagstaff or Lake Havasu, but we’ve rented a pimped-out ‘Stang for the road trip. The way this baby’s purring, odds are we’re gonna get there in six hours or less, especially since we’ll be driving Highway 60. With four lanes of freedom ahead of us, and a 75 mph speed limit, it’s nothing but sweet sailing ahead, at least until we get to Wickenburg and connect with Highway 93. Things are a smidge slower the rest of the way into Nevada, as we drop to two lanes and 65 mph. Hey, if we get bored, we’ll just take a gander at the roadside crosses along the way, ace, doing our damnedest to keep from becoming one.